by Mark Frost
And that, for those interested in the ways of the world, is how the game was, still is, and has forever been played at the grown-ups’ table.
THE BOSTON CROWD remained tense and subdued as Luis Tiant trudged out to the mound to begin the seventh inning, and Reds right fielder Ken Griffey dug in to face him. Doubts about whether Darrell Johnson had left his star in too long were raised anew on Tiant’s first pitch, another fastball on the outside corner, that Griffey turned on and whacked past the outstretched glove of Cecil Cooper into right field. Sparky’s decision to move Griffey back up in his lineup had paid dividends all night, as he reached base for the third time in four at bats.
As Joe Morgan stepped to the plate, a quick pickoff move from Tiant nearly caught Griffey leaning toward second, but he slid back in safely just ahead of Cooper’s tag. Turning his back completely to home on the windup, Tiant fell off to the right side of the mound again with his follow-through, and his first-pitch fastball to Morgan sailed high and away for ball one; his velocity had visibly diminished now as well.
Morgan looked sharp and hypervigilant as he read the signs from third base coach Alex Grammas; in a key at bat in the game, he lived for moments like this. Griffey would not be running now, nor would any other play be put on; Sparky’s supreme confidence in Morgan’s talent and judgment canceled all other strategies. Since arriving in Cincinnati, Morgan had been given an unprecedented degree of freedom by his skipper, and each year he’d rewarded Sparky’s faith with improvement in every facet of his game. Morgan usually called his own plays at the plate, and whenever he was on base he had the green light from Sparky to run at his discretion. In Sparky’s mind he’d earned that right.
Tiant threw another fastball, low and over the plate, challenging Morgan. He fouled it back for a strike. The Red Sox closer Dick Drago began to loosen up in the Boston bullpen.
During his career in Houston Morgan had been called selfish, cocky, and a lot worse, but under Sparky Anderson on the Reds he had turned into the most complete second baseman not just of his era but in the history of American baseball. He had just concluded what was arguably the most complete individual season ever by a man at his position—Rogers Hornsby in 1922 provided the only compelling competition—and he was about to be rewarded with his first Most Valuable Player award. Since baseball writers began handing out MVPs in 1931, only five had ever been won by a second baseman, the fewest by any position, and the proud Morgan didn’t need to be told that no man in the National League had done it since Jackie Robinson in 1949.
Working more deliberately than he had all game, Tiant came at Morgan again with a fastball, one that just missed high for ball two, 2–1.
Anxiety permeated the air in Fenway, eerily silent; over the decades since Tom Yawkey had owned the team, disappointment had become such a central part of rooting for the Red Sox that after the Reds had fought their way back into the game, you could feel the crowd expecting a crushing blow to land.
Tiant took his time again, chasing Griffey back to first with a throw before coming back to the plate—fastball again, all he’d shown Morgan in this at bat—for a called strike on the low outside corner, 2–2.
Now Morgan backed away from the box, agitated—disappointed either with himself for letting that hittable pitch go by or with Davidson’s call—glancing down at Alex Grammas for the sign. Morgan missed it the first time, then gestured with irritation at Grammas: Run through them again. Morgan read them this time, then stepped back in: With two strikes, would Griffey be going with the pitch?
For Morgan the question was: Would Tiant come back with a fastball again? Morgan seemed to think so. Fisk set up low and outside, and when Tiant’s fifth straight fastball came at him, cutting away to the right, Morgan went with the pitch and lined it hard into left field. Yastrzemski made a long run to cut the ball off, but with nobody out, Griffey, who had not been running with the pitch, made no move toward third as he rounded second base. Yaz made a hustling play to field the ball quickly and throw it back in to Petrocelli. The Reds had runners at first and second with nobody out.
And Johnny Bench coming to the plate. Ask yourself, how often in the heat of a pivotal World Series game had a pitcher ever had to confront this dilemma? After failing to retire the best second baseman in baseball history, Tiant now had to face the greatest catcher who’d ever played the game.
