Our historian, Mark Liptak, shares his conversation with the star center fielder
With news of Chet Lemon’s passing on Thursday, our Mark Liptak was in touch quickly from the road, taking time out of his broadcasting work to share his interview with Chet from 2004. It follows here, in edited form.
Chet Lemon is another one of those very good White Sox players that few other fans knew about, primarily because for most of his career in Chicago he played on some bad, nondescript clubs. He had to go to Detroit before getting national recognition (and a World Series ring with the 1984 Tigers).
But make no mistake, Lemon was pretty damn good. He was with the Sox from September 1975 through the 1981 season, earning All-Star recognition 1978 and 1979. He led the American League with 44 doubles in 1979 as well as leading the league in the most painful category, hit by pitches, twice, while with the Sox (1979, 1981). Chet hit better than .300 three times with the Sox, and in another year batted .292. He was a consistent double-figure home run producer, with a high of 86 RBIs in 1979.
Defensively, Lemon’s speed enabled him to cover the massive center field of Comiskey Park. He led the league in putouts and outfield assists in 1979, for example. Given the ability of some of the guys he played with in left and right field, sometimes it looked like Lemon had to play the entire outfield! But as remarkable as his major league career was, perhaps what has happened to him after baseball is even more compelling.
Shortly after retiring in 1990 Lemon was struck by a rare illness which he wasn’t expected to survive. Somehow he did, aided as much perhaps by his deep religious convictions as by the help of medical science. He has since survived a relapse as well.
Lemon is now a highly successful coach in Florida. His Eustis High School Panthers won the state 3A title in 2003 and was the assistant coach to the team that won the title in 2000. His son Marcus, a shortstop, is expected to be one of the top picks in the 2006 amateur draft and Chet also coaches one of the state’s top AAU programs and is president of the Florida AAU chapter. Among the players who’ll soon be making an impact in the pros that he helped are Prince Fielder and Rickie Weeks.
His is a remarkable story.
Mark Liptak: You came up in the A’s organization, a team that won five straight Western Division titles and three World Series in the early 70’s. What were your thoughts when you got the news that White Sox GM Roland Hemond acquired you for the team, and how did you find out about it?
Chet Lemon: I had first come up with the A’s in 1974. It was myself and Claudell Washington, who’d later come to the Sox. I wasn’t able to play, though, because I was recovering from a broken ankle. I was ready to play in 1975, but had nowhere to play. I was an infielder, and Oakland had guys like Sal Bando and Bert Campaneris in those positions. I had heard a lot of talk about teams being interested in me.
When I found out about the deal, I thought it was a great move. I was finally going to get my chance — and in a big market, as well. That’s what you wanted. You’d always hear guys saying, “I want to play in New York, I want to play in Chicago, I want to play in California.” Those were the big markets. It was an opportunity for me, because I loved playing.
Do you remember your first game/at-bat in the big leagues? [Sept. 9, 1975, Lemon grounded out to first base in the ninth inning of a 5-4 loss to the Angels in Chicago. The pitcher was Jim Brewer.]
I remember it was against the Angels, and that I faced a guy I remember admiring while I was growing up in Los Angeles; I think his last name was Brewer.
Very good! Do you remember how you did?
No, I don’t. I do remember my first home run, though. It was off Frank Tanana of the Angels. They were beating us, and I took him into the upper deck. After the game I remember hearing him on the radio and he said something like, “Well, we had a big lead and I just threw the rookie a changeup.” I thought to myself, “OK, I’m going to own you from now on.” And I did. He even came up to me one time and told me that I owned him. He was a very good pitcher in the years he and Nolan Ryan teamed up together with California.
You were a third baseman in the A’s minor league system, yet by 1976, your first full year with the Sox, you had been made into a center fielder. How did that all come about, and is it true that then Sox manager Paul Richards is the guy who suggested the change?
Paul may have been a part of it, but I’ll tell you when it first came up about me becoming an outfielder. In late 1975 when I was with the Sox, I was at third base and a ground ball was hit towards the middle. I started running and cut in front of the shortstop and actually wound up around Jorge Orta at second base! [Laughs]
The very next day I was on the top step of the dugout, it was early in the day because I’d always be one of the first guys to show up. Chuck Tanner came up, put his arm around my shoulder and said — I can remember this like it was yesterday — “Son, I want you to start taking 100 fly balls a day, because if you stay an infielder you’re gonna kill somebody!” [Laughs]
Big leaguers make everything look so easy, but that had to be a tremendous change for you going from the infield to center field. What were some of the drills and work that you had to do to be able to pull this off?
