By the time my senior year, 1976, came around, the SMU Mustangs baseball team had the fewest scholarships in the SWC. Quite simply, over the previous years, most of the scholarships were not renewed as seniors graduated. In the spring of 1976, scholarship baseball players were down to four, (all on partial scholarships) . We were kind of a rag-tag bunch. Rumors were that the powers that be were trying to force out long time Coach Bob Finley by getting him to retire. I think the fact that he was practically donating his time as coach made him ironically harder to justify firing. Also, his loyalty to the Mustangs was sincere and legendary. Coach Finley, with a heart as big as Texas, was the real deal, and getting him to step down would be difficult.
We did have a few stand-outs in 1976. Our second baseman, Mike Jaccar, was an outstanding athlete recruited for the basketball team from West Virginia. He had been the starting point guard in the SMU backcourt for two seasons. He relentlessly piloted the running style of SMU basketball coach Sonny Allen, and had been called the “best conditioned point guard in the nation” by a major sports magazine. Jake was also a very tough kid and a very tough out, one of those pesky hitters that pitchers didn’t like to face. As a senior, he ended up getting drafted in baseball and signing a minor league contract with Rangers. The mystery is how he got any scout to find him on our team. We also had a pair of right handed Junior College transfer pitchers that were pretty effective, Mike Hall and Jim Beard. Hall had evolved from a juco flame thrower into a real (post-shoulder injury) pitcher with a great changeup. He also had one of the most perfect Texas drawls I had ever heard. His changeup was a genuine “palm ball”—the only one of these I had ever seen in person. It could be very deceptive. Beard was a tall, wiry, athletic player with a live arm and a competitive spirit. Most of the rest of us were walk-ons of various skill levels. It would become a very long and frustrating season.
SMU had already seemed to turn its back on baseball by this time, and it appeared that our Athletic Director Dick Davis had a two-pronged strategy: 1) full compliance with Title IX that (long overdue) boosted women’s sports, and 2) a football dynasty. That strategy diverted financial support from several non-revenue men’s programs (including baseball) to women’s athletics. In addition, it included striving for national prominence on the gridiron. We all know how that second strategy ultimately worked out. The Death Penalty within the next decade would shake SMU to its foundation.
The baseball team had also been a haven for injured football players, and those that had used up their eligibility to play their primary sport. Finley, having excelled at SMU football himself, loved it when football players came out for the team. Ted Thompson, now GM of the Green Bay Packers, was a baseball teammate in 1975. A few other ex-football players like Tino Zaragoza, John Park, Don Jarma, Mark Hammond, Mike Mayes, and others were highly impactful players on the team over the four years I played at SMU. Ultimately, Finley liked to win, and he usually went with whoever was playing the best. My senior year we were down to one gridiron player, David Bostic. Bostic was a bruising fullback for four years in the Ponies’ wishbone backfield whose claim to fame was that he was never tackled for a loss. For our baseball team, Bostic was extremely strong and all or nothing swinger at DH, and our back-up catcher. Frankly, he was the only scary looking stick in our lineup.
We started the fateful 1976 season with high energy, and we proceeded to lose all of our early non-conference games. All games have a tipping point, and we continually fell on the wrong side of it. Many of these games were close, but each of these early games ended badly for the Mustangs. We were struggling to score runs, and were making errors at inopportune times. By the time our conference season began, Finley was out of clues. He tried different lineups, but nothing seemed to work. The effort was there, but the defense could be an adventure. In a highly competitive conference, we were not good enough. You know the axiom “On any given day, anyone can win”? It just wasn’t happening. And teams were always anxious to play the Mustangs.
As for me, after a pretty strong start to my senior year, (at one point I was 0-4 with a 1.50 ERA), my stuff got pretty ordinary toward mid-season when I developed shoulder issues, and had to alter my delivery to ease the pain.
Austin, 1976:
By the time we were scheduled to play the Longhorns in Austin, we were still without a win at 0-15. In a twisted way, this made us a very dangerous team. Still, the Longhorns had an arrogance that was palpable. The Horns were anticipating fattening up batting averages and trimming ERA’s. This was my first chance to play in their new on-campus stadium. They now had a state-of-the-art field, with a big green fence in center as a hitting background, and artificial turf. The new stadium had spacious locker rooms that connected by tunnel to each dugout. It had the best of everything and we were impressed.
Texas was easily the best team in the conference, and returned this season as the reigning NCAA national champions 1975. Bolstered by their Senior All American lefthander, Rich Wortham, they were already steamrolling their way to another conference championship and another deep run into the post-season NCAA tournament. The Horns were led by their legendary coach, Cliff Gustafson, who eventually coached the Longhorns for 29 years. “Gus” was a winner, and over his tenure put together an impressive career at UT with 1,466 wins, 22 SWC championships, a national record 17 College World Series appearances, and 2 national championships.
