Read The Harder They Fall Online
Authors: Gary Stromberg
The Harder They Fall (9 page)
A lot of people my age are dead at the present time.
—Casey Stengel
(baseball player)
L
IKE
D
OCK
E
LLIS
, I’
VE LOVED
the game of baseball for as long as I can remember. It was almost as important to me as the procurement of drugs, at the zenith of my years of addiction. The choice between watching a Dodgers game live or even on TV versus scoring the next batch of whatever I was going to smoke, drink, or snort was difficult to make. Intoxication would win out, but not before I’d think long and hard about the game I might miss. Ideally I would score, get high, and then melt into my sporting pleasure.
I remember fantastic sun-drenched afternoons at Dodger Stadium watching my beloved “Bums” while high as Tommy Davis’s batting average. Smoking a couple of joints on the way to the game, washing down a few beers to keep the buzz at the proper level, and disappearing into the slow-dance rhythm of the game. Most often the worlds of baseball and drugs didn’t blend, each having its own demands and considerations, but occasionally I’d finesse them onto the same page in exquisite harmony.
Which brings me to Dock Ellis, who married these two endeavors better than anyone I’d ever heard of. Dock Ellis, the guy who unbelievably pitched a no-hitter on acid, for God’s sake. It can’t get any more bizarre than that.
As soon as Jane and I started formulating the list of subjects for this book, Dock’s name surfaced in my mind. Of course I wanted to
interview this legendary screwball, but weeks of Internet and library searches got me nowhere. I found a couple of addresses on the Internet but received no response to the letters I wrote. I was getting the sense that this guy just didn’t want to be found. Persistence finally paid off, however, when a friend of a friend told me Dock was working at a correctional facility in the desert town of Adelanto, California. A little additional searching came up with a name and phone number.
Elated to be finally reaching this renowned character on the telephone, I blurted out about how hard it had been to locate him. “You found me, didn’t you?” was his terse reply. “Yeah, I guess so,” I said. He laughed. “Well, I guess it couldn’t have been that hard.”
It took but a minute for Dock to hear my interview request and agree to see me. “One condition though,” he said. “If I’m going to tell you my story, you’re going to tell the inmates of my facility your story.”
I’m always willing to share my experience, strength, and hope with anyone wanting to hear about my recovery, so this was an easy stipulation to accept.
What follows is, in essence, the morning I spent with Dock at the Marantha Correctional Facility, smack dab in the middle of the California high desert.
I showed up early on a typical sun-baked morning, temperatures already pushing triple figures. The reception room is a no-frills deal with security glass protecting the reception desk. Dock took about ten minutes to come for me, and I was getting a bit antsy. Through the glass, I could observe lots of activity, with prisoners in blue overalls coming and going, along with the expected array of uniformed guards. Suddenly the door to the reception room opened and out sauntered Dock, as casual as could be in his Nike warm-up suit, looking more as though he were headed to a fitness club than to work at a prison. His greeting was warm, like that of an old friend. For him, just another day at the office, but for me, it was going to be an experience to remember.
Dock Speaking to Inmates
Marantha Correctional Facility, Adelanto, California
Dock:
I signed to play baseball in 1963, right after I was released from jail for stealing a car. I played baseball all over L.A. We used to play out in Glendale, and I thought I was on a road trip to San Francisco or something, because we stopped and ate breakfast. We thought we were going a long ways, but it wasn’t but thirty minutes from home. I played all up and down the West Coast. That’s when I met Bobby Bonds, Dusty Baker, all them guys.
I got involved with drugs when I was young, playing around in the alley on 135th Street. I was a California hot dog, smoking marijuana, talking stuff. I was fortunate enough to be in baseball for twelve years, eleven years more than I was supposed to, because during the first years I was into all kinds of things I shouldn’t have been into. Drugs was taking me to all kinds of places. I had but one good year.
Inmate:
I thought you said you had one good
ear
!
Dock:
Oh come on, man, I’m talking about all those Gottis I used to run into. I thought one of them would kill me. I got away with a lot of stuff. I met a lot of crazy people.
Inmate:
You played with Babe Ruth, right? [much laughter]
Dock:
Naw, I didn’t play with Babe Ruth. I was before him! Did I tell you I got a call yesterday from a reporter wanting to know about Barry Bonds and steroids? I told him if you want to know about some dope, you might have to go into the Hall of Fame from about 1963 till now and take everybody out. So leave Barry alone. The bottom line is they got to get these steroids off the market. If they are around, people are going to buy them. They’re going to use them.
Inmate:
You mean some of that over-the-counter shit?
Dock:
Right. They got stuff out now that’ll turn you into the Incredible Hulk.… How’d I get onto this?
