Johnny Bench: The First $100,000 Catcher?
Only 22, the Cincinnati star evokes comparison with such all-time
backstops as Hartnett, Cochrane, Dickey, Campanella and Berra
By Si Burdick
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Bench's Cincinnati Reds Statistics and Pictures
The first time Johnny Bench, the Cincinnati Reds' youthful catching genius, can recall receiving a thrown baseball, he was three years old. His father, part-Indian Ted Bench, whose own ambition to become a big league catcher were frustrated by overseas service-during World War II, naturally did the throwing to Johnny, the third of his sons.
Johnny Lee Bench, who turned 22 on December 7 last, says he isn't sure when he began to nurture the big goal his father never realized, but he can positively pinpoint the occasion when he first expressed his ambition publicly.
This goes back to a day in the second grade of the little schoolhouse he attended in Binger, Okla., a town of 600 souls, give or take a few.
The teacher went around the room, asking each youngster the same question:
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
The other kids gave the usual answers . . . doctor . . . lawyer . . . preacher . . . teacher . . . photographer . . . builder . . . fireman . . . Policeman . . . cowboy . . . and, quite naturally for any kid brought up in Oklahoma, oil driller.
When the questions was put to Johnny Bench--the seven-year-old with the bright eyes, the high cheekbones, the quick mind and the biggest pair of hands anyone ever saw on a kid so young--he answered without the slightest hesitation.
"I'm going to be a professional baseball player," he said.
In Binger, Johnny recalls, teachers asked that question every year as he went up through the grammar school grades and on into high school.
His answer remained the same, except for one small variation, in which the word "professional'' was changed to "big league."
Ten years after his second-grade "announcement," Johnny Lee Bench was catching in his first professional game for Tampa of the Florida State League.
And only eleven years later, in the spring of 1966, Johnny, only 18, was getting his first tryout in a big league camp, living in a plush motel, drawing $42 a week meal money, $25 a week for incidentals, and mingling with real, live ballplayers who made a living in the "majors." That was the spring he joined Cincinnati for a "look" in the same town where he broke in as a pro the June before. Tampa has been the Reds' spring training base for many years.
As was expected the not-necessarily disappointed Bench didn't make it right away. But very few prospects, especially catchers, ever are sent away from a big league camp for minor league schooling with the certainty that they will be back.
As one who has covered major league training camps since 1937, I have watched any number of kids on whom the "Can't Miss" label was placed, but usually there are some reservations, some "if's," and many of them, despite the optimistic tag, don't make it. But Bench was one of those "Can't Miss" kids who couldn't possibly fail. He could catch. He could throw. And when he hit, it was usually with power.
Actually, it took two years of minor-league preparatory work for Bench to make it as the Reds' starting catcher. The Cincinnati scouting system had studied its lessons well for the first free-agent draft ever attempted by the majors as a means of combatting the bonus problem, which was creating serious financial drains on some treasuries.
Johnny was Cincinnati's second choice. Among the thousands of names of recent high school graduates, college boys, sand-lotters and semipros, he was the 36th player to be selected. The Reds' No. 1 pick was outfielder Bernie Carbo of Detroit, who, unlike the second choice, was to linger in the minors for the better part of five years. Cincinnati brought Bernie up from Indianapolis last September, and, after the club traded Alex Johnson for the California Angels, Carbo became the top candidate for the open berth in left field this spring.
The Reds signed Bench two days after the draft on June 21, 1965, and for considerably less than the reported $35,000 paid for the No. 1 selectee Carbo's signature. There was no haggling between scout Tony Robello, who was dispatched to Binger to corral the kid whose high school teammates called him "Hands" for obvious reasons, and Johnny's dad, who had to sign for him. Robello agreed to underwrite a four-year college education, which, because of circumstances, Bench never took advantage of. Winter baseball in Florida and later in Puerto Rico left him no time. The rest was easy: a small cash bonus, and a $500-per-month contract.
Two days later, 17-year-old Johnny Bench arrived at Tampa International Airport at 8:57 p.m. It is only a short ride to Al Lopez Field and Johnny arrives in time to put on a uniform in the privacy of the clubhouse since a game was in progress. By the ninth innings, he was catching in a game Tampa already had clinched by a 5-0 score.
That was about the only short-work bit for the 17-year-old that summer. He caught 67 more games in the Florida League, then hung around for some graduate work in the Instructional League, where expert eyes began to appraise him as an extraordinary young man with a sky's-the-limit future.
