Free The Mouth That Roared by Dallas Green

home en route to a 107-loss season. During a stretch in July and August, we dropped 23 straight games. On August 20, we mercifully got a win in the second game of a doubleheader in Milwaukee. Frank Sullivan, a pitcher who liked to say he was in the twilight of a mediocre career, came up with a plan for dealing with the hundreds of Phillies fans waiting for us at the airport upon our return from Milwaukee. “Okay, guys, we gotta spread out,” he instructed. “That way, the rocks won’t hit us all at once.”
    Despite the historic losing streak, Phillies owner Bob Carpenter and general manager John Quinn insisted Gene’s job was safe. For his part, Gene seemed shell-shocked by all the losing. “I’ve tried everything,” he told reporters after our 21 st loss in a row. “If there’s anything else, I’m willing to try that, too.”
    My 1961 season couldn’t have started off better. After breaking camp with the Phillies for the first time in my career, I went the distance in my first start against San Francisco, blanking the Giants on five hits. Hall of Famers Willie Mays and Willie McCovey went a combined 0-for-8 against me.
    It went downhill from there.
    Later that season, Mays and the Giants got the better of me. In the first inning of game in late June, Willie whacked what I thought was a nasty curveball into the lower deck at Connie Mack Stadium. Gene wasn’t pleased. “Green, you big donkey, what the hell are you throwing him curveballs for?” he yelled. “Throw him a fastball!”
    When I faced Mays again in the top of the third, I started him off with two fastballs, both for strikes. My instincts told me to keep Willie on his toes by throwing a breaking ball in the dirt. But mindful of Gene’s instructions, I came back at him with an inside fastball. He hit it over the roof of Connie Mack. As Willie rounded the bases, I gave my manager a piece of my mind.
    “I hope you’re satisfied, Gene!” I yelled into the dugout. “He hit yours a lot further than he hit mine!”
    Following several rough outings, Gene relegated me to bullpen duty. After the season, the Phillies put me on a list of unprotected players available to the expansion New York Mets or Houston Colt .45s. Those teams passed on me, however, so I returned to Philadelphia.
    The Phillies shocked a lot of people in 1962, finishing a game over .500, an amazing turnaround from the season before. I chipped in with six wins, including a complete-game victory over Houston. We went a combined 31–5 against the two expansion teams.
    In accepting The Sporting News Manager of the Year Award, Gene said, “I don’t want to be just another big league manager. I want to be the best in the business.”
    He never made it.
    *
    More than individual games, what I cherish most from my days in the major leagues are the relationships I forged. In 1963, I got to continue my friendship with Richie Ashburn, who returned to the Phillies as a broadcaster after finishing up his playing career with the Cubs and Mets.
    Richie was one of the most honest and decent guys I ever came across in baseball. Sylvia and I first got to know him during spring training in the late 1950s. In an atmosphere where veterans and farmhands didn’t mix too much, Richie took me under his wing and treated me like an equal. That kind of gesture from a future Hall of Famer meant the world to me.
    When I became manager of the Phillies decades later, Richie, Harry Kalas, Andy Musser, Chris Wheeler, and the rest of the broadcast team flew on the team plane with us. Their narration of 1980 is preserved on every highlight reel of that special season.
    On camera, Richie gave a family-friendly performance. But behind the scenes, he wasn’t shy about using salty language to question my in-game strategy. On the rare occasion I had runners on first and third with less than two outs and the pitcher up to bat, I’d call for a bunt to advance the runner on first. It was a conservative strategy intended to