by Roger Angell
Three nights later, again encamped at the tube, I watched the Yankees lose to the Brewers, 3–2, in Milwaukee, thus delivering the divisional pennant to the Orioles. It was terrifically cold in Milwaukee, and the stands were almost deserted. In the bottom of the eighth, a long drive to right field was misplayed by Maddox and Piniella, and the Brewers tied the game at 2–2. The ball could have been caught by Bobby Murcer, the regular right fielder, but he was absent because of the injury he had suffered in that senseless hotel-lobby scuffle. None of the Yankee telecasters explained this; baseball announcers work for the club and are not encouraged to give out bad news. On this evening, however, their obligatory ebullience faded to whispers in the tenth inning, when the Brewers put the game and the Yankees away at last.
The playoffs were swift, tasty, light—a confection of baseball pleasures. I went first to Pittsburgh, and repeated a favorite autumn stroll of mine—over the Fort Duquesne Bridge to Three Rivers Stadium, with the water taxis churning up the sparkling Allegheny below, the sound of a band playing somewhere, the eager early arrivals filing along quietly together, and our expectation almost visible in the soft sunshine. Most of all, I looked forward to watching the Dodgers, a young and wonderfully talented club that had led its division all year and had fought off a scary challenge by the Cincinnati Reds that was a good deal too reminiscent of the late charge to which Los Angeles succumbed the summer before. This year, the Reds had closed to within a game and a half of the Dodgers on September 15, but a grand-slam homer by Dodger outfielder Jimmy Wynn beat them that day and, it turned out, broke them for the year. The Dodgers had pitching and speed and power—they led their league in homers and collective earned-run average—and absolute self-confidence. The Pirates’ record, by contrast, was built on plain hitting—by warm young bats like Richie Zisk and Al Oliver, and heavy boppers like Willie Stargell and Richie Hebner. Their pitching, never much to admire, had been weakened by the loss of Dock Ellis. The Dodgers, however, had not won a game in Pittsburgh all year.
All such speculation dwindled away and became perfectly useless in the course of the next couple of hours, as the Dodgers’ starter, Don Sutton, shut out the Pirates, 3–0, with four bare singles. It was a sight to remember—a fine pitcher working nine innings at a pinnacle of knowledge, strength, delicacy, and control, and so dominating the event that everything else that happened on the field became nearly superfluous. The Dodgers, for the record, scored once in the second, on a pair of singles and a pair of walks off Pirate starter Jerry Reuss, and twice in the ninth, on three hits and a stolen base. Sutton, a right-hander, was not overpowering; he gave up one walk and struck out six. Above all, perhaps, he was intelligent, adjusting every pitch to the precise situation and batter at hand, controlling the corners, throwing patterns—up and in, out and away, curve and fastball and slider—and reaffirming the enormous imbalance between hurler and hitter that makes baseball look so difficult when pitching is at its prime. Afterward, Sutton admitted that no more than four of his deliveries had disappointed him. “I’d like to write this game down in a textbook and use it for the rest of my career,” he said. The performance could not have come as a total surprise to him, however, since it was his tenth victory in a row and his fourteenth in his last fifteen games. I had previously seen Sutton at Dodger Stadium in June, when he was suffering through a frustrating and depressing slump. Manager Walter Alston had left him alone, permitting him to work out his problem while he absorbed six consecutive losses. “It’s just some little mistake,” Alston told me at the time. “Probably his body is not in exactly the right position over his leg when he delivers. It’s puzzling, but you have to be patient. Pitching is a subtle thing.”
A few more Dodgers got into the act the next afternoon, when a 5–2 win for the visitors put the unhappy Pirates into a very deep hole. (Three losses in the Championship Series means elimination, of course, and so far in the series’ six-year history a two-game deficit has invariably proved fatal.) Andy Messersmith, the Dodgers’ only twenty-game winner this year, continued the starvation of the Pirate sluggers, giving up nothing but singles. The golden Californians won in characteristic style, getting on the board in the first inning with a ringing single by their young first baseman, Steve Garvey (a picture-book hitter, who batted .312 this year, knocking out 200 hits and delivering 111 runs), and then breaking the game open in the eighth with three runs. Third baseman Ron Cey started things off with his second successive double (he was four for five on the day, with nine total bases), and then shortstop Bill Russell laid down a perfect, killing bunt to the left side, which catcher Manny Sanguillen threw hopelessly to third base. Then Crawford bonked a little handle-hit over the drawn-in infield, and Mota singled and Lopes singled, and Sanguillen added a wild pickoff throw—five successive hits and a little luck, too, but the Pirates had clearly been cracked apart by the pressure of speed and eager, winning baseball. Cey’s outburst at the plate also looked lucky, until one noticed that he had driven in ninety-seven runs in the season—one more than Willie Stargell.
