Gorman Thomas and Pete Vuckovich “Stormin’ & Vuke’s”
Following a string of breakout performances as “great men” who were maybe not so great — a traumatized GI, a volatile factory parts salesman, a Mexican revolutionary and a Roman general — Brando broke new ground with “The Wild One.” His portrayal of Johnny Stabler, leader of The Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, was a new breed of anti-hero. Carnal — maybe even feral — but still deeply interior, Johnny was not a complete about face. But, in contrast to those previous roles, Johnny oozed style. Iconic, generation-defining style. Long sideburns. Tilted cap. Black leather jacket. And that Triumph Thunderbird 6T. To this day, our rebel biker tropes begin with “The Wild One,” a film which was banned by the British Board of Film Censors for “hooliganism.”
Without Johnny Stabler, there’s no “Rebel Without a Cause,” “West Side Story,” or “Easy Rider.” But, also, there’s no “Mad Max.” There’s no “Gimme Shelter.” Pee Wee Herman never dances his way out of trouble and into the hearts of Satan’s Helpers. “Sons of Anarchy” does not exist. Neither do biker gang fight scenes — the broken glass, the flipped tables and the heads smashed onto bar counters. After Brando, our rebel bikers grew their hair out, quit shaving, and tilted from rebellious to violent. There were many permutations of the form, ranging from benevolent (Sam Elliott in “Mask”) to anarchic (Vernon Wells in “Weird Science”). But the center of the genome is still Brando’s Johnny Stabler.
Thirty years after he first appeared on screen, we thought we’d seen every version of the rebel biker. But then producer Joel Silver and director Rowdy Herrington dared to ask: “What if we took Johnny Stabler, turned him upside down, dropped him in the deep south, did questionable things to his hair and gave everyone on the crew mountains of cocaine?” The answer to that question was James Dalton, Patrick Swayze’s Buddhist bouncer hero from “Road House.” “Road House” bears all the markings of a rebel biker gang flick, just without the gangs. But all the other signifiers survive. Leather jackets. Motorcycles. Bandanas. Long hair. Knife fights. Flying beer bottles. And, most importantly, the brooding outsider. No — Swayze’s Dalton does not belong to any organization. Yes — he does have a bachelors degree in Philosophy from NYU. And, yes — his pompadour is also a (gorgeous) mullet. But rest assured, James Dalton does not exist without “The Wild One.” “Road House” is two hours of biker bar fights at the “Double Deuce” blended with zen-like musings and balletic karate.
The climactic scene in “Road House” — a film full of climaxes — features Dalton battling the murderous Jimmy Reno in a martial arts death match. Spinning roundhouse kicks are followed by chops, lithe twists, theatrical evasions and more roundhouse kicks. Our hero, while valiant and righteous, appears outmanned. But then, in a stunning turn, Dalton gains leverage, reaches into Reno’s neck with his bare hand and removes his opponent’s trachea. Exhausted and horrified, the mulletted “cooler” then gently disposes of Reno’s limp body in a watery grave. It’s brutal — ghastly — far beyond cartoonish but also not not realistic. It’s Johnny Stabler, in another time and place — the principled rebel in a world gone terribly, horribly wrong.
And yet, “Road House” was not The Eighties’ most gruesome addition to rebel biker canon. That distinction belongs to an event which occurred several years earlier, far from any director or any camera for that matter. It happened sometime in either 1981 or 1982 (details are hazy), somewhere in The Flats neighborhood in Cleveland. It starred men with sideburns and Fu Manchu mustaches. Beer bottles were hurled. Heads were held and locked. Punches were thrown. At one point, a particularly rowdy biker bit into the neck of a six foot four, two hundred and thirty pound out of towner, drawing a little blood and a lot of ire. Said neck-chomped patron then proceeded to grab his assailant, flip him onto the bar, and return the favor — and then some. Teeth marks still very fresh in his skin, the hirsute interloper orally scalped the biker biter, removing a hunk of forehead and hair with his incisors, spaying blood on the surrounding gang, who quickly conceded defeat.
