John Kruk goes back to Baltimore, where he and his “brother,” Ozzie, walk off to retire.
He has no sentimental attachment to the location. It made little difference to Kruk where he retired. Being far more selective about who he spent that penultimate season with, the former Phillies outfielder and first baseman decided he wanted to spend it with Ozzie Guillén during the 1994 offseason. Kruk said to him, “I started my career with you.” “I want to end my career with you now.”
When they were teammates with the Padres’ single-A affiliate, the Reno Aces, in 1982, they had their first meeting. Guillén was an 18-year-old shortstop from Ocumare del Tuy, Venezuela, and Kruk was an outfielder from Keyser, West Virginia.
John Kruk was “solid gold” for David Letterman on late-night television and a smash for the 1993 Phillies. They didn’t seem to have anything in common on paper. Guillén was not fluent in English. Kruk was not fluent in Spanish.
However, it did not imply that they were unable to speak. Kruk remarked, “We spoke the language of baseball.”
The Phillies broadcaster was instantly won over to Guillén’s style of play. One day, while playing left field, Kruk saw Guillén circling around shortstop. Why, he inquired. Guillén informed him that he was keeping an eye on the signs the catcher was placing down and adjusting his position based on the hitter’s identity.
Kruk remarked, “I had never thought of that before.” I would thus move in his manner. I would go toward third if Ozzie moved in that direction. He was correct ninety-nine percent of the time. “In terms of his baseball acumen, he may have been the smartest player I’ve ever played with.”
They became close friends. Kruk saw in Guillén not only a gifted player but also one in need of assistance. The resources available to Latino sportsmen were not as great as they are now, and Guillén was nearly 4,000 miles away from his home.
Kruk made the decision to assist. In the dugout in between innings, he started teaching Guillén English. With a focus on profanity, they addressed anything from various cuisines to how to greet a teammate after hitting a home run.
“I taught him a word that began with an F,” Kruk remarked. “And I informed him that there are numerous ways to phrase it. You may include a “-ing.” a “-ed.” “Oh, that’s good, that’s good,” he said, and I responded, “Yeah, that is good.” Guillén continued, saying, “I learnt how to swear before I learned how to say hello and what’s your name?”
Kruk aided in the apartment search for Guillén and his spouse, Ibis. He exposed Guillén to a variety of foods that he had never had before—hot dogs and just hot dogs. Kruk would lend Ibis a TV when Guillén was traveling, so she had something to pass the time while her husband was away.
The main goal was to ensure that they were comfortable. “A lot of the players are Latinx, and I felt bad for them,” Kruk remarked. It has changed from how it was. They now have interpreters available to them, and there are people assisting them in locating housing. That never occurred in the early 1980s.
Many of those guys were clueless on how to obtain an apartment. They were clueless about how to connect their cable TV or electricity. The lesser leagues are a cruel place to play. However, I thought to myself, “How will they manage if they have nowhere to live?” or what should one eat? If they’re unaware of how to obtain an apartment? They had no knowledge at all.
Guillén was never the same. Following Kruk’s 1994 testicular cancer diagnosis, Guillén called him every other day. And it was Guillén who persuaded Kruk to give it another shot when he was thinking about retiring at the conclusion of that year.
The 1994 Phillies demonstrated against their blue caps by discarding them and tearing them up with Jay Leno.
“I used to get radiation treatments in the morning and play in the afternoon in April of 1994,” Kruk recalled. I was just so exhausted all the time that it sapped my will to compete. I simply didn’t want to play after 1994. I swear I didn’t get a call from that tiny [expletive]. Come on, have fun! Join the White Sox for a game!
“The Twins and Giants called me, and I told them both that I was done. I’m through. But then Ozzie the weirdo called. “Come on, have some fun! one from the previous year. I replied, “No, man, I can’t.” And the calls came in, none stop. After that, he may have called [teammate] Robin Ventura. And I thought, “Well, I guess I better go play now.”
For Kruk, the season was not easy. Even though he was still reasonably youthful at 34, he frequently felt exhausted from the chemotherapy he had received the year before. Upon reaching base, he would have to rely on his teammates not to hit a ball into the gap. Running from first to third was one of the things he used to be able to do easily.