It was a challenge and it took a lot of work, but I wanted it. I used to say there are no bad hops in the sky. I’d say to myself that no matter where the ball was hit I was going to beat the ball to the spot. I became a student of the game, that’s where a lot of the work was done.
After a few years I knew all the pitchers and how they were going to throw to hitters. I knew the signs, I knew where the ball was going to go if a right-handed pull hitter was up and one of our pitchers threw him a breaking ball for example.
It got to the point where for me, it was a lot of fun to rob guys of hits. Bobby Bonds said to me one time that I was one of the best young outfielders he had ever seen. This was a guy who played with Willie Mays, and for him to say that to me … boy, that was special. Cal Ripken Sr. also told me that I was one of the toughest outfielders to go from first to third on. That was because I was always very aggressive charging balls.
In 1977, you played your second full year in the majors, and it was much better than your first. That’s something that usually takes more time (150 games, 99 runs, 151 hits, 67 RBIs and a .273 average).
When you first come up, you want to stay in the big leagues. You play hard, but you’re also scrutinized hard. The challenge comes is trying to develop a balance to not let things bother you to where it hurts what you are trying to do. As you get older, you start to understand more. In my case, I don’t think it was until 1979 that I really understood what was expected of me by the Sox. It was about that time that Bill Veeck and Roland Hemond starting pushing me to the forefront to try to be the leader of the club.
That was a magical season for White Sox fans, the 1977 South Side Hit Men were terrorizing American League pitchers and the love affair between the fans and players were unmatched. Going into that season though nobody had any high hopes for the team. How in the world did you win?
That 1977 team was a lot like the Tigers team that won it all in 1984. Eric Soderholm was an inspiration that season, coming back from the knee injury like he did. We were close to winning it that season, a lot closer than people thought.
We believed we could win it, but we came up short in the pitching department. The Sox just weren’t able to get the help that we needed to put us over the top. Still, that club did some extraordinary things.
When I interviewed Soderholm, he said frankly, you were the best player on the team because you were the only one who could play defense as well as offense. No offense to Ralph Garr or Richie Zisk, but did it sometimes feel like you had to cover the whole outfield?
Those guys were solid, but remember they were offensively-orientated. If a ball was hit in the area of Ralph or Richie they’d get it, but that wasn’t their focus. Ralph could hit anybody in baseball; he was a former batting champ. If he wasn’t hitting a bullet somewhere, he’d bunt. If he hit a ground ball and it wasn’t within a few steps of the infielder … forget it, he was on base. Richie had produced before in the big leagues.
Remember, if you can hit, they’ll find a place for you.
Winning is contagious, and that seemed to be the case in 1977. Once you guys got a few wins under your belt and were pounding the baseball, did you realize you could play with anybody?
That’s exactly what happened: Once we got a few wins under our belt, that gave us a lot of confidence. It was a fun year. We played before packed houses every night. You had the fans screaming for curtain calls. It was quite a year. Detroit had great fans, especially in 1984, but even they couldn’t compare to the Chicago fans from 1977.
How much fun was that 1977 season to you?
Oh man, it was unbelievable. We had a really close team. After we started winning, the South Side Hit Men thing came out. I remember eight or nine of us got dressed up in old suits and we posed in front of a Rolls Royce for a poster. To this day, I miss the fans from that year.
Let me ask you about the curtain calls. When I spoke with Eric, he mentioned that there were players that weren’t fond of them. Those players were concerned how the opposition was going to respond. What were your feelings?
There were some guys who weren’t sure about it. As for me, it just lifted you up. It was like electricity running through your body. I think most of the other players on other teams understood. It wasn’t us trying to put them down. They knew that you have to accommodate your fans. It was unbelievable.
With the thousands of games that you played, I don’t know if you’ll remember this one play: It was on July 3, 1977. The Twins were in town, and the Sox beat them three times to take over first place. I was in the stands that day, and in the second game of a doubleheader one of the Twins hit a drive into the gap in left-center with a man on base. You sprinted backwards and to your right, and at the last second stretched out your left arm making a shoetop, backhanded catch before crashing face-first into the wall. Do you remember that play?
Oh yeah! One time, I was invited to appear on that kids TV show The Baseball Bunch, hosted by Johnny Bench. What they do before you come on is show a minute or so of highlights, and that play was on there. I remember it! Anytime you start hitting the warning track you know you’re only a step or two away from the wall.