Darrell Johnson headed out of the Red Sox dugout toward the mound, and Fisk moved out to join him. The silence grew more pronounced as the crowd waited to see if Johnson was finally coming with the hook, but it was almost immediately clear that no, Johnson was just out there to talk—review the situation, remind Tiant how to pitch to Bench, maybe buy more time for Drago to get loose. Tiant didn’t say a word, just nodded repeatedly, then Johnson patted Luis on the butt and headed back to the dugout. The crowd responded with a smattering of applause that indicated little conviction; they wanted to believe leaving Tiant in was the right move but seemed to have a hard time persuading themselves.
What the hell is he thinking? Sparky said to himself, professionally irritated at Johnson’s disregard for the obvious move. The man’s done, get him out of there.
Tiant went into his windup and threw his first off-speed pitch of the inning, the same sidearm curve he’d used to strike Bench out in the fourth. Bench offered at it then pulled back, just breaking his wrists for a called first strike. Bench immediately turned to ask Satch Davidson if the pitch had actually been in the zone: Yes, said Davidson.
That had been Darrell Johnson’s message to his pitcher: No fastballs for Mr. Bench. Tiant threw another slow curve, overhand this time, breaking down and away. Bench reached out for it, just as he had in the fifth when he slammed Tiant’s first pitch off the Monster, but his right hand came off the bat and he caught a smaller piece of it this time, and the ball floated lazily out toward left, where Yastrzemski backed up and gathered it in on the edge of the warning track for the inning’s first out. Griffey, halfway to third, hustled back to second, just ahead of Yaz’s quick throw to Burleson covering the bag.
Relief flowed through the crowd; one out now, with the possibility of the inning-saving double play on any ground ball, as Tony Perez came to the plate.
Perez looked to Grammas for the sign, but he and everyone else in the park knew that with the Reds’ two fastest men on base, he was there for one purpose: Drive Griffey and Morgan home with power. The Big Dog could put Red Sox fans out of their lingering misery with one swing.
So Perez looked for that first-pitch fastball from Tiant and got one, out over the plate, but he missed the center of the barrel by a fraction of an inch, slicing a catchable ball toward right field. Griffey retreated to second, preparing to tag up as Dwight Evans positioned himself under the dying fly ball, setting up for a throw to third. Once he had it in his glove, the man with the most powerful arm in the business reached back and uncoiled a rifle shot on the fly to the left side of the infield, where Burleson cut it off; Griffey reached third standing up, but Morgan remained at first.
First and third, two outs, still threatening, but Tiant had defused the imminent danger of Bench and Perez with only three pitches. The Fenway crowd stirred back to life; maybe Darrell Johnson’s faith in him was justified and Luis’s magic could deliver one more out.
George Foster came to the plate, the last of the Reds’ big guns. Burleson walked in to consult with Tiant about how to play him, then Fisk trotted out to join them: Morgan was an obvious threat to run at first in this situation, and if he took off for second and Fisk tried to nail him Griffey might break for home on a double steal. Burleson’s positioning depended on how they pitched Foster; if he played Foster to pull as they normally did, Burleson couldn’t cover second on a throw from Fisk if Morgan made a move. That meant the weaker-armed Denny Doyle would have to cover second and then try to throw home if Griffey ran as well. Their other option was to give Morgan second unopposed and take their chances with Foster and two men in scoring position. In the me
antime, Alex Grammas trotted to the dugout to counsel with Sparky: Sparky gave Grammas his orders, and he came back out to whisper them to Griffey and then flash the sign to Morgan.
The Red Sox set up in their normal defensive shift for Foster, shaded to pull. Tiant came in with a fastball in the zone, believing Foster probably had the take sign to facilitate the steal and he could sneak in a strike, and Morgan broke for second with the pitch. The Red Sox made no move to stop him, but Foster had the green light, swung hard at a hittable pitch, and fouled it straight back to the screen for strike one.