The next stop was the Peninsula club of the Carolina League, but in July came a giant stride--promotion to the Reds' International League farm at Buffalo. How many minor league players ever had their numbers retired? It happened to Bench at Peninsula where the citizens also gave him a civic parade for his sendoff, or shuffle-off, if you prefer, to Buffalo.
Here luck abandoned him momentarily. In the first inning of his first game in a Bison uniform, a foul tip fractured his right thumb on that remarkable hand that can hold seven baseballs.
Johnny was finished for the season, but in the fall there was an order from Cincinnati to report to Puerto Rico. There were more rave notices now, and there was a belief in the spring that Bench might stick. On many clubs, he would have. In Cincinnati, there was a feeling that force-feeding the kid might turn into a deterrent, Why hurry the process when you have three seasoned catchers like Johnny Edwards, Don Pavletich and Jim Coker going for you?
It is no coincidence that within two seasons after Johnny's arrival from Buffalo in late August, 1967, all three were gone. Manager Dave Bristol of the Reds, who, when still a coach, had worked with Bench in the Florida Instructional phase, installed in the kid immediately as a starting catcher. Edwards, who has done well enough the last two years at St. Louis and Houston, went in a trade that winter. Pavletich, after a good spring in 1968, actually started the season ahead of Bench, but insiders knew this was only a momentary move employed by ex-schoolteacher Bristol to put a little humility in his brash young charge.
On the fifth day, Pavletich suffered an injury, and Bench went into the lineup to stay. He caught 154 games that year, and no first-year receiver ever worked that many before. Pavletich dropped into a place called oblivion, and was traded the next year. Coker retired. Bench, the fittest by far, had survived as befits a man who had been named Player of the Year in all the minors in 1967.
Bristol had said he would be happy with a .225 batting average for Bench in his rookie year, but the psychology-minded young manager may merely have been using the figure as a challenge. The kid wound up with .375, 15 homers and 82 runs-batted-in, which were more in keeping with his own announced spring goals.
About the only recognition he failed to get was a starting position on the National League All-Star team. Manager Red Schoendienst of the Nationals unhesitantingly added him to the squad, however , and used him. I was in San Francisco when the eight National League starters were announced. Willie Mays, the Giants' elder statesman, offered an unsolicited opinion.
"Now that's not right," Willie allowed. "Not that Jerry Grote (of the Mets) ain't a good catcher, but the only reason they didn't give it to Bench is because he's a rookie. What's that got to do with it? You vote for the best. Bench got MY vote because he IS the best, and everybody knows it."
Other honors did not escape him, however. The same players who had refused to vote for the rookie as a National League All-Star player later voted him first in the end-of-season Sporting News poll for the All-National League team. He also won the Golden Glove award as the league's best defensive catcher, a distinction that was to be repeated in 1969. And the Baseball Writers Association chose him as the Rookie of the Year.
All these honors were a fulfillment of the forecasts made by every knowledgeable baseball man who saw him. Opinions were unanimous. Preston Gomez, now manager, of San Diego, showed up at the winter meetings in Mexico City after Bench caught for him in Puerto Rico.
He was the first to suggest that Bench would be on the All-Star team in his freshman year. "I don't know how many All-Star games this kid will play in during his career," Gomez offered, "He already has as good a throwing arm as I ever saw, maybe the best. He gets better every day behind the plate. I'm hot sure about his hitting for an average, but I know he'll hit a lot of home runs in the majors. And because he wants to learn, his averages will improve because he'll learn to make contact with the bat."
It already has been noted here how Bench's hitting improved, and it kept getting better in his sophomore year. But the raves he got around the league had more to do with his catching and throwing than his batting, even though his offensive work drew praise, too.
I remember particularly a tag behind the plate in Chicago that first year. The Reds were playing the Cubs, and it was a typically tight game, the score tied, with Lou Johnson on second base representing the potential winning run. The batter, Don Kessinger, singled sharply to right. Pete Rose, possibly the hustlingest of all major-league players, picked off the liner on the first bounce and threw toward the plate with Johnson steaming around third. Pete's throw came in the way the hit went out--on the first bounce to Bench. And Johnny, reaching out with his gloved hand, realized there was no time to play it safe by putting his right hand on the ball. He merely squeezed tighter with his glove. In one wide sweeping motion he reached toward the plate and tagged Johnson . . . in time for the out.