I now bade farewell to the two NL squads, who were off to Chavez Ravine for the rest of their exercises. (The Pirate bats, it will be recalled, came alive there one afternoon, for a 7–0 Pittsburgh victory, in which Stargell and Hebner homered. The following day, the Dodgers took the pennant with a gruesome 12–1 laugher.) My next engagement was the renewal of the A’s-Orioles playoff rivalry in Baltimore—by now an autumn event nearly as heartwarming and as poorly attended as an Ivy League football game. The teams here were back from the West tied at one game apiece; the Orioles, finding Catfish Hunter uncharacteristically wild and high, had whacked him for three homers and a 6–3 victory, and had then been stopped cold by Ken Holtzman, 5–0.
The pitching matchup in game three looked unfair—Jim Palmer, whose Championship Series record for the Orioles was four victories and no defeats, against Vida Blue, who had never won a playoff game or a World Series game, being 0–2 in each category. Everyone knew Vida’s pattern—blinding heat for a time, then a slight lapse in concentration, a few walks, a reduction of speed in favor of control, then a couple of telling base hits, and, all too often, another game gone. Absolutely true, except that here in Baltimore it didn’t happen. Instead, it was Vida nonstop; Vida burning with concentration and impatience; Vida overpowering everything and everyone, including himself; Vida wall-to-wall. He threw 101 pitches, all but six of them fastballs, gave up two singles, struck out seven batters, walked none, and came in with a 1–0 victory in less than two hours. It was another nearly awesome performance, but one that bore almost no relation to Sutton’s game; one felt that the two pitchers might have been engaged in different sports. For that matter, there was still a third splendid and courageous effort—Jim Palmer’s losing four-hitter. Palmer has been afflicted with an injury to the ulnar nerve in his pitching arm this year, and he now throws very few fastballs. All the same, he went the distance, too, facing only two more batters than Blue did, and the game eventually turned on a brief personal duel between him and Sal Bando in the fourth, when Bando fouled off several pitches and then lined a home run into the left-field stands. “I should have walked him,” Palmer murmured afterward. Manager Weaver, summing up Blue’s great game, said, “Our best shot against him was ball four, and he never threw it all day.”
Pitching is very nearly the whole story in the playoffs, and so it was again on the final afternoon. A one-hitter must be a pitching story, even if that hit is accompanied by eleven walks, even if the other team wins, and even if everyone in the stands is driven absolutely bananas by the anxiety and emptiness and disappointment of it all. Mike Cuellar, the Oriole junk man, is a famously slow starter, so no one was much surprised when he walked the bases loaded in the first inning before recording the third out. On this day, however, he never did find his accustomed groove on the outer fringes of the strike zone. Hunching his shoulders and growling at the home-plate umpire, he threw an intolerable number of near-misses and full counts, until at l
ast, with two out in the fifth, he walked Bando, walked Jackson, threw a wild pitch, walked Rudi on purpose, walked Tenace by mistake, and was gone, responsible for no hits and no satisfaction. The other Oakland run came in the seventh, on the team’s only safety—a double by Jackson that scored Bando all the way from first. Catfish Hunter and Rollie Fingers kept the door closed on the Orioles until the ninth, when a walk and two singles brought in the first Baltimore counter in thirty innings. But, with the tying run on third base and the Oriole fans screaming and weeping and pleading, Fingers fanned Don Baylor, to win the game, 2–1, and wrap up the third straight Oakland pennant. California, here we came.
The series was called to order before the largest (and perhaps happiest) crowd in the history of Dodger Stadium, and in the midst of the liveliest kind of advance speculations. The Dodgers’ team statistics for the year were the best in their league, overall, while the World Champions presented more clouded data: the finest pitching (by far) in the AL but a flaccid .247 team batting average (twenty-five points below the Dodgers’). The All-Cal final offered an even more vivid difference in personalities and living styles. The Dodgers—somehow personified by their shining new star Steve Garvey—were young, modest