John Kruk returned to Baltimore, where he walked off to retire, alongside his friend and ‘brother,’ Ozzie Guillén

Kruk thought he was done with baseball after his final season with the Phillies in 1994. But Guillen convinced him to spend one more with him, and helped plan a memorable farewell.

Phillies television analyst John Kruk in the broadcast booth at Camden Yards on Saturday.Read moreAlex Coffey/Staff

by Alex Coffey

Published June 16, 2024, 10:00 a.m. ET

BALTIMORE — John Kruk doesn’t come to Camden Yards often. In fact, he said the Phillies’ series against the Orioles this weekend is only the second time he’s been back since July 30, 1995, when he played the last game of his 10-year career.

It’s not a place that holds any sentimentality for him. Kruk didn’t care about where he retired. He was much more focused on whom he spent that final season with, and in the offseason of 1994, the former Phillies first baseman/outfielder decided he wanted to spend it with Ozzie Guillén.

“I started my career with you,” Kruk told him. “Now, I want to finish my career with you.”

They first met in 1982, when they were teammates on the Padres’ single-A affiliate, the Reno Padres. Kruk was a 21-year-old outfielder from Keyser, W. Va. Guillén was an 18-year-old shortstop from Ocumare del Tuy, Venezuela.

On paper, they did not have much in common. Guillén didn’t speak English. Kruk didn’t speak Spanish.

But that didn’t mean they couldn’t communicate.

“We spoke the baseball language,” Kruk said.

The Phillies broadcaster quickly developed an admiration for the way Guillén played. One day, when Kruk was in left field, he noticed Guillén moving around at shortstop. He asked him why. Guillén told him he was watching the signs the catcher was putting down, and shifting accordingly, depending on who the hitter was.

“I had never thought of that before,” Kruk said. “So, I would move the way he would move. If Ozzie would move toward third, I would move toward third. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he was right.

“He might have been the smartest player I’ve ever played with, as far as knowing the game of baseball.”

They became friends. In Guillén, Kruk saw not only a talented player, but one who needed support. Latino athletes were not afforded the same resources that they are today, and Guillén was about 4,000 miles away from home.

So, Kruk decided to help. He began to teach Guillén English in the dugout between innings. They covered everything from different types of food to how to congratulate a teammate after hitting a home run, with a special emphasis on expletives.

“The first word I taught him started with an F,” Kruk said. “And I told him, ‘There’s all kinds of ways to say it. You can add an “-ing.” An “-ed.”' And he was like, ‘Oh, that’s good, that’s good!’ and I was like, ‘Yeah, it is good.’”

Added Guillén: “I learned how to curse before I learned how to say ‘Hello,’ and ‘What’s your name?’ ”

Kruk helped Guillén and his wife, Ibis, find apartments. He introduced Guillén, whose diet was comprised of hot dogs and only hot dogs, to new types of cuisine. When Guillén was on the road, Kruk would lend Ibis a TV, so she had some entertainment to keep her company while her husband was gone.

It was all about making sure they felt settled.

“I felt bad for a lot of the Latin-born players,” Kruk said. “It’s not like it is now. They have translators for them now, and they have people helping them find places to live. Back in the early ‘80s, that never happened.

“A lot of those guys, they didn’t know how to get an apartment. They didn’t know how to get their electric hooked up, or their cable TV hooked up. It’s cutthroat in the minor leagues. But I was like, ‘How are they going to function if they don’t know where to live? Or what to eat? If they don’t know how to get an apartment?’ They didn’t know anything.”

Guillén never forgot it. When Kruk was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1994, Guillén called him every other day. And when Kruk contemplated retirement at end of that year, it was Guillén who convinced him to give it one more go.

“In April of 1994, I’d get radiation treatments in the morning, and play in the afternoon,” Kruk said. “It took the will out of wanting to compete, because I was just so tired all the time. After 1994, I just didn’t want to play anymore. And damned if that little [expletive] didn’t call me. ‘Come play! Come play with the White Sox!’

“I had calls from the Twins, and the Giants, and I told them all, ‘No, I’m done. I’m done.’ But then freaking Ozzie called. ‘Come play, come play! One last year.’ And I was like, ‘No, man, I can’t.’ And he kept calling and he kept calling. And then I think he had [teammate] Robin Ventura call. And I was like, I guess I’ve got to go play now.”