That was one of the things about playing center field in Comiskey Park when I was there. They had such a big center field, and you had a lot of room to roam. [In most of the years Lemon was with the Sox, there was no scalable center field fence. The barrier was the base of the original grandstand where the scoreboard was located … 445 feet away!] It was terrifying. You could never take a pitch off. You always had to be on your P’s and Q’s. I was always fearful that if I made a mistake or didn’t get to a ball, you could play it into a double or triple — or if it went over your head, an inside-the-park home run.
I remember another catch that I made, and boy I wish I had the video of it. We were at home and a guy hit a ball over Jorge Orta’s head at second, so it was in right-center field. I went after it and said, “I got it.” Richie [Zisk] started over and said, “You take it.” The problem was the ball was curving away from me! I kept running and running and running, and the ball kept curving. Richie had already backed off, so it was up to me. Finally as I got to the right field foul line I dove and made the catch. I get up and start brushing all this chalk off me, and meanwhile Richie is laughing, and the fans are giving me a standing ovation.”
You were an All-Star in 1978 and 1979, How was the experience? (In 1979, Lemon played eight innings, getting hit by a pitch from Joaquin Andujar, scoring a run and making two putouts.)
It was a great feeling to be recognized as one of the best players. What also was nice was getting to know the other guys. You realize that they are all just like you, they all put their pants on one leg at a time, and they all have the same fears. I think you appreciate the game more as a young player and as an older player. When you’re young, it’s a real thrill being there. When you’re older, you appreciate how much the game means to you. It’s during that middle period when you seem to lose focus. That’s when you hear guys gripe that they should be there but aren’t, and act like they don’t care.
I also played in Japan with the All-Stars after the 1979 season. That was an experience! I was hitting third in the lineup, and there were guys like Eddie Murray hitting right behind me. We grew up together in Los Angeles, and we were both on the team playing in Japan. They treated us like kings: You’d go out and your picture was taken everywhere. That was incredible.
What about your hitting style and stance? You were right up on the plate. You knew that pitchers were going to pitch you inside to try to tie you up. How did you come upon that style of hitting?
I don’t think I realized that I was that close to the plate. I was probably that way growing up [and never changed]. You know, I actually didn’t mind being pitched inside; I wanted to be pitched inside. I felt I could always turn on pitches. If you look at my hits, like all those doubles, you’ll find that I went down the left field line in most of them. Larry Doby taught me a lot about hitting; he was my manager with the Sox for a while. He’d always say that I had one of the quickest bats through the strike zone he ever saw, so I didn’t need to try to do too much. When you start swinging too hard, you start lunging at pitches, turning your head at the point of contract, and that type of stuff.
There was something that took place in 1979 that seemed out of character for you. Tony La Russa was named manager on August 2. On August 21 in Milwaukee, you left the club before a doubleheader. The accounts that I read said that you and Tony had a disagreement over letting you get some extra hitting in the batting cage. You came back the next day and apparently both of you settled your differences. What happened that day?
I was being immature. Yes, I went back to Chicago. What happened was that I came out to the park early and was taking some extra hitting. While I was there, Wayne Nordhagen decided to show up. Tony said, “Chet, let Wayne hit some.” I said to myself, “Wait a minute, I’m here early trying to get more hitting, [Nordhagen] shows up and suddenly he can start hitting on my time?”
I basically told Tony, “Who are you telling me what to do?” We said a few things to each other, and I left. As I was leaving Roland [Hemond] stopped me and said, “Chet, please don’t leave, don’t do this.” I know he was concerned about a lot of things, including the fact that Tony was just named manager and it would look like he had already lost control of the team.
What people don’t know is that Tony and I played together when we were in Denver [the Denver Bears were the Triple-A team of the White Sox in the mid-70s, setting minor league attendance records at Mile High Stadium] and I was one of the first guys who saw Tony and recommended him to be a coach. Tony loved the game.
What was your relationship with Tony, and what did you think of him as a field manager?
Tony was a great manager! He always had a sharp mind. He always made a commitment to his players. He was a very loyal person, and if you treated him with respect he’d reciprocate and do anything he could to help you. Tony was a 24/7 type of guy when it came to baseball. His record shows how good of a manager he became.
I’ve also read accounts that perhaps some of your teammates misunderstood who you were and what you were like; there was some criticism that perhaps the fact that you were quiet and had a secluded locker in a corner didn’t make you a team player.
When you get to the big leagues, you have to stay focused on what you are doing. I had my own mind, and felt it was better to stay focused. I also didn’t want to develop any vices. I didn’t want to compromise my religious beliefs.