Leo Durocher couldn't believe his eyes. He said he hadn't seen a catcher make a one-handed tag like that in his entire career. He raved about Bench's hands, his ability to control a ball in a catcher's mitt like an infielder, or even "like a guy wearing a thin golf glove."
"This kid," said Leo, "reminds me of Gabby Hartnett at his peak." to a Cincinnati writer in the Chicago clubhouse, he directed a question. "How old did you say he is?" Reminded that Bench was only 20, the Cubs' leader was left, for one of the few times in his life, utterly speechless.
The Hartnett parallel was used by others. When Herman Franks managed San Francisco; he spoke of Johnny as a catcher whose actions reminded him of Gabby. But everyone compares him with someone great. Walter Alston does. So does Gene Mauch. So does Red Schoendienst. Recently, a man called the baseball commissioner's office in New York, and happened to get the old New York Giant, Monte Irvin, now one of Bowie Kuhn's aides, on the phone. In passing conversation, the caller asked Monte if he had seen much of Bench's work with the Reds, if so, what did he think?
"Why," replied the outfielder-first baseman of the 50's, "he's in the same category as Campy (Roy Campanella) and Yogi (Berra)--and he can surpass them both."
When Bench joined Cincinnati late in 1967, and was installed immediately as the starting catcher ahead of three veterans, I asked Jim Coker, the veteran with the least pretensions, for an opinion. By this time, John had caught only 12 big league games.
"The test is in the shakeoffs," Jim said. "This time of year all the pitchers are set in their ways. They know their own patterns well, what works best for them. The catchers, who've been around all year, pretty well know these patterns. Now you'd think it would take this boy two or three games to get to know each guy's habits. Bench apparently knows them the first time out. They hardly ever shake him off."
By that time, Coker had been a professional for 13 years. He mentioned the mechanics of receiving the ball, calling the pitch, the ability to throw to the bases, the ability to get under the ball without staggering on pop flies.
"After all these years," Coker said admiringly, as well as enviously, "I feel I still have so many things to learn. But here's Johnny, only 18, and he's doing everything well already."
There is nothing of the shrinking violet in Bench, and one of the first to notice it was Dave Bristol, later to be his manager in Cincinnati, who ran the Instructional League club Johnny worked for in 1965.
"The thing about Bench was that he wanted to help himself. He had confidence he would do it, but he knew he had to work to perfect himself. He was coachable right from the start. You told him something; he picked it up right now. I'd pitch to him a lot and deliberately throw the ball in the dirt, and make him dig it out. He never squawked. Mostly, though, I talked to him about the responsibilities a big league catcher has. I preached to him about certain things a pro is expected to do, and shouldn't do. Whatever he did, he did well; he didn't stand still; he kept improving."
Bench always has been a fellow to set goals for himself. His .293 average in 1969, his 26 homers, his 90 runs-batted-in all were improvements. His catching load was reduced slightly to 149 games, but much of the drop was caused by a two-week summer reserve call. There was hardly any room for him to improve as a thrower, but he worked on shifting the whole body in front of a far outside or inside pitch~ so that he, saved his pitchers wild pitches and cut down on his passed balls.
Early last season, he admitted he still had doubts about his own receiving. For a kid that some consider brash, if not cocky, he said surprising things. Like this admission: I think in terms of most major-league catchers being-better than I am at something. Look how Tim McCarver receives the ball, and Jerry Grote throws and receives. I envy the way Randy Hundley can block that ball when it's in the dirt, and the way Johnny Edwards blocks that plate when a runner's sliding in hard."
Only 21 in his second year, he wondered why an occasional throw went into the dirt at second . . . "Maybe I hurry when I shouldn't," he said. "I have to improve my relationship as a pitch-caller with my pitchers," he continued.
Yet the veterans he caught put their faith in him, and so did the younger pitchers.
"When he's catching you," Tony Cloninger said after a winning effort last summer, "he handles you like he's a 10-year veteran.''
Lee May, Cincinnati's slugging first baseman, has another way of saying it. Lee calls Bench "The Old General."
The 1969 season was a good one all-round, except for the Reds failure to win their division title, or pennant. The pennant, says Bench, is all that counts. And he was angry at himself because he tailed off at the plate in the last few weeks if the season and finished under .300.
