Polka King Page 8

  The agency guy then said, “I’m pulling your leg, Vinnie. The first day it sold about ten thousand copies.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, ten thousand!”

  “What about the second day?” Vinnie asked.

  “The second day, it sold a few more thousand, and the day after that, a few thousand more. By the fourth day, it was up to twenty-five thousand! You guys got yourself a hit.”

  It was Nino and Vinnie’s biggest record by far, and it was arguably the most important record of my career. The final tally: 550,000 copies sold. The follow-up, Million Dollar Polkas, sold another 675,000, the third one, Polka Fever, moved a mere 400,000, and the one after that, a holiday record called Polka Christmas in My Hometown, was a comparative stiff at only 300,000. The next one was called Polka Disco, which featured a guest appearance by Donna Summers’s drummer. The first four of my records with Nino and Vinnie made them millionaires, but that fifth one, the disco one, well, let’s just say that one wasn’t quite as successful, and leave it at that.

  Postscript #2: While we’re on the topic of recording studios . . .

  For a good long time, I cut all of my records at RCA Studios in New York, and when the studio closed, I moved over to Clinton Recording Studios. From there I went to a place in Englewood, New Jersey, called Bennett Studios, which was helmed by Tony Bennett’s son, Dae. Bennett Studios was a great place to record, partly because Dae was great at his job, and partly because you never knew whom you’d run into.

  Back in 2010, while I was cutting one of my polka-fests, the great Tony Bennett himself was in the next recording room over, recording his Duets album with Josh Groban and John Mayer. I ran into Mr. Bennett during one of our respective breaks from recording. We made some small talk over coffee, then, when it was time to get back to work, he said, “You know what, Jimmy? I’m jealous of you.”

  “You?!” I said. “Jealous of me? You’re Tony Bennett, for cryin’ out loud. Why would Tony Bennett be jealous of Jimmy Sturr?”

  He gave me that brilliant Tony Bennett smile and said, “Because you have eighteen Grammys, and I have only twelve.”

  Sadly, Bennett Studios was forced to shut its doors in 2011. I’m just glad I got to make some music in that wonderful, wonderful joint.

  Postscript #3: No discussion about Starr Records can be complete without mentioning that I was the second artist in polka history to release an eight-track tape. Needless to say, it wasn’t one of our biggest moneymakers, but that shouldn’t be a surprise because eight-tracks didn’t make money for anybody.

  But that didn’t stop us from pushing the envelope. We were the first polka band to release a gatefold two-album set, a CD, and a DVD, as well as the only polka band to ever release a picture disk. What with today’s technology, I don’t know how I’ll be able to top that. Maybe a Jimmy Sturr and His Orchestra hologram . . .

  Jimmy and Myron Floren along with the band, taken in Jimmy’s yard with his car.

  11

  Hey, Niekro!

  Now is the moment you’ve all been waiting for: the Jimmy Sturr history of the knuckleball. (Baseball fans, sit back and enjoy the ride. Non-baseball fans, bear with me because it’ll all make sense in a few pages.)

  Most modern baseball pitchers have between three or four pitches in their arsenal. Everybody throws a fastball, a curveball, and a changeup, while some folks add in a slider, which is kind of a reverse curveball, or a screwball, which could be called a reverse slider. But at any given time, there are a small handful of guys in Major League Baseball who throw the knuckleball. It’s a special pitch, and the guys who call it their specialty are generally special pitchers.

  Baseball historians have eternally argued about who threw the first knuckleball. Some say it was the legendary Chicago White Sox hurler Eddie Cicotte, while others believe it was the Philadelphia Phillies’ less-than-legendary Lew “Hicks” Moren. Legend has it that when Cicotte threw it he actually held the ball with his thumb and four knuckles, thus the name of the pitch. (Today there aren’t any knuckles in a knuckleball—it’s gripped with the fingertips.) The point of that was to make certain the ball left Cicotte’s hand without any rotation. When the baseball is projected from an arm without any spin, aerodynamics will take over; during its trip between the pitcher’s mound and home plate, the air currents, the temperature, and the seams will conspire to make the ball hop, skip, and jump its way to the batter. The pitch is nearly impossible to perfect—that’s why so few people throw the darn thing—but if you get it down, you might just have yourself a wonderful career.

