Ryan struggles through 7-11 finish, death of father

04/25/93

By Kevin Sherrington

The 1969 New York Mets' miracle healed many old psychological wounds of Shea Stadium patrons, who once could have been described as "witnesses at the scene." The World Series residue even extended to Nolan Ryan and his manager, an ex-Marine who had done little more than bark a few orders at his wild young pitcher.

But Ryan's pitching in the playoffs and World Series convinced Gil Hodges that Ryan had earned his strikes.

He was on his way to stardom, Hodges told reporters in the spring of 1970. Ryan responded in kind, setting a club record for strikeouts in his first start of the season. He threw a one-hitter, a two-hitter and a three-hitter in his first three starts.

"I gave up six hits in three games," Ryan said, "and I was 2-1. That probably should have told me something."

He would learn later that, as disheartening as it could be to lose a two-hitter, these would be his last good days as a Met, from a professional and personal standpoint. He won only one game after Aug. 4, finished 7-11 and, for the first time in his career, had nearly as many walks (97) as strikeouts (125).

The year 1970 would rank among Ryan's worst, in statistics and personal losses, too. His father died that summer.

In his book, Throwing Heat, Ryan said it was "like a great oak tree had fallen," a rare eloquence. Years later, he would call his father's death the low point of his life.

Like his father and namesake before him, Lynn Nolan Ryan Jr. is not given to much introspection. He rarely is emotional, happy or sad. His work ethic is like that of his father, who worked two jobs. One was a newspaper route with Nolan.

The impression left by the paper route was so strong on the son that, when he thinks of his father, he recalls a business partner.

"I worked side-by-side with him all those years," Ryan said. " He wasn't just my dad. He was somebody I worked with, too."

The Mets' 1971 yearbook concluded that his father's death and on-going military commitments "rendered him relatively ineffectual the rest of the way" in 1970. Ryan apparently thought so, too. He told his wife, Ruth, on the flight to New York after his father's funeral that he wanted to quit.

He threatened to quit at least three times in his first five years in the majors and, each time, credited Ruth with talking him out of it. His grief over his father's death, along with his pitching struggles, likely made his threat in 1970 the most serious.

"I wasn't convinced it was the best thing to do," Ruth said of the decision to stay in baseball, "but I was convinced he had a lot of talent. He was either brilliant or terrible.

"I thought he just needed a little time."

He needed time for a couple of reasons in 1970. His military commitments - reserve duty every other weekend - once again ruined his rhythm. The alternative, however, would have been less attractive. When Ryan received his draft notice in the fall of 1966, he assumed he was going to Viet Nam, like everyone else he knew.

The Mets, as did most clubs in the 1960s, took care of their players. They found a reserve unit in Wichita, Kan., that would take Ryan. Other Mets who served in the reserves during Ryan's years with the team included Tom Seaver, Tug McGraw, Tim Foli, Bud Harrelson and Ken Boswell.

Over the next five years, Ryan reported for duty in Missouri, Alabama and Texas. His unit installed pipeline for pump stations.

"When we'd fire it all up," he said, smiling, "it looked like an irrigation system."

He said he never learned much from any of his jobs, in the military or the private sector. None required any expertise. He installed air- conditioning ductwork around the Alvin area in the off-season until after the 1969 season, when his playoff bonuses afforded him some time off.

He wasn't used to the freedom. He had worked since the second grade, when his father would awaken him at 1 a.m. to help him on the newspaper route.

His most vivid memories of his father are, perhaps, linked to the route. They didn't do much else together. His father would take him to buy the sporting goods equipment he needed when the hand-me- downs from his brother, Bob, wouldn't do. They didn't go to the beach, a half-hour away. They hunted on rare occasions. The family's only social events were occasional Sunday trips to Beeville to visit Nolan' s grandmother.

Lynn Nolan Ryan Sr. worked two jobs to put his four daughters through college. He was a supervisor at a petroleum plant and the distributor of the Houston Post for the Alvin area. Ryan, his father and Bob, seven years older, threw 1,500 newspapers every day, until Bob graduated from high school and junior and senior worked alone.

Young Nolan never offered any resistance when his father, 6-4 and 240 pounds, roused him from sleep.

"He was such a firm-type person," Ryan said, "that when he said, "Get up,' you got up."

They would drive to an abandoned service station in downtown Alvin to pick up the papers dropped by a delivery truck. Nolan remained on the corner, rolling papers, and watched the tail lights on the family car as his father drove the route.

Much of Ryan's early education came on that street corner.

"You'd have to deal with drunks and worse," he said. "I was scared to death half the time. I saw police shoot at people and chases and all kinds of stuff. I'd never let my kids be in that kind of environment."

Asked what made it so difficult, he thought a moment before saying, "Being alone. Being a kid."

He never said anything about his fears to his father. He was just glad to be back in bed by 5.

He made $25 a month.

He got a route of his own at 14 and threw it into a 1952 Chevy for which he paid $50. He sold that car two years later for $50 and bought a 1956 Chevy for $600. But, through different roles and cars, his partner remained the same.

His older partner helped him in other business decisions, too.

Ryan's mother, Martha, wanted him to go to college after high school. He never had been much of a student, certainly not in the class of his siblings. Because of his love of animals, he had considered becoming a veterinarian, though he knew he didn't have the grades. He had few choices, as he saw it. He still resisted Mets scout Red Murff's offer of a $20,000 bonus, though, because he wanted $50,000.

Nolan's father told him $20,000 was a lot of money, an opportunity he might never have again.

He signed.

"Nolan was very respectful of his father's opinion," Ruth said. "They weren't close on a day-to-day basis because times were different. To me, Nolan's father was very quiet. He was very nice, but he wasn't the type of man I'd sit and kid around with. Most of their family discussions were about relatives. At my house, we'd talk about politics or anything. Mine was a very supportive household.

"Nolan's father would come home from work, eat, maybe take a little nap and then go back to work."

Nolan learned much about responsibility and accountability from his father and the paper route. He learned that people counted on him.

He mostly learned about his father.

"What you saw was his dedication to his family," Ryan said. "He made a lot of sacrifices so he could send his family to college."

Lynn Nolan Ryan Sr. died at 63. His death was not a surprise, coming two years after he had a cancerous lung removed.

But, on the flight back to New York after the funeral, Lynn Nolan Jr., the youngest and last to leave home, wondered if he should have left at all. He was miserable. His baseball career was foundering, as he saw it. His father was gone.

He asked Ruth if he should quit, wondering if baseball was worth the price.

She said it was.

And if she hadn't?

"We'd have quit," Ryan said, chuckling, leaning back in his chair. "Sure."