I was never judgmental about any of the guys that I played with. I always respected my teammates, pulled for them to do well and respected their privacy. I was just a difficult person to read and understand. Maybe I should have been more outgoing, but my goal was to be the best player I could be. That takes a commitment. I couldn’t understand why some people didn’t work as hard. It takes a special talent to play in the major leagues. I didn’t want to lose that.
I also grew up poor. At the time I didn’t realize it, but that was the case. I was grounded in reality. Honestly, I always felt more secure and more comfortable when I was between the white lines then when I was outside of them.
In January 1981, Jerry Reinsdorf and Eddie Einhorn bought the White Sox. They had something Bill Veeck did not: A lot of money, and at first they actually spent it. By the time Spring Training ended in 1981, when you looked around you saw Ron LeFlore, Carlton Fisk and Greg Luzinski dressing in Sox uniforms. How did you feel about that, especially after the three previously poor years for the club?
I was excited, especially about having Carlton Fisk as a teammate. He was truly a great ballplayer who respected the game.
You hit .302 in the strike-shortened season and played your usual solid defense, but on Nov. 27, 1981 you were shipped to Detroit for Steve Kemp. The reasoning as I remember it was that the Sox wanted more balance in the lineup and Kemp was left-handed. Were you ever told by the Sox why they let you go?
That may have been part of it, but there was another reason.
In Spring Training 1981 I had verbally agreed to a five-year contract that would have made me the highest-paid player on the team. It was a great negotiation. Eddie Einhorn, Jerry Reinsdorf, Roland Hemond, my agent and I all sat around a table one day and worked everything out, including some deferred compensation. For some reason I hadn’t gotten around to actually signing the document, though. A few weeks later, they signed Carlton Fisk and his numbers came out. When I saw those I told my agent, “Hmm, maybe we need to renegotiate.” Everything that I did for five years in Chicago, and now I wasn’t going to be the highest-paid player? I know it was childish on my part, but that’s the way I felt at the time.
It created some problems. After a period of time, I said that I’d just play my next year out (1982) and then see what happens in that offseason. I guess the Sox thought that I was automatically going to go the free agent route, although that wasn’t necessarily the case. However, I did know that other clubs were interested. I knew that Earl Weaver of the Orioles wanted me badly and that the Sox were close to trading me to them at one time.
It was weird how some things happened. I mean, Bull Luzinski, whom I respected, and thought did a great job for us by supplying power, came out and said something like, “If he’s not going to sign, we need to get somebody for him.”
After the trade I did play out my option, but Detroit re-signed me to a 10-year deal that gave me security. I had some no-trade clauses, so I had some control if I was going to be uprooted again.
Do you remember your feelings the first time you came back to Comiskey Park as a member of the Tigers, on April 29, 1982?
Yes, that also was weird. It was strange being on the other side of the field. I wish things had worked out differently. I know the fans loved me and appreciated my work, and I enjoyed performing for them. The problem was that nobody took the time to understand me a little bit. I wasn’t that bad a person. In order to be who you are, you can’t change.
You played through the 1990 season, and it was shortly afterwards that you got sick, a very serious illness. What happened?
I had noticed that it was taking me longer to heal from injuries. I remember asking myself, “Am I getting old?” I always took care of myself. In Spring Training 1991 the Tigers discovered that I had too many red blood cells in my body. The Tigers thought the numbers they got were wrong. My stomach was always hurting. I thought maybe I had an ulcer, or it was just stress. The doctors couldn’t find out what was causing it.
They finally did an ultrasound and discovered that I had tiny little blood clots in my portal veins. My illness is usually found in older men of Jewish decent. It’s practically never found in African-American men, especially in the shape that I was in.
About 30 minutes after they discovered that, I was rushed to intensive care, hooked up to machines and given blood thinners. Not only did I have blood clots, but I had too much blood and it was too thick, like slush. The doctors were fearful that if one of those clots became loose … well you know [a stroke] happens when that takes place.
I was in the hospital for two or three months in the spring of 1991. I was in incredible pain. Just trying to turn over in bed was agonizing. I was being fed intravenously. I did not want to eat — I couldn’t eat. I lost about 60 or 70 pounds, and was down to about 130 pounds. I couldn’t even get out of the bed. I was in very bad shape.
I remember seeing ESPN do my eulogy.
There was no way to have any type of major surgery done, because I was on blood thinners to prevent clots. If they tried to operate, I’d bleed to death.
My faith prohibits me from receiving blood transfusions, so I’d never make it through surgery. If they took me off the blood thinners, my blood would thicken up again and I could die because of a clot.