As to whether this story is true, I obviously have no idea. Or at least, no real proof. It seems plausible. The Flats was a beleaguered, pre-gentrified warehouse district back then — the kind of place you went to find trouble. Additionally, I think it’s fair to say that some percentage of bar brawls do, in fact, involve biting. And I’d bet that percentage is higher when bikers are involved. And higher still when cocaine is involved. But the details that most convince me are the ones that make the story most unbelievable: That the alleged neck bite victim turned scalper was Milwaukee Brewers’ ace and 1982 Cy Young Award winner, Pete Vuckovich. And that his wingman, who witnessed the event but who drew no blood and had no blood drawn, but who recounted the story for an iPhone wielding fan decades later, was Vuke’s teammate — Brewers’ legend and two time home run champ, Gorman Thomas.
The story has more than a whiff of the apocryphal. It could just be a wildly entertaining tall tale, invented to thrill aging Brewers’ fans. On the surface, it seems highly unlikely that two major league baseball players — two All Stars who were not from Cleveland — would be involved in an oral scalping at a biker bar. On the other hand, if there were any two players in the history of baseball who might have been involved in such a gory fracas, it would have undoubtedly been Pete Vuckovich and Gorman Thomas.
The former was a towering right hander who looked more like an Albanian henchman than a professional ballplayer. For the record, I’ve never seen an Albanian henchman and I have nothing against Albania. But, also, I trust my instincts on this one. Vuckovich sported a daunting mustache, bad skin, oily, curly hair and eyes that looked both dead and deadly. He did not throw particularly hard. He walked almost as many batters as he struck out. But he won ballgames on the basis of intimidation. Pete Vuckovich was like Bob Gibson disguised as Ogre Palowaski, and without the fastball, curveball or slider.
Vuke’s partner in crime was slugger Gorman Thomas, who also wore a Fu Manchu, and who offset his height disadvantage (Thomas was only six foot two) with two massive forearms — one named Schlitz and the other Pabst. From the beginning of 1979 through the end of the 1982 season, nobody in the American League hit more home runs than “Stormin’” Gorman Thomas — the apparent lovechild of Paul Bunyan and The Marlboro Man after a decade long bender.
By the time Vuke arrived to Milwaukee in 1981, Stormin’ Gorman was already a folk hero. Thomas was a natural athlete, fast enough to run down fly balls anywhere in the outfield and sharp enough to turn on the fastest of fastballs. But Thomas’ motor had only one gear. An average day at the office for Thomas included three strikeouts, a long home run, and maybe a walk, followed by a couple dozen beers in the parking lot. After games, he’d routinely tailgate with fans, endearing himself to Milwaukeeans, expanding his midsection and betraying his physical talent.
The Brewers ascent in the AL East was gradual and hard earned. They were bottom dwellers when Thomas first arrived. By 1979, though, they were competing for division titles. And in 1981, having assembled a ferocious lineup, they found themselves one starting pitcher away from greatness. Their ace arrived in the massive form of Pete Vuckovich, who played John C. Reilly to Thomas’ Will Ferrell. And for two glorious seasons, the stepbrothers — flanked by two Hall of Fame infielders (Yount and Molitor), one Hall of Fame closer (Fingers) and guys with names like Cecil and Moose — made a run at the World Series.
In 1981, Vuke led the AL in wins and finished fourth in the Cy Young ballot. The next season, he won the award despite finishing (very) far outside the top ten in pitching W.A.R. (Wins Above Replacement). Today, Vuke would have gotten zero Cy Young Award votes. But, in ‘82 he took home the brass on the basis of his winning percentage (.750) and his intimidation percentage (1.000). Meanwhile, Thomas, who finished second in the league in homers in ‘81, led the league (for his second time in four seasons) the following year. The Brewers won their division both seasons, led by Robin Yount, Paul Molitor, Cecil Cooper and Rollie Fingers more than by Thomas and Vuckovich. But the team’s identity was forged by their hard living, hard partying, extremely talented, but more so flawed, center fielder and starting pitcher.
Before “Harvey’s Wallbangers” (nicknamed for manager, Harvey Kuenn) got a chance to hop on their Harleys and parade The Commisioner’s Trophy around Milwaukee, though, reality interfered. The 1981 season was strike shortened. And in ‘82, the year that they finally won the pennant, The Brewers were out-pitched and out-run by the Whitey Herzog’s Cardinals. Whereas their rise was slow and hard won, their fall was swift. And in the same way that Tony had to die in “West Side Story” and Pony Boy could not survive “The Outsiders,” Gorman Thomas’ fate appeared certain. The drinking got worse. The injuries mounted. The slumps deepened. He started out the ‘83 season hitting .183 and slugging .323. and by summertime, he was traded to the Indians. That same spring, Vuke tore his rotator cuff and was never the same pitcher again. Both men gutted out a few more injury plagued campaigns before retiring after the 1986 season.