Inmate:
Dock, go outside and come back in and start over! [laughter]
Another Inmate:
Hey Dock! If you had to do it all over again, would you?
Third Inmate:
He just did! [more laughter]
Dock:
I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Now where was I? Nobody’s listening. So let me get back to the drugs. You see, I got involved with drugs real heavy when I got to the major leagues, because when you get to the big leagues, you start getting big league dope.
Inmate:
I thought it was because you got a big league check!
Dock:
Naw, the only dope I ever bought was some heroin, one time. And I flushed it. I don’t count that as buying it, ’cause I didn’t use it, so I never bought any drugs.
Inmate:
Did dope mess up your game?
Dock:
Definitely.
Inmate:
Hey Dock, did you ever hit a home run?
Dock:
Oh come on, man, you know I hit two! One in batting practice, and one in spring training.
Inmate:
That’s all Dock ever talks about! [more laughter]
Dock:
So here’s what happened to me. I was functioning as a baseball player, but I was addicted to drugs and alcohol. I want you to understand that my life was no different than yours—my arena was just different. I was in baseball,
but I was in the streets too. Like I was saying, it’s all the same. We experience the same kind of stuff, some more than others, but it’s all the same.
I was seen at this time as a militant, a black militant, with braids in my hair. No one knew what that was, so I rolled with that. Then there were curlers. I had curlers in my hair. Some of y’all aren’t old enough to remember Superfly. I was the OG [original gangster] Superfly … on the mound with pink curlers in my hair!
Inmate:
Now you got the Shaq look.
Dock:
Chemicals killed all my hair. Chemicals and drugs. But I was fortunate to have played ball for twelve years. I played with some great ballplayers. I played in a great era. I met a lot of people, traveled to a lot of places, and I had a chance to do a lot of things.
If you stay clean and sober, you’re going to meet people from all walks of life, so don’t be afraid to get out there. I even got jobs in movies because of baseball. I also met many influential people.
After I got out of baseball, I ended up in treatment. My son had a lot to do with me getting there. When he was a baby, he was playing with some of my jewelry, and I tapped him a few times, tell him, “No.” Then years later I was watching TV and saw this story about a father hitting his kid and breaking his arms, and it flashed in my head, “How hard was I hitting my son, or one day how hard
would I hit him
?” And that caused me to accept going into treatment. Also my friends were telling me, “Dock, you got a problem with drugs and alcohol.”
I played baseball from 1964 to 1979 [includes time in minor leagues]. I was in two World Series. We won in 1971 against Baltimore, and we lost against Cincinnati in 1976 when I was with the Yankees. People ask me where my rings are? I left one in the bathroom on Highway 10 in Arizona and the other on top of a car that my nephew was washing. I could call the people who make the rings and get new ones to replace those, but I really don’t care. Remember I told you that the materialistic stuff isn’t going to mean that much when we really get clean and sober, ’cause it ain’t about that.
I left a lot of friends in baseball that was all screwed up, and I said, “I’m
gonna go to school.” So I went to school, the University of California at Irvine, to become a substance abuse counselor. When I graduated, I went to work in a drug program in Beverly Hills. I soon decided that I liked this kind of stuff. I met this guy named Bill, the head of special education at California Youth Authority [CYA] in Paso Robles. He started calling me and saying, “What are you going to do, Dock? Don’t stay down there in Beverly Hills. Come on up here and start saving some lives.” Every day he would call—same thing. “These guys need you, Dock, they need you.” He said, “Stop fooling around with all those rich people down there. Come on, Dock.” So after about three weeks I gave in, and I went to work with him at the CYA. That was about sixteen or seventeen years ago. Bill and I started a new program there. I continued to work in and out of institutions and juvenile halls. Then I took a job in Texas to get back with my son, who I had lost through a divorce. He was calling for me, so I went down there to Texas. I was there for seven years and finally came back to California with him so he could go to school. We settled here in Victorville, and I got this job at Marantha. I called Bill and told him I was working at a penitentiary called Marantha, and he said, “That’s where I’m at!” So there you go, we were back together again. Now I tell people, “I’m locked up and that’s where I’m supposed to be, and where I want to be.” As long as they’ll let me stay here, this is where I’ll be. I ain’t going nowhere.
Inmate:
Hey Dock, you in the Hall of Fame?
Dock:
Yeah. You go downstairs, make a left, go all the way to the wall, make another left, and I’m right there. The no-hitter section. But I wasn’t
voted
into the Hall of Fame.
Inmate:
You pitched a no-hitter?
Dock:
Yeah, I threw a no-hitter for the Pittsburgh Pirates against the San Diego Padres in 1970, under the influence of LSD! Want to hear the story?
Inmate:
Yeah Dock, tell it!