The doctors were able to try a slight procedure to open up some of my portal veins. It was risky. I was so agitated because despite all the medications they gave me, I couldn’t go to sleep. Finally I did, and I remember waking up and seeing the doctor standing by my bed. He looked over at me and said, “Chet, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that you’re awake and alive. The bad news is that the clots are still there.
The doctors kept “bleeding” me and keeping me on blood thinners. Slowly, very slowly I got better. It was a miracle. The doctors finally said that I had to start eating if ever I was going to make it out of the hospital. They started me on Jell-o that had been warmed in a microwave. Have you ever tried to eat that stuff? [Laughing] To this day, I won’t eat Jell-o. Slowly, very slowly I got a spoonful down. Then later, two spoonfuls, then three. It was an effort just to eat that much.
After a while, I finally started eating a sandwich. I’d get maybe one bite down, and have my wife eat the rest. See, the doctors told me that only if I started eating would they let me go home. After a period of doing this my wife finally told me, “I can’t keep doing this, you have to start eating.” The doctors thought I was eating. Finally, I started to eat and they let me go home. We had a hospital bed placed in our home, and that’s where I went. I was so weak, the first time I tried standing up I was like a kitten.
I was on so much pain medication, things like Demerol, and after a long period of time you can get addicted to it. As I started to get off the medication, I started to have withdrawal issues, things like cold sweats. For about a week, I couldn’t get through a night without them. I would sweat profusely. The sheets would be soaked, literally, like they were out in the rain. We always had to change them. I was always so very, very cold.
I’ll always remember the kindness of the fans and the people that I knew in baseball. Both Roland Hemond and Kenny Williams called me. I’ll never forget that. The fans called, sent me stuff, and remembered me in their prayers.
One of the reasons athletes make it to the pros is because of their confidence. They just know they are going to get the job done whatever it is. They are in control. With everything that was going on, as you saw yourself get worse and worse… were you afraid? We are talking about life and death here, something that is not normally faced in sports.
Oh yeah, yes I was afraid. I was close to death. People were shocked that I survived. They think that I survived because the procedure that they did may have opened up some small holes in the clots and just enough blood got through. Then I think the body healed itself in the sense that it rerouted blood around the bad areas. The human body is amazing and wonderful. I give thanks to almighty God for giving me the strength to survive this. The physical condition that I was in before this happened also helped me get through it.
I’ve had some relapses over time, but I’ve improved. My weight is back to 190 pounds. I haven’t stopped doing the things that I love. I’m in the weight room; I’m out on the ball field. Sometimes I’ll take some hitting or go out in the outfield.
People who have this don’t normally live beyond 15 years but I enjoy life. I’m doing fine. I have to take medication every day; I go to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville every month to have my blood checked.
My wife and family have been there for me. I know this has been hard on them, but I’ll make it.
How did you get into coaching?
When I retired I started the Chet Lemon School of Baseball in 1993. It really took off, and the sons of former players like Frank Viola, Tim Raines and Cecil Fielder spent time there.
I found that I loved coaching. We started an organization that was called the Juice Program. We have five or six teams that go from 10 years old through high school that are part of Florida’s AAU program. They are among the top teams in the nation. One of the older clubs, the one my son plays on, went 117-2 last year. They won everything in sight. We play all year round because the weather permits us to. So far this season, that club is 16-1 and we missed three weeks because of the numerous hurricanes Florida got. Nine of my players wound up getting drafted, and practically everyone else got college scholarships.
I got into high school coaching as an assistant with Eustis High School. We won the state 3A title in 2000. Then, when the opportunity to become the head coach came up I took it, which surprised a lot of people. I did it because I wanted to be able to be with my son as much as possible, and to provide guidance for him if he needed it. Last year, we were able to win the state championship again.
As far as my role in the state AAU program, we have over 26,000 participants in numerous sports for both boys and girls. I oversee it and help work with the kids as much as I can. We hold a lot of events in connection with the Disney Company, which hosts many, many of our activities and championships. They have always been a great supporter of what we try to do with the youth of the state.
Can you sum up for me the six plus years you spent in Chicago with the White Sox?
I have a saying when I talk about my days with the White Sox: That city and that organization raised me. They taught me how to play the game, they allowed me to learn, they applauded my efforts and they motivated me to get better. I learned so many of life’s lessons by being in Chicago. I am so grateful to the team and the fans for the opportunity they gave me.
I’ve talked with my wife about moving back to Chicago someday. If the opportunity ever came along to get back connected with the White Sox organization, you know that I would be very interested!
Originally published at White Sox Interactive in 2004.