Johnny made the All-Star team as a starter and had a day in Washington--as the National League beat the Americans again--that was surpassed in individual glory only by Willie McCovey. Everything about him that day had the mark of the superstar. Pete Rose, his teammate, expressed it best after Johnny, though weary from temporary Army duty, homered with a man on, singled a runner from first to third, walked, and then had another home run stolen from him on a miracle catch by the left fielder, Carl Yastrzemski of the Boston Red Sox. Yaz admitted he reached at least three feet back of the fence, and the ball stuck in the webbing.
Said Rose: "There's just no telling how many hits, or how many homers, Johnny's going to wind up with in All-Star play. Or how many All-Star games he'll play in. He'll be as good as he wants to be. I know he wants to be the greatest--and I hope he never changes."
Bench was frank enough to discuss this urge with this reporter who had known him from his first day in a big league camp. It came through like this:
"All my life, even when I was a little kid in Oklahoma, I had an ambition to be known . . . to be heard of. I wanted to be the best at whatever I did. That's why I was so proud to be drafted high, and why I got a charge out of getting so many scholarship offers from colleges to play basketball. I played basketball for my high school as hard as I ever played baseball.
"My dad was a tremendous influence. The first thing he taught me was to do right by people. The second thing had to do with baseball, and other sports, He told me never to take it easy . . . to go hard all the way . . . never to loaf when the game begins.
"When I was a little boy, I knew the records of all the great ballplayers. I wanted to be the one to break Babe Ruth's record. Then I wanted to break Roger Maris' record. I wanted to be known like another Oklahoma ballplayer, Mickey Mantle. I just wanted to be the best. And now that I'm up here I still haven't gotten over admiring talent in other guys. I don't think I've quite grasped the full meaning yet of what it means to be a major league star. I don't think ball players are gods like I did when I was a kid. I know we're all plain people.
"But I wish I knew what to say, or how to act, when a father tells me he has a young son who idolizes me. I'd like to be able to shrug this off, but I don't understand the whole thing well enough to do that..."
Boyishly, this one-eighth Choctaw Indian, who also has English, Irish and Dutch strains coursing through his veins, stopped and asked his interviewer a question.
"What I'm saying doesn't sound egotistical, does it?"
He was assured that his doubts, and his expressions of them, did not represent an exaggerated ego.
"There's a difference," he said, "between ego and self-confidence. One day I heard Lou Brock being interviewed. The announcer spoke of Brock's ability to steal bases as a form of 'inner conceit.' Lou knows he can steal bases, and does. Well, there are things I know I can do well, but I've got to do them better."
There may be a slight change in John Bench in 1970, his "junior'' year with the Reds. Cincinnati has a new manager in George (Sparky) Anderson, who had a chance to observe the Reds in 18 games last year as a coach for the San Diego Padres.
"I'm going to cut Johnny's catching load," Anderson has announced, "to 120 to 130 games. I'm not going to let him continue to abuse his body. Sure, he's 6-1 and maybe 205 pounds. Sure, he has a mature mind for a kid who's only 22. But physically he's not mature, and won't be for several more years. I think that's why his batting average dropped off so much in the last month. He's going to get some rest if I can help it."
Bench, who hasn't asked for rest, won't fight the new order. He especially won't object to sitting out a game on doubleheader days. All he wants is the best for himself and the team. He has even emulated Pete Rose in one respect by announcing a personal ambition to become a $100,000-a-year catcher. As far as is known, no catcher ever has reached that salary plateau.
Johnny has a chance because he backs up his ambition with rare ability that everyone recognizes. No great catcher of history ever gained his kind of recognition by the time he was 20. None of those to whom he has been compared so generously like Hartnett and Bill Dickey and Yogi and Campy and Mickey Cochrane and the other greats of the past.
Bench, among other natural ambitions, wants to make it to the Cooperstown Hall of Fame. Among his treasures is a ball autographed for him in Pompano, Fla., in the spring of 1969 by Ted Williams, the new manager of the Washington Senators. Johnny meekly came to the clubhouse, asked to meet Ted, and handed him a baseball.
"I've heard all about you, Johnny," the big man smiled; "You're a good one." And he autographed the baseball, this Hall of Famer did:
"To Johnny Bench, who's a cinch to make it to the Hall of Fame."
No one in baseball ever put it that way before, but none would dispute it either (Burdick, 6-10,78-79).
Story Taken From the Grand Slam 1970 Baseball Annual.
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