On Friday, the day of the first game of our weekend series, the weather dawned gray and cold–very cold for baseball. Our starter would be Jim Beard, our lanky right hander with good stuff. He would have the misfortune of facing Wortham. Despite the cold weather, both pitchers were outstanding. Beard had acquitted himself very well through six innings, giving up just 5 runs– at least 4 of which were unearned; a decent outing for major college baseball in the metal bat era, especially against the Longhorns. In the meantime, Wortham was simply dominating. He had a no-hitter through six innings, with nothing resembling a hit from the ‘Stangs. In the seventh inning, however, our freshman shortstop Brian Landsmann led off with a bunt single. Hmm. Could this be our rally? After all, a few runs would put us back in the game. Mike Jaccar was up next. Surprising everyone, Finley puts on the hit and run sign and Jake responds by pulling a ground ball through the right side for what might have been a double play ball had Landsmann not been running with the pitch. Okay! Sweet! The Ponies had a little rally going. At least that was what we thought at the time. Alas, Wortham found another gear for his fastball and retired the side. And, he looked a little annoyed. The Horns got 7 more runs late in the game and won handily 12-0. Wortham gave up just those two harmless singles.
The next morning the local newspaper was not kind to the Mustangs. The article describing the game was cruel and dismissive of the Ponies. Using the theme of the cold weather, the writer said the Mustangs’ gloves were “better used to keep their hands warm than catching baseballs”, and the bats were “better used for a campfire” for the same reason. The article went on to detail our winless season, and how the Ponies should scrap the baseball program because they were an embarrassment to the SWC. He actually made a few good points, but wow. The writer quoted Richard Wortham, who apparently had predicted a no-hitter, stating that “Landsmann showed him no respect” by breaking up his no-hitter with a bunt.
We were in the clubhouse the next day dressing for the double header to complete the weekend series with the Horns. Finley comes into the room, and announces that Longhorn coach Cliff Gustafson wants to talk to the team, ostensibly to apologize for the article in the paper. Finley leaves to go get him.
I don’t know who had the idea of what we should do next, but here is what we all decided to do: The idea was to take all of our bats and put them in the middle of the locker room in a pile to resemble a campfire. Someone else had the idea to undo some hangers and put athletic tape on the ends to look like marshmallows. A few had baseball gloves on both hands like oddly shaped mittens. So there we were, crowded around the “campfire” of our aluminum bats, acting cold by blowing on our hands, tamping our feet, and roasting marshmallows when Gus and Coach Finley came into the clubhouse. Gustafson, after first turning away to disguise a smile, with grace and class made his apology to the team, claiming “the writer had no right to kick a team when it was down”. Finley walks him out, and immediately stomps back in, fuming. “Hotdammit, that was horseshit! Coach Gus makes this great gesture to apologize, and you guys have to show your asses. Ho-ly cats!”
OK, maybe we did embarrass Coach Finley. He did not deserve that. I like to think we responded in a way that showed we did not want Coach Gus’ sympathy or need his apology. Besides, humor is always a great way to combat frustration. Thanks anyway, Gus.
Epilogue:
We were swept by the Horns. No surprise there, and the other two games were pretty ugly. I pitched in the nine inning game late Saturday afternoon in a cold, steady rain. This turf field drained well, and they just kept throwing out new baseballs during the game. The Horns were determined to get these games completed for their conference run. My pitching outing was mostly unmemorable, and we lost again. A more vivid memory is of one particular play sometime during the game, when this happened: I am on the mound with the bases full, two outs, and there was a full count. It was raining steadily, as it had been the whole game, and I remember throwing several fastballs in a row, all with the batter taking healthy cuts and fouling them off. With each pitch, all three base runners were on the move. The hitter had me timed dead to rights on my fastball, and my curve was not a good choice with a wet ball. I shook off several signs and finally my catcher, Bruce Gietzen, calls for the change-up I wanted to throw. I never really had much of a change-up, but this one time I threw a good one. It was so good that the only one not fooled by it was the umpire, who rightfully called it a strike right down the middle just above the knees. It fooled the batter, who almost fell down trying to hold up on his swing. And oddly it fooled my usually reliable catcher, Bruce, who prematurely snapped his glove shut right before the ball got there. The ball took an unlikely course at that point. It appeared to crawl up Bruce’s upper arm, over his shoulder, and somehow found its way back to the backstop. Two runs scored. Just then, somebody in the stands yelled these words to Gietzen: “Way to go, Catch! You just did the impossible!!”
Little stories from the big adventure 