Morgan retreated to first, clear now that the Red Sox would concede second, and as Tiant straddled the rubber, he took an ever bigger lead. Taut with tension, Foster stepped out again, prolonging the moment. When he resumed his stance, Tiant came back with a slow overhand curve that dropped toward the outside corner; but not far enough, maybe his worst pitch of the night. Foster appeared to be ready for something off-speed, because without having to adjust, he reached out and clobbered the ball, a high, towering shot toward deep straightaway center field. Fred Lynn turned and ran, immediately realized it was over his head, then pulled up short and watched it glance high off the center field wall, just below NBC’s camera position, about ten feet short of a home run. Lynn fielded the ball cleanly on the first hop off the wall, turned, and fired back to Rick Burleson on the edge of the outfield just as Foster pulled into second base with a stand-up double. Ken Griffey, stationed behind home after he’d scored from third with the Reds’ go-ahead run, signaled Joe Morgan to stay on his feet, and the speeding Morgan, who had broken for second again with the pitch, scored easily all the way from first before Burleson had the ball in his glove. Morgan ran right through home plate, didn’t slow or turn until he’d reached the foul area behind home, and, pumping his right fist repeatedly, took a little victory lap back to the Cincinnati dugout, where his teammates swarmed around him.
Reds 5, Red Sox 3. George Foster, the only man on Cincinnati’s roster who had figured out Luis Tiant in each of his previous starts, had delivered again with the Reds’ biggest hit of the game.
The life sluiced out of the crowd in Fenway; that old familiar feeling of delayed but inevitable doom that had first appeared when Fred Lynn crashed into the wall in the fifth inning crept further into their collective spirit. Luis Tiant had given up ten hits and five earned runs now. Watching stone-faced from the silent Red Sox dugout, Darrell Johnson made no move; a second trip out to the mound would make Tiant’s removal mandatory under the rules. Dick Drago was more than ready, but Johnson didn’t want to bring his closer in now with his team behind. He told Don Bryant to call the bullpen and get left-hander Roger Moret up and throwing.
Davey Concepcion came to the plate with Foster standing on second. The Red Sox on the field appeared almost as stunned as the crowd. Foster took a huge lead off second with no one covering the bag, and when Tiant threw a sidearm fastball outside for ball one, Foster nearly broke for third, more than halfway down the line. Fisk held on to the ball and looked him back to second.
Tiant came back with a slow sidearm curve to Concepcion that missed high for ball two, ahead in the count. Dead silence in the park continued. Concepcion fouled Tiant’s next pitch, an outside fastball, straight back for a strike, 2–1.
The only sounds issuing from the fans now were the lonely cries of Fenway’s vendors, hawking their wares to a frozen congregation. One of Sparky’s early prime objectives had at last been achieved: The Reds had taken Boston’s boisterous home crowd completely out of the game.
Tiant came inside with a slider to Concepcion, and he pulled it hard, deep into the hole at short. Rick Burleson, playing Concepcion that way, fielded the ball cleanly, wound up with two short skipping steps, and threw it as hard as he could on a line to Cecil Cooper, beating Concepcion to the bag by less than half a step.
The inning ended, but the damage was done. At the seventh-inning stretch the home team was two runs down and the Cincinnati Reds were nine outs away from winning the World Series.
How would the Red Sox respond?
FIFTEEN
In the seventh inning, fans get up and sing
“Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Most of them don’t seem to realize they’re already there.
