Baby Bull: From Hardball to Hard Time and Back
by Orlando Cepeda and Herb Fagen

Reviewed by James Floto

The first time I heard of Orlando Cepeda, my family was visiting San Francisco in 1958. We were going to the game that night and this heavily-accented young man was being interviewed on the pre-game show. Like every other baseball fan, we had heard of him and the great rookie year he was assembling. My friends and I were always on the lookout at that time for the first player born in the '40s (our decade) to make the majors. Orlando didn't quite make it, but at age 20 he was young enough that we could relate to him.

Over the years, through my own personal triumphs and tragedies, I have continued to identify with the Baby Bull. He has a kindly face, one that frequently breaks into a big grin. The life of the party, Cha Cha himself. Unless you were an enemy pitcher. To them he wasnÕt so kind, and there wasn't much grinning or dancing going on Orlando began his career on a tear, with a unanimous Rookie of the Year award for 1958. This year, the saga that is Orlando Cepeda's life went full circle with his election to the Hall of Fame. With his 379 homers, .297 batting average, 2251 hits, 1261 rbis and .499 slugging average, his record is superior to many Hall of Famers. He lost a lot of time to injuries---three major surgeries during his career, plus one in Puerto Rico before he even made the majors. Yet he still was MVP in 1967 (also unanimous), Comeback Player of the Year in 1966, and winner of the first Designated Hitter Award in 1973, although "I almost literally played on one leg." He was a 9 time All Star and played in 3 World Series. He was the first player to hit 20 homers for four different clubs.

The first club, of course, was the San Francisco Giants, where Orlando was gleefully received as the first home-grown star. It took the fans of Bagdad by the Bay some time to cotton to Willie Mays ("This is a hell of a town," wrote one columnist. "They boo Willie Mays and cheer Khruschev." Willie represented New York, the distant rival East Coast. Orlando, on the other hand, came through the Giants farm system, and he was theirs. He had a great career with the Giants from Ō58-66, and it is as a Giant that he will enter Cooperstown.

Baby Bull, of course, begins with Orlando's upbringing in Puerto Rico. His father Perucho, known as the Bull, was also called "the Babe Cobb" of Puerto Rico because he was a slugger and speedster, and remains a legend in his native country. He never played in the majors because he played before Jackie Robinson. But ballplayers did not make much money in P.R. in those days and one of the most interesting thing about this book is that "I have never revealed the full extent of our poverty, nor the shackles of the Puerto Rican slums where I grew up and hung out." He does so in the first chapter of the book, including the wise advice of his mother, Carmen. Referring to the many evils in his environment, she told him "Orlando, a person's shadow follows him wherever he goes. Please be careful." The shadow would eventually haunt and overcome him.

But Orlando came along at a time when progressive clubs like the Giants and Dodgers were picking up terrific bargains in Latin America. Orlando came through the Giants system with Felipe Alou and fellow countryman Jose Pagan later joined the Giants, but when Orlando first landed in the South, he saw why Perucho had never wanted to come North, even to barnstorm. Orlando was a good natured poor boy who had never really known racial prejudice in Puerto Rico. Poverty, yes, but even though he had heard the stories about bigotry, in Virginia and Tennessee he learned how insidious it was. At times he was downhearted because even most of the other black players at least spoke English. But he persevered, and worked his way up through the system

He had some great years in San Francisco. Mays never did warm up to him in his playing days (they get along fine as Giants' community representatives now), but grizzled old Hank Sauer took the young slugger under his wing, and he became lifelong friends with Willie McCovey, even though they battled each other every year for playing time at first base. Of course, Pagan and later Juan Marichal joined the club, along with all three Alou brothers at various times. Before his legs started really getting bad, Cepeda drove in more runs his first five years (553) than comemporary sensations Mays, Banks or Aaron did in theirs. But despite hitting .316, 34, 97, he played in constant pain in 1963, the year after the Giants went to the World Series.

An even bigger problem was the ironically named manager Al Dark. The Giants of the early '60s were an enormously talented bunch. Orlando states bluntly: "The fact that we didn't win more pennants falls squarely on the shoulders of Alvin Dark." To say that Dark was prejudiced is like saying that Clinton has a problem keeping his hands to himself. As well as being a disruptive influence, favoring the white players over the African Americans and Hispanics, Dark fed local reporters his opinion that the non-white players were lazy, and couldn't understand the fine points of the game. He further insulted the Latin players by banning Spanish from the clubhouse, as well as Latin music. It was a clubhouse divided; in the locker room, "the blacks, whites and Latins each dressed in a separate corner of the clubhouse." And in an infamous article in Look magazine, he personally singled out the hard-hitting Cepeda, claiming he was jealous of Willie Mays. Orlando's spin: "I was very proud to be playing on the same team...as Willie Mays."

What should have been his glory years were tortuous in many ways for Cepeda, with the recurring knee problems, and the bigotry of Dark. Amidst all this, his first marriage fell apart. Dark was canned in '64, Cepeda lasted until early '66, when they finally gave up on his bad wheels and traded him to St. Louis.