  In a quirk of fate, two of the greatest knuckleballers in Major League Baseball history were the Niekro brothers, Phil and Joe.

  Phil was born in 1939 and made his Major League debut with the old Milwaukee Braves at twenty-five. The young righthander didn’t make much of an impression until 1967, the year after the Braves moved to Atlanta, when he won eleven games against nine losses. In 1967 an 11–9 record wasn’t anything to write home about compared to guys like Bob Gibson and Sandy Koufax, who were routinely notching twenty-five victories and fewer than five losses. But Phil stood out due to his league-leading earned run average of 1.87, a number that was astounding even in an era dominated by pitching. For the remainder of his baseball life, that was pretty much the story: a few more wins than losses and amazing ERAs. Over his twenty-four-year career, Phil managed to win only twenty or more games in a season only three times, but he kept runners off the base paths. His durability was unquestioned, so every team he played for considered themselves lucky to have him on the roster.

  Most fans loved Phil Niekro because he threw a knuckleball better than anybody. He was reliable, and even though his career winning percentage was only .537, he was a winner. I loved Phil Niekro because he loved polka.

  For me, it all started in 1983 in West Palm Beach, Florida, the spring training home of the Atlanta Braves. I was in town for some gigs; after one of my shows, one of the Braves fans ran over and, breathlessly, said, “Jimmy, you’re not gonna believe this, but I found out that Phil Niekro is a fan of yours.”

  After catching his breath, he added, “Tomorrow afternoon you’re invited to a party. Phil’s gonna be there. You guys will get along great.” He gave me the address, said, “See you then,” and took off.

  The next day, after chatting for only a few minutes, Phil and I hit it off famously. Because he was a huge music fan, and I was a huge baseball fan, we had plenty to talk about. Plus, he was just an all-around good guy. We exchanged phone numbers and casually kept in touch, but since we both had jobs that involved a whole lot of traveling, we didn’t have the opportunity to see each other until the Braves’ off-season, when Phil showed up to my more-or-less-annual Christmas show at Carnegie Hall.

  We met up for a bite after the show at Rosie O’Grady’s on Seventh Avenue and Fifty-Second Street in Midtown. After finishing up dinner, we walked back to our hotel on the East Side. When we got to Fifth and Forty-Eighth, Phil stopped and said, “Jimmy, I’m going to tell you something that nobody knows about. And you have to promise to keep it quiet.”

  “My lips are sealed,” I said.

  “Okay. So I came to New York for two reasons: one, to see your concert, and two, tomorrow morning, I’m signing a contract with the New York Yankees.”

  I gave him a hug and said, “Welcome to New York, Phil. The Empire State is proud to have you.”

  Phil was with the Yanks for only two years, but during his brief stint, we grew quite close, so much so that he stayed at my house in Florida during Yankee home stands. (Why, you might ask, would a pitcher of his caliber set up shop that far from Yankee Stadium? Well, at that point, Phil had been in the majors for more than a decade and he didn’t feel like he needed to be at the center of everything. He wanted to hang out somewhere quiet, and Florida is nothing if not quiet.) Sometimes he’d drive my car to the stadium, and sometimes I’d tag along, which was always as exciting as heck, no matter how many times I joined h
im. Pulling up to that stadium and going into the building through the players-only entrance made me feel like I was a little kid again.

  Phil and I frequented a bar in Florida called Harter’s Hotel, but truth be told, the place wasn’t really a hotel; it was more of a shot-and-beer joint with a couple of rooms for rent on the second floor. Harter’s was a workingman’s place with cheap drinks, thirsty onion farmers, and a jukebox filled with polka music. During his first few appearances there, all the locals harassed Phil, asking him about life as a Major League ballplayer. Eventually the farmers ran out of baseball questions for Phil, so the conversations were dominated with talk about hunting, fishing, and polkas. I’d like to think that the fact that we made Phil feel comfortable and at home was the reason why his two seasons with the Yankees were so successful. (He was 16–8 in 1984 and 16–12 in 1985—not too shabby.)

