Graig Nettles “Vigilante”
First off, his name is Graig. G-R-A-I-G. It’s not Greg or Gregory. And it’s not Craig. Mrs. Nettles was very specific about her intentions — her son was going to be different. Graig with two G’s has more teeth than Greg or Craig. Graig looks possibly Welsh or Gaelic and like it wants to have more than one syllable. It’s a name that has caused confusion for decades, spawning baseball card typos and debates among Yankee fans back in the day. And yet, in spite of its oddness, there’s no other name that would have worked. Of the twenty plus thousand people to have played major league baseball, only one is named Graig. Moreover, etymology suggests that “Graig” roughly means “vigilant.” And while Graig Nettles was many things on the field and many more things off the field, he was absolutely nothing if not vigilant.
“Vigilant” is not so far from “watchful.” It’s also the root of “vigilante,” which suggests something like an “enforcer.” In baseball, there’s a long history of watchful athletes — players who function as on field managers. They’re capable of seeing their opponents weaknesses before everyone else; able to get in their heads, read the signs and tilt the board ever so slightly. Frequently these guys are journeymen catchers who go on to become more successful managers. Think Bruce Bochy or Ned Yost — men who see the game not as a diamond but as a chessboard.
While there is some overlap, baseball vigilantes are a different breed from the watchers. The vigilantes slide spikes up. They break up double plays with forearms. They point fingers and stare the pitcher for anything high and tight. They’re the first guys out of the dugout in a brawl. More than wanting to defend themselves or start something, however, they want to protect their team. Pete Rose had a whiff of vigilantism. More recently, Albert Belle, A. J. Pierzynski and Chase Utley come to mind. Nowadays, Bryce Harper is an excellent example. These men are enforcers. You don’t fuck with them. And you don’t fuck with their goddam teammates.
Historically, most watchers are not also vigilantes. And, before Bryce and Chase and Charlie Hustle, most vigilantes were also not All Stars. They were guys who could afford to play dirty. Guys who could get dusted up. Guys who’d join you at the bar after the game — guys who’d maybe even close the bar — but who would not leave until their teammates made it back unscathed. Guys who kept secrets out of the press. Guys whose job it was to take shit from no one.
There are several, but not many, ballplayers who qualify as both watchers and enforcers, but perhaps none more so than Alfred Manuel Martin Jr. Billy Martin was a utility infielder who didn’t hit for average or power, and whose glove was fine but not exceptional. Over an eleven year career he produced exactly three wins above replacement, which suggests that his contributions as a player were virtually undetectable. But Martin’s relatively long career as a player and his longer, more storied career as a manager, had almost nothing to do with his skills at the plate or in the field. Martin was a gifted watcher and an elite vigilante. He stole signs. He saw weaknesses. He did the dirty work, including — maybe especially — getting Mickey Mantle into and then out of trouble. During his six and a half seasons playing for the Yankees, the team won five World Series titles. To sabermetricians, Billy Martin was basically useless. But, if you asked Mickey Mantle or Whitey Ford, you’d probably get a much different story.
Between 1950 and 1961, Billy Martin was famous almost exclusively for his proximity to greatness. As a manager, however, his skills as a watcher and enforcer were celebrated. Over the course of nineteen seasons, Martin managed five teams, including five separate stints with the Yankees. He won one World Series ring, but his .553 winning percentage ranks fourteenth all time. And before he became Billy Martin — the feisty, dirt kicking, Steinbrenner poking, New York Post back cover star — he was Billy Martin — minor league manager of the Denver Bears. That year, the Bears were a .500 team in the Pacific Coast League, finishing twenty plus games behind the Tulsa Oilers. They were unexceptional in almost every way but two: Their manager was Billy Martin and their third baseman was Graig Nettles.
Like Martin, Nettles was a watcher and an enforcer. It was his destiny, written by his mother on his birth certificate in 1944 while her husband, Wayne Nettles, was off at war. It was right there in his name. Graig — born to be vigilant. And, under Martin’s tutelage, he became one of the all-timers. Nettles played for Martin in the minors in 1968, briefly with The Twins in 1969, and with the Yankees from 1975 to 1979. During their time together, Nettles became a big leaguer, then an All-Star, a Gold Glove winner, an MVP candidate, a team captain and, ultimately, a world champion. But most of all, he became a student of Billy Martin.