Better luck for the Cardinals. The situation with that club was the polar opposite of the San Francisco experience. Tim McCarver, Bob Gibson, Julian Javier, Lou Brock, Curt Flood, Roger Maris, got along well and welcomed the Baby Bull the day he arrived. McCarver, a white Southerner, set the tone on day one: "Screw the Giants. We really want you here." Unlike the Giants, the Cards were a family, friends off the field as well as on. In '66 things were jelling for the Redbirds, who took to Cepeda's lively personality, and adopted his team nickname, "El Birdos." The man who was an NL All Star from 'S9-'64 had batted only 35 times in 1965. Coming to the Cards early in '66, he hit .303 with 17 homers and 58 rbis and was named Comeback Player of the Year.

In '67, things came together. Orlando calls that team the best ballclub he ever played with. He hit .325, led the NL with 111 runs batted in, and smacked 25 homers. Although a few players had better stats, (Clemente's .357 average, Aaron's 39 homers, and both only one or two ribbies behind Cha Cha), the writer's understood that it was Cepeda's hustle, presence, and clubhouse leadership, along with the numbers, that gave the Cards a 10 and a half game margin over the second place Giants. That was the World Series that the masterful Bob Gibson won three games against the Red Sox. The Cards repeated in '68, finishing 9 ahead of S.F., although they lost the World Series to the mighty Tigers and Denny McLain. Even though he played all year, the legs were acting up again. Falling from the MVP heights to a .248, 16, 73 season, the Cards traded Cepeda to the Atlanta Braves.

He had another mediocre season with the Braves in '69 although in 1970 he hit like the Cepeda of yore, with a .305 average, 34 homers, and 111 rbis. He enjoyed playing with great players like Aaron, Rico Carty and Clete Boyer, and became good friends with Phil Niekro, but at 33 his knees were ravaged. The Braves kept him for another year, then shipped him back to the West Coast where he made zero impact with the '72 Oakland A's. After only a few games, he entered the hospital, where he had his second operation in a year. He was ready to quit, and even left Oakland before the season was over to return home to Puerto Rico. Along with the writers, he figured his career was over.

There was no way he could play the field anymore, but during that winter, baseball officials, concerned with declining attendance decided to allow each A.L. team to have one player who would hit in place of the pitcher. Other greats in decline like Tony Oliva, Frank Robinson, and Tommy Davis signed on as designated hitters. Orlando became the first DH for the Boston Red Sox, hit 20 homers and drove in 86, even though his .209 average reflected the further erosion of his once mighty skills. It was good enough to win the first DH Award, but Boston dealt him to KC, where he saw limited duty in 1974 and retired.

Cepeda fell into the grand funk that afflicts many fallen stars, whether sports figures or entertainers. He followed in his father's sad footsteps. He hung out in the clubs, ran around with loose women even though he was married. Cha Cha, the effusive wonder hitter, had become another bitter, angry loser.

It all came to a head in 1975. With the recent death of Roberto Clemente, he had become the king of Puerto Rican baseball. He was smoking marijuana at the time, and when he went to Colombia to put on a baseball clinic, a friend asked him to enclose a five-pound box of weed in with some rugs and clothes he was shipping back to his wife.

When he went to the airport to pick it up, he was arrested. lt took years for the case to be resolved. He did 10 months at Elgin Air Force Base in Florida in 1978. In the ensuing three years, his friends, his entire country, abandoned him like rats from a sinking ship. The baseball idol was a disgrace to the nation, the conventional wisdom had it. He paid for his mistake and in reading the book, you get the impression that loss of face to his fellow Puerto Ricans was as rough for him as the prison time. Yet he also discovered Buddhism while he was inside. He credits that ancient faith with giving him the strength and clarity to make another comeback.

And come back he has. It took awhile. His second marriage fell apart. Although Nydia stuck with him through the jail ordeal, they divorced in 1980. Orlando has three sons, Orlando Jr., Ali, and Malcom, and in recent years he has spent a great deal of time with them. He pride in them is abundant. Music was another anchor in the storm that hit him, and he continues to play percussion and pal around with the likes of Tito Puente, his idol on drums.

Finally, in 1987, he was brought back to the Giants' organization. He emphasizes the confidence they helped him rebuild. He organized a youth baseball camp in the late '80s, and has worked on as a community representative, visiting hospitals, schools and community centers. The Giants have been solidly in his corner, and mounted a major campaign to aid in his election to the Hall of Fame.

Today, Orlando is a happy, mature, but youthful man. He has remarried, has regained his rightful place in baseball's pantheon, and has been inducted into the Hall of Fame after finally being selected by the Veteran's Committee. Viva Orlando Cepeda, and "gracias" to Herb Fagen for helping the Baby Bull chronicle his life story. I would recommend this upbeat, inspiring book to any fan of '50s and '60s baseball, Latin ballplayers, comebacks, or just a good old fashioned, heartrendering story. Cha cha!