Unbeknownst to Thomas, however, Vuke had a backup plan. In ‘86, he asked his slugger buddy if he could borrow a thousand bucks. Thomas agreed, no questions asked. Soon after, he asked Thomas for two thousand. Gorman agreed but this time he demanded an explanation. Vuke obliged, sharing the good news: He’d bought an old bar in Milwaukee on the corner of South 25th and West Becher Street — less than four miles from County Stadium. Actually, they had bought the bar. Those three thousand bucks plus whatever Pete Vuckovich had put in were enough to land them the future site of “Stormin’ & Vuke’s.”
Despite its lack of natural light and its hard to enunciate name — two apostrophes, one for possessive and one for abbreviation — Stormin’ & Vuke’s was an immediate success. It was located close enough to the stadium for fans to stop by, but also within a neighborhood that provided loyal, local regulars. It had neon signs, including an iconic “Less Filling, Tastes Great” fixture hanging from a front window. It boasted a selection of the Midwest’s finesse t beers — Bud, Miller, Pabst, Schlitz and, of course, Old Milwaukee. But, most of all, it had “Stormin’” Gorman Thomas and Pete “Vuke” Vuckovich, who both tended bar, greeted patrons, signed autographs, sponsored little league teams, kept the “good” riff raff inside and the troublesome riff raff away.
Stormin’ & Vukes had an auspicious launch and a gregarious, if short-lived, run. It was open from 1987 until 1993, but its heyday was barely a year, which is startling when you consider the tremendous good will afforded to its owners and the very basic, very friendly economics of bar sales. Imagine if Frank Sinatra and Joe DiMaggio had opened up a nightclub in Times Square in 1946 — just imagine how huge it would have been. How too big to fail it would have been. Stormin’ & Vuke’s was Milwaukee’s version of that. Except it did fail. Miserably. And rather quickly.
While a cooling economy, lackluster Brewers’ teams and over-investments in youth sports uniforms could have been factors, the bar’s demise is likely much easier to explain. Bars need tending — to the patrons, but more so to the product and the till. And, when it mattered most, the owners of Stormin’ & Duke’s were elsewhere. 1987 was a terrible year for Gorman Thomas. In addition to a messy and public divorce, he was twice arrested for D.U.I. But rather than stand trial, Thomas left Milwaukee for his hometown of Charleston, South Carolina, where he eventually opened “Stormin’ Gorman’s” bar. Around the same time, Pete Vuckovich took time away from the bar for a new, more lucrative gig — calling Brewers’ games on local television. In 1989, he made his star turn as Clu Haywood in “Major League” and, a few years later, he moved to Pittsburgh to coach The Pirates’ pitching staff.
Without its legendary owners around, Stormin’ & Vuke’s had no chance. By 1994, the year Thomas finally returned to Wisconsin to serve a little time and reclaim some of his former, local glory, the bar was gone. In retirement, Thomas kept up his golf game and carved wooden duck decoys. Vuke bounced around the game, serving as coach, advisor and scout for several organizations. As the years passed, Stormin’ held onto his salt and pepper Fu Manchu (Stormin’) while Vuke wore a more respectable white goatee. And in spite of their geographic distance, the former teammates and business partners remained close friends — their bond as immutable as their facial hair.
Gorman Thomas was born to destroy baseballs every fifteen at bats, to strike out every third time up and to celebrate in the parking lot regardless of outcomes. Pete Vuckovich, meanwhile, was put on this Earth to stare down hitters and throw eight innings of elite junk before icing his arm in a bucket that also contained the “Champagne of Beers.” Together, these two men were wired to rebel, and to fight and to drink and to possibly scalp a belligerent biker in Cleveland. But, most of all, they were destined to open a bar in Milwaukee called “Stormin’ & Vuke’s,” and for it to be totally awesome and for them to fuck it all up together.