If Billy Martin was the definition of a replacement level player, Nettles was practically the opposite. A spectacular fielder with high end power, before 1974 (when Mike Schmidt broke through) the closest precedent for peak Nettles was likely Brooks Robinson. Robinson was a more complete hitter, but not by much. Nettles had more pop. And, defensively, the two were not dissimilar — at least during the first half of Nettles career. Robinson is the owner of sixteen Gold Gloves to Nettles’ two. But in the years that their careers overlapped, they were neck and neck, Robinson’s hardware a product of his reputation and legacy as much (if not more) than his stats.
Both men made the impossible look possible and the extraordinary look routine. Robinson made fewer mistakes, but Nettles had an edge in range. Nettles idolized Robinson while the latter said the former had a case as the greatest fielding third baseman of all time. At the plate, both men hit the ball hard, walked occasionally and struck out less than the average power hitter. Brooks played more games, had more hits, doubles and a higher career batting average. Nettles had a higher slugging percentage on OPS and ended his career with three hundred and ninety homers, which placed him twenty fourth on the all time list at the time. Graig Nettles was probably not the better player, but there is absolutely a discussion to be had.
Amid his day in day out, workmanlike excellence, Nettles also had moments of otherworldliness. He led the AL in home runs in 1976. He was a legitimate MVP candidate in 1977. In 1981 he was awarded the series MVP for the ALCS. And in the 1978 World Series, though Bucky Dent hit .417 and though Reggie hit .391 with a pair of home runs, it was Nettles’ play at third base that saved and then rallied the Yankees when they were down two games to none. While he never hit .300 (never really came close) and was never the best player on his team, Nettles is remembered as a remarkably clutch hitter and an absolute wizard at the hot corner.
Graig Nettles could have taught Billy Martin a lot in the way of hitting or fielding. But as a student of the game — a gainer of edges and a locator of weaknesses — Martin was the master. In addition to the fine details and the dirty tricks — the sign stealing, the bat corking, the flaw finding, Billy taught Graig about loyalty. And about the inverse of loyalty. With one notable exception, Nettles loved and was beloved by his teammates. Guidry, Munson, Chambliss, Bucky, Rivers, Catfish & Randolph — those were his guys. But Reggie? The star that stirred the drink? The guy at the center of the circus? The guy who infuriated Billy Martin? Nettles could not abide. The two co-existed — occasionally thrived. But Nettles was Billy’s guy. And Reggie was not. In 1981, on the eve of their pennant winning celebration, the two exchanged words. Reggie slapped a beer out of Nettles hand. And Nettles punched Mr. October in the face. Just like that. It wasn’t specifically Nettles’ aversion to showboating. It wasn’t because of some horrific affront. It was because the enemy (Reggie) of his friend (Billy) was, by definition, the enemy.
In truth, Reggie was more of an irritant than an enemy. The greater nemesis — the villain — was owner George Steinbrenner, who fired (and re-hired) Billy Martin four times and who Nettles claimed leaked caustic gossip to New York Post and Daily News sports writers. Martin’s battles with his team’s owner were legendary, almost comical. But Nettles’ relationship soured into something poisonous. In 1984, while still technically serving as team captain and while still under contract to the Yanks, he released “Balls,” a first hand account of the team’s previous season. In between road trip diaries and stolen dugout moments, Nettles saved plenty of bile for Steinbrenner. Always known for his one liners, “Balls” features barbs like: “The more we lose, the more Steinbrenner will fly in. And the more he flies, the better the chance there will be a plane crash.”
But even more than Reggie and more than George, Nettles saved his deepest antipathy for rivals. And for most of his career the enemies were The Kansas City Royals and, of course, The Boston Red Sox. The Yankees / Red Sox rivalry is, alongside the Celtics / Lakers, the greatest in professional American sports. It developed over decades and, by the time Graig Nettles arrived in The Big Apple, required no real explanation. Yanks hate Sox and vice versa. It was assumed. So, in 1976, when Lou Pinella tried (but failed) to score by barreling over Pudge Fisk, it did not take much for benches to clear. Outside of the scrum, Nettles specifically sought out pitcher Bill Lee, who’d been a central figure in another Yankees / Red Sox brawl the year before, and threw him to the ground, separating the pitcher’s shoulder. In agony, Lee did eventually get back up, clutching his throwing arm. He located Nettles, and made a cautious approach, only to be punched squarely in the eye. Being Graig — a watcher — required a certain pettiness and a long memory. Being an enforcer required combat skills and a relatively short fuse. Graig Nettles was never more “Graig” than he was against the Red Sox.
With perhaps one exception. Whereas the Red Sox were a diffuse, institutional rival, Nettles’ enemy on The Royals had a name and a face and was standing on his corner. George Brett was not quite the fielder that Nettles was, but he was not too shabby. And, at the plate, he was a natural. He was The Natural — there was simply nothing he couldn’t do. Where Nettles worked and worked, Brett just thrived and thrived. Moreover, by the late Seventies the Royals were winners, threatening to take the AL pennant. Nettles had plenty of reasons to resent George Brett. But, in 1977, that antipathy turned into abhorrence.