  During the 1984 season, Phil helped arrange to have my band play a few songs at Yankee Stadium on the team’s Polish Night. The afternoon of the game, we soundchecked to an empty stadium, which was a treat in and of itself. (Imagine that you’re standing on the infield of one of what was then the most vital baseball stadiums in history, playing the music that you love.) But the sense of excitement tripled when, after we wrapped up our first song, I caught a peek of the giant centerfield scoreboard and saw in big, bright letters “NOW THAT’S MUSIC!!!”

  The next day, we romped through a few tunes as the crowd filed in before the game, a crowd that was totally on our side because those seats were filled with polka fans who were bussed in from the likes of Hartford, Connecticut; Springfield, Massachusetts; and Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. To steal a baseball phrase, we had home-field advantage, and for a few hours, Yankee Stadium became the biggest dance hall in history.

  Phil Niekro, number 35, dancing the polka at Yankee Stadium with the band in the background.

  The following spring—right in the middle of spring training—our band was playing a show down in West Palm Beach, Florida. During one of our breaks, in came Phil and his brother Joe (the Yankees had signed him during the off-season, much to Phil’s pleasure), along with a burly catcher named Ron Hassey, the talented pitcher Dave Righetti, and a utility infielder by the name of Mike Fischlin. The place was mobbed, so I decided that it was the ideal time to goof around with my good friend Phil.

  After the first tune of the second set, before the clapping even died down, I picked up the microphone and said, “Thanks for your kind applause, ladies and gentlemen. I have some news for everybody. There are a few members of the New York Yankees with us here tonight, and one of them is the great Phil Niekro. Now everybody knows that Phil throws one hell of a knuckleball, but what you might not know is that he’s a wonderful clarinet player. Do you want to hear him play a song?” The crowd roared its approval, and I said, “Phil, where are you, buddy? Get on up here and join us for a number or two!” Phil was a good sport, so he made his way up to the front of the room. As he took to the stage, he gave me a funny look, after which I covered the mic and said, “Trust me, it’ll be okay. Just go along with me.”

  While all this was going on, our clarinetist quietly picked up his instrument and a microphone, then walked off stage and ducked behind the curtain. I then handed Phil my clarinet and said, “This song is called ‘Clarinet Polka.’ You know that one, don’t you, pal?” Before Phil could answer, I whispered into his ear, “We’ve got one of our guys set up backstage with a mic. He’s gonna do the song. Just stick the clarinet in your mouth, and then when I count us off, pretend to play.” He followed my instructions to a T, and unless someone was paying really, really close attention, it looked like Phil was wailing away on the ol’ licorice stick. Since it was a polka party, the drinks were flowing, so I’d venture to say that there weren’t too many people paying really, really close attention.

  A couple of weeks later, I went to visit Phil at the Yankees spring training location in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, just an hour away from West Palm Beach. I met him outside the stadium, and, after we said our hellos, he said, “You want to come in and see the clubhouse?”

  “You bet!” As was the case with most Major League spring training facilities, the clubhouse wasn’t nearly as nice as the digs at Yankee Stadium, but I was polite and told Phil how nice it was.

  He said, “It’s a dump. Want to sit in the dugout?”

  “Of course!” A Major League dugout is great, be it spring training or regular season, so while Phil went out for infield practice, I sat down and made myself comfortable. I looked over to my left, and sitting on the other side of the dugout was Whitey Ford, one of the greatest Yankee pitchers of all time. Meeting Eddie Lopat back when I was a kid was incredible, but this, well, this was above and beyond.

  That night, Phil, Joe, Righetti, Hassey, Fischlin, and I went out for dinner. After stuffing our faces for a couple of hours, Phil said, “You know what, guys? I just remembered—there’s a polka party up in Pompano. Let’s go!”

  How could I refuse?

  The six of us piled into my car and, an hour later, we were sitting at a rickety table in a Knights of Columbus hall in the middle of nowhere, listening to a pretty good little polka band. All of a sudden, I felt a harsh tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, the shoulder-tapper—a tall guy with muscles on top of his muscles—said, “You Jimmy Sturr?”

  My first thought was, “Why does this guy want to talk to me when there are all these great ballplayers around?” But I’ll talk to anybody, so I said, “I am indeed Jimmy Sturr. And you are?”

  He whipped out a badge from his back pocket and said, “I’m from the Fort Lauderdale Police Department. Will you come with me, please?”

  Oh. My. God.

  When we got to the parking lot, the officer glared at me and said, “Mr. Sturr, it’s been reported that you’re carrying some illegal drugs in your car.”

  Now I’ve been known to have a glass of wine or two, but, to this day, I’ve never smoked a single joint. Not even a puff. “I think you have the wrong guy, officer,” I said.

  “I don’t. The tip I got was reliable. I have to search your car.”

  Here’s the problem—I didn’t own the vehicle I was driving. When I made my winter trip from Florida the town to Florida the state, I borrowed a car from a local elderly friend. I said, “Go ahead, search the car, but please be gentle. It’s not mine.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” After I opened the door, he poked his head in, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a baggie filled with white powder. Again glaring at me, he said, “Mr. Sturr, would you care to explain this?”

  My chin practically hit the concrete. I became dizzy and could feel the flop sweat dotting my forehead. I knew the bag and its mysterious contents didn’t belong to my elderly friend, because, well, he was elderly. I doubted that he was into cocaine, or heroin, or whatever the hell it was. “Officer, that’s not mine. Somebody had to have put it there. You have to believe me.” I babbled on in that vein for a minute or two, before gathering my wits and saying, “Listen, if you have to book me, please make sure you write on the paperwork that I’m Jim Sturr Jr.” My father, of course, was Jim Sturr Sr., and if his name was associated with something like this, he’d kick my ass into tomorrow.

  Ignoring me, he said, “Mr. Sturr, you’re gonna have to come with me.”

  The officer took me by the elbow and led me to his police cruiser. At that moment, I noticed the Niekros, Righetti, Hassey, and Fischlin had joined us in front of the club. “Jim,” Phil said, “what’s going on?”

  Putting on a brave face, I said, “There’s been some kind of mix-up. This officer here found something in my car that wasn’t mine.”

  Joe asked the cop, “Did you search his car without a warrant? Because if you did, we could have you arrested.”

  I knew they’d all had a couple of drinks, so I said, “Joe, don’t worry about it. This’ll get sorted out.”

  The cop said, “This is none of your business, boys. Just walk away.”


  Hassey said, “[Bleep] you, smokey! Get your [bleeping] hands off our friend!”

  “Ron,” I pleaded, “please stop. This isn’t helping . . .”

  Phil then piped up, “Quit [bleeping] around with our pal, you [bleep]!”

  Fischlin said, “What the [bleep], officer. You can’t [bleeping] treat people that [bleeping] way!”

  As the cop growled at the players, I could see tomorrow’s headline: “YANKEES AND POLKA MUSICIAN ARRESTED AT POLKA PARTY.”

  “Guys, cool it,” I said. “Really, it’ll be okay.” Or so I hoped.

  All five of them ignored me. Instead of cooling it, they heated up and started dropping more F-bombs than I’d ever heard in my life. And then the worst thing that could possibly happen actually happened; Hassey stepped forward and gave the officer a shove.

  I didn’t want the cop to take a swing at Ron, so as a diversionary measure, I said, “Officer, can you tell me who turned me in?”

  He spun on me and said, “No. I’m calling the precinct and letting them know that you and I are on our way into the station.” Then he said to my Yankee friends, “Listen, I want all of you guys to shut up and get back inside. You too, Sturr. I’ll come and get you when it’s time to go. And if you try and pull a runner, you’ll just make it worse on yourself. So get in there and wait for me by the bar.”

  We trudged into the hall, the Yankees continuing the F-bomb barrage the whole way. A minute after we sat down by the bar, the cop burst through the door, got right into my face, and said, “Mr. Sturr, I spoke to my superiors, and you’re under arrest . . . unless you buy me a beer.”

  My Yankee friends then burst out laughing. Turned out that the cop was a huge baseball fan who spent every one of his spare moments watching spring training games and had become friendly with the New York squad. Phil and Joe had planned the whole thing with him days before.