Above all, Kruk was without his former competitive spirit. That, together with the physical toll disease had taken on him, made the decision to retire simple. Jim Abbott, one of Kruk’s teammates, was always informed by him that if Abbott was traded, Kruk would retire.
In July 1995, after Abbott was traded to the Angels, the pitcher acquired Kruk. They were in Abbott’s hotel room in Boston. Guillén, Ventura, Kruk, Kirk McCaskill, Scott Radinsky, and Alex Fernandez were among the other White Sox players present.
That’s when those brilliant people got together and devised this amazing scheme, according to Kruk. “Oh, man, we really need to come up with a fantastic retirement plan for you,” they said to me. And I reply, “Yes.” What if I simply declare my retirement and head home, just like everyone else?
And they say, ‘No, that’s not possible; you need to think of something else.’ I responded, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll go along with it if you come up with something different.”
They came up with something different, much to Kruk’s dismay. His teammates wanted him to sprint off the field and head home after recording one more hit and calling a timeout. Unfortunately for Kruk, it was becoming harder to get a hit at that particular moment.
In Boston, he was 0 for 8 runs. On July 28, at Baltimore, he tried a pinch hit in the top of the ninth but was out of luck. The next day, he sat. Terry Bevington, manager of the White Sox, was not aware of the scheme. The only people who knew were the players who had concocted the plan and general manager Ron Schueler, who had to summon a minor leaguer to fill Kruk’s void.
These are the Phillies who have ventured into a new industry: the food industry. After searching for a hit, Kruk eventually found it on Sunday, June 30. In the first inning, Kruk was kindly thrown a “cookie” by Orioles pitcher Scott Erickson, which he hit to left field. He started talking to Rafael Palmeiro when he got to first base and neglected to signal time out.
Upon Ventura’s single to left, Kruk grudgingly advanced to second base. The inning was terminated by a strikeout and a groundout. Without a word, Kruk jogged to the dugout. Guillén, carrying a bottle of champagne, trailed him into the visitors’ clubhouse.
Guillén’s day was not finished, but Kruk’s was. Guillén stated, “We started sipping champagne during the game.” “I would go there, sit with him, chat, have a glass of champagne, and then go play shortstop in between innings and at-bats. Return and sip champagne. Return and play shortstop.
According to Kruk, “he might have been getting buzzed.” Hell, we all know him; he might have already been buzzed. I’m not sure.
Sitting in the clubhouse, the two buddies caught up on the past thirteen years and speculated about what Kruk would do next. After hugging for a few innings, Kruk went to the players’ parking lot where he was picked up by Steve Taylor, a friend from childhood.
He watched the remainder of the game from his couch after they drove to his West Virginia house. Guillén read a statement to media following the game on Kruk’s behalf, but with a few artistic license. “I humorously informed the media that our manager forced John Kruk to retire,” Guillén remarked.
“I put it in there for you,” he remarked to me, according to Kruk. I asked, ‘What was thrown in?’ “That you were quitting because you didn’t like the manager,” he continued. “Why would you do that?” I asked. And his response was, “Why not?”
“I tell you what, he was pretty sharp for someone who had me teach him English.” When the Phillies played in 1993, Dave Hollins defined Macho Row. He wishes for his son to take a more enjoyable path.
Even after 29 years have passed since that day, Kruk, 63, and Guillén, 60, remain incredibly close. They talk on the phone all the time. Ozzie, Guillén’s grandson, shares the same build as the Phillies commentator, therefore he affectionately refers to him as “Little Kruk.”
Usually, Father’s Day and Christmas are when they talk. Baseball is the subject occasionally and other times it isn’t. Although Guillén, an analyst for NBC Sports Chicago covering the White Sox, doesn’t get to see his pal very frequently, it hasn’t stopped them from communicating.
Guillén asserted, “You don’t need to see a real friend every day.” Although I gained a lot of friends here, John Kruk was the one who truly helped me grow. He was always there for me, no matter what. I’m looking for an apartment and I need a car, like everything.
“Back then, there weren’t many Latino athletes. Not a lot of coaches are Latino. I believe this is the reason I value it so highly. When a group of boys came to the United States in the past, they thought that nobody liked them. You would assume that if someone were speaking English around you, they were referring to you. You think about each of those things.
But Kruk was a very wonderful friend. He really helped me feel at ease. I constantly claim to have an American brother.