RED SOX PITCHER BILL LEE
HALFWAY THROUGH THE SEVENTH INNING OF GAME SIX, the contrasting cultures of the two teams in the 1975 World Series, rooted in their histories, had begun to reveal their deepest natures. After the disastrous tenure of owner John Taylor had resulted in a new uniform and nickname and the construction of Fenway Park, in 1912 the Boston Red Sox embarked on the most glorious era in their history, winning four World Series in the next seven years, all in dominating fashion. They did it on the strength of their stalwart Hooper-Lewis-Speaker outfield and the singular presence of a young star pitcher who was about to dominate American sports with a personality as outsized and childlike as a folk hero: George Herman “Babe” Ruth. When recruiting for World War I thinned the ranks of their better hitters, the Red Sox experimentally stuck Ruth in the outfield as an everyday player. Ruth was and always would be a mess off the field, a big, sloppy maladjusted kid with unquenchable appetites, but with a bat in his hand on a regular basis he revolutionized baseball as the game’s first home run hitting machine; he whacked twenty-nine of them in his first full season as an outfielder in 1919, an unheard-of total during the dead ball era, when single digits usually led both leagues. At the age of nineteen, fresh out of a Catholic reform school, Ruth had been signed as a pitcher by a middle-aged minor-league owner named Jack Dunn. Because he signed his prospects so young, seasoned baseball men used to call them “Dunn’s babes.” Like most southpaw pitchers, Ruth arrived as “Lefty,” but during his first training camp the “Babe” nickname stuck as a better fit; in time the Italian immigrants from Boston’s North Side who grew to worship him would translate that into Bambino. In mid-season of 1914 Jack Dunn’s team—the Baltimore Orioles of the International League—nearly went bankrupt, and he was forced to sell off his best players to stay afloat; Ruth and two others went to the Red Sox for $25,000 and a legend was soon born in Boston. With Ruth going 18–8—and hitting four titanic home runs; the league’s leader, an everyday player, hit only seven—the Red Sox won the pennant and the 1915 World Series. Four years later, just as the “Babe” had joined the outfield and established himself as the coming wonder of the age, he was packaged and sold again, when his immense, emerging talent was matched by the biggest blunder in baseball executive history.
The Red Sox’s latest owner, New York theatrical producer Harry Frazee—a name that still lives in New England infamy—found himself strapped for cash after a series of flops and sold Babe Ruth in 1919, after the last of Boston’s five World Series wins, to the—until this fateful moment—hapless New York Yankees. At which point the two teams’ fortunes reversed directions and never took a backward glance: The Yankees went on to win twenty of the next fifty-six World Series played. In 1975, appearing in just their third World Series since losing Ruth, Boston was still looking for their sixth World Championship. Red Sox fans, once the proudest in early baseball history, by this time suffered from a collective form of posttraumatic stress disorder. Psychologists are just now beginning to study and understand the long-term hazards of emotional involvement with woeful sports franchises and the real deleterious effects that such perceived “social defeat” can have on a community’s emotional equilibrium and self-image. By 1975, Boston, it’s fair to say, was the first American city to have its case history so thoroughly identified and diagnosed; the city’s discerning, intelligent fans had already suffered and exhibited the symptoms for three generations. As the Reds roared back to take the lead in Game Six, and now threatened to abruptly end the 1975 World Series with one of their patented late charges, the fatalistic, internal bargaining that was such an established part of rooting for the Red Sox had already begun throughout Fenway Park.
Fenway’s organist John Kiley,
who had begun his career accompanying silent pictures in the ornate movie palaces of the 1920s and knew a little bit about how to establish or change a mood, tried to bolster their spirits with his seventh-inning-stretch rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” The “stretch”—one of baseball’s oldest traditions, dating back at least a hundred years—probably began in Cincinnati as a spontaneous gesture inspired by nothing more complex than the physiological necessity to move after two hours of sitting. The song came out of vaudeville in the early 1900s, written by lyricist Jack Norworth and composer Albert Von Tilzer—neither of whom at that point in their lives had actually seen a ball game—but was not wedded to the “stretch” until the 1940s, and wouldn’t become an annoying, compulsory sing-along until the Chicago White Sox’s announcer Harry Caray (by this point in the game often pixilated) began leading fans at Comiskey Park in 1976—a routine quickly standardized at the insistence of the Sox’s maverick owner Bill Veeck that then spread throughout baseball. Not many New Englanders in Fenway felt like singing at this point of the night; emotionally leveled, their minds began drifting to the mundane realities of how to beat traffic home at the end of another crushing season-ending defeat. They could walk away from this latest disappointment carrying at least some residue of hope for the team’s future, with all those rising young stars on their roster, and once Jim Rice was healthy—well, if only he had been healthy, why, we could’ve beaten these guys for sure—and so on, and so on; the tragic inner life of a Red Sox Fan.