During the first inning of game five of the 1977 ALCS, the insurgent Royals started to make their charge on The Bombers. With Hal McRae (who’d taken out Yankees second baseman Willie Randolph with a ferociously hard slide in game two) on first, Brett lined a triple to right center field. As he slid into third, he used his forearm to push Nettles away from the base. Brett was safe, but only briefly. He fell forward after the forearm push and landed headfirst, near Nettles feet. Nettles, promptly, if subtly, then kicked Brett in the face. Brett responded with a glancing haymaker. Nettles responded by tackling Brett. Benches cleared. Amazingly, not a single player was ejected. The Yankees won the series. Brett would go on to a Hall of Fame career. But not before Nettles got one more punch in, just below the belt, six years later.
In 1983, during a routine, early summer game of marginal consequence, with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, George Brett hit what he (and everyone watching) assumed was a game winning home run off of (Nettles’ buddy) Goose Gossage. However, earlier in the game, Nettles noticed an inordinate amount of pine tar Brett’s bat, which, in turn, reminded him of an obscure rule that The Twins (who were managed by Billy Martin disciple Frank Quilici) had used in 1975 to thwart Thurman Munson and the Yanks years earlier. The anachronistic bylaw (which was written in order to preserve baseballs and not for any offensive advantage) stated that bats could not be treated with a sticky substance — like pine tar — past eighteen inches from their base. Having carefully observed Brett’s bat, having remembered the rule, and having never forgotten that fracas from the 1977 ALCS, Nettles told Billy to alert the umps. The mentor followed his protege. The home run (temporarily) became an out. And, within seconds, George Brett absolutely lost his mind while, across the field, Nettles and Billy did their best to suppress laughter.
Along with his golden glove and his potent bat, Nettles might be best remembered for how he gamed the game and fought the fights. His battles with the Bosox and the Royals are, to this day, the stuff of legends. However, those battles do not even begin to approach the violence of the 1984 brawl between The Padres and Braves in which Nettles was also significantly involved. Actually, it was three brawls. Yep — benches cleared three times in a game wherein the first place Padres, who’d acquired Nettles shortly after the bridge-burning release of “Balls,” had nothing to gain and a lot to lose. Many batters (including Nettles) were beaned. Seventeen players (and two managers) were fined. Five players were suspended. None of it makes sense, unless you consider who was playing third base for the Padres that day. Of the ten most infamous brawls in baseball history, Nettles played a pivotal role in two, maybe three.
The Padres won the pennant that year, but it was the last time that Nettles’ Graig-ness catapulted a team to a World Series. He played four more seasons, less on account of his performance and more for his leadership in the clubhouse and those intangibles in the dugout. After his final, forgettable stint with the Expos in 1988, when he was still struggling to leave the game behind, he even suited up for a season in the short-lived Senior Professional Baseball Association. But when that league folded, that was it for Nettles. He coached a little bit. But surprisingly, and in spite of everything he’d learned from Billy Martin, it just didn’t take. By the late Nineties, Nettles was mostly on the golf course and off the diamond.
In 1994, his first year of eligibility, Graig Nettles received just an 8.3% vote share for the Hall of Fame. By 1997, he’d bottomed out at 4.7%, miles away from the 75% necessary for enshrinement. There remains a steady contingent with a cogent, impassioned case for Nettles’ as Hall of Famer. The fielding records. The home runs. The consistency. The pennants. Most notably, the significant WAR — Nettles 67.9 career Wins Above Replacement is higher than many Hall of Famers and firmly in the middle for Hall of Fame third baseman.
The case against rests mostly on three arguments. First, there is his .248 career average, which is lower than that of any member of the Hall of Fame (but which is also not representative of a hitter’s value in the way that, say, OPS is). Second, there is the fact that he was never really considered the very best player on his team or at his position. And then there’s the third argument, which is probably the closing one. Nettles started his career in the shadow of Brooks Robinson and, just as he was emerging into the spotlight, was surpassed by two of the greatest to ever play the position — Mike Schmidt and, of course, George Brett. When it came time to vote on Nettles, the hot corner was unusually crowded.
After the kick to the face and the pine tar incident, George Brett may have gotten the last shot in. But, as much as every team needs its star, they also need the guy who’s willing to do the inglorious work. To get dirty. To look at every pitch and for every edge. Every team, but especially every great team, needs a Graig.