It was not an easy season for Kruk. At 34, he was still relatively young, but because of the chemo he’d undergone the year before, he often felt fatigued. He’d get on base and hope that his teammates didn’t hit a ball in the gap. Things that were once easy for him — like running from first to third — were now difficult.

Above all, Kruk didn’t have the competitive drive that he once did. That, coupled with the physical toll that cancer had taken on him, made retirement an easy decision. Kruk had always told his teammate, pitcher Jim Abbott, that if Abbott was traded, he would retire.

When Abbott was sent to the Angels in July 1995, the pitcher followed up with Kruk. They were in Boston, in Abbott’s hotel room. A few other White Sox players — Guillén, Ventura, Kruk, Kirk McCaskill, Scott Radinsky, and Alex Fernandez — were there, too.

“That’s when those geniuses all got together and came up with this great plan,” Kruk said. “They told me, ‘Oh, man, we’ve got to think of some great way for you to retire.’ And I’m like, ‘Yeah. How about if I just say I’m retiring and go the hell home, like everybody else does.’

“And they’re like, ‘No, you can’t do that, you’ve got to come up with something different.’ And I said ‘I’ll tell you what, if you come up with something different, I’ll go along with it.’”

To Kruk’s chagrin, they came up with something different. His teammates wanted him to record one more hit, call time out, and run off the field and go home. Unfortunately for Kruk, getting a hit was proving to be difficult at that time.

He went 0-for-8 in Boston. He pinch hit in the top of the ninth on July 28 in Baltimore, but struck out. He sat the next day. White Sox manager Terry Bevington was not in on the plan. The only ones who knew were the players who’d hatched it and general manager Ron Schueler, who had to call a player up from the minor leagues to be Kruk’s impending replacement.

On Sunday, July 30, Kruk finally got the hit he’d been looking for. Orioles pitcher Scott Erickson generously threw Kruk a “cookie” in the first inning and Kruk drove it to left field. When he reached first base, he began to talk to Rafael Palmeiro, and forgot to call time out.

Ventura hit a single to left, and Kruk reluctantly ran to second base. A groundout and a strikeout ended the inning. Kruk jogged to the dugout without saying a word. Guillén followed him into the visitors’ clubhouse with a bottle of champagne.

While Kruk’s day was over, Guillén’s was not.

“We started drinking champagne during the game,” Guillén said. “In between innings, in between at-bats, I’d go there, sit with him, talk, drink champagne, and then go play shortstop. Come back and drink champagne. Go back, play shortstop.”

“He might’ve been getting buzzed,” Kruk said. “Hell, knowing him, he could have been already been buzzed. I don’t know.”

The two friends sat in the clubhouse and reminisced about the last 13 years, and what Kruk would do next. A few innings later, they hugged, and Kruk walked to the players’ parking lot, where his childhood friend, Steve Taylor, picked him up.

They drove to his home in West Virginia, and he watched the rest of the game from his couch. After the game, Guillén read a statement to reporters on behalf of Kruk, but took some creative liberties with it.

“I told the media — in a funny way — our manager made John Kruk retire,” Guillén said.

“He told me, ‘I threw it in there for you,’” Kruk said. “I said, ‘Threw in what?’ He said, ‘That you didn’t like the manager and that’s why you were quitting.’ And I was like, ‘Why would you do that?’ And he was like, ‘Why not?’

“I tell you what, for someone who had me teach him English, he was pretty sharp.”

It’s been 29 years since that day, and Kruk, 63, and Guillén, 60, are still as close as ever. They call each other regularly. Guillén has a grandson, also named Ozzie, whom he jokingly calls “Little Kruk,” because he has the same build as the Phillies broadcaster.

They usually talk on Father’s Day and Christmas. Sometimes the topic is baseball and sometimes it’s not. Guillén, who works as a White Sox analyst for NBC Sports Chicago, doesn’t get to see his friend too often, but that hasn’t stopped them from staying in touch.

“When you have a real friend, you don’t need to see them every day,” Guillén said. “I made a lot of friends here, but John Kruk was the one who really took me under his wing. Anything I needed, he was always there for me. Looking for apartments, I need a car, every little thing.

“There weren’t many Latino players back then. Not many Latino coaches. I think that’s why I appreciate it so much. A bunch of guys, when they come to the United States back then, they assumed that people didn’t like them. When people were talking English around you, you’d think they were talking about you. All of those things go through your mind.

“But Kruk was such a great friend. He made it very comfortable for me. I always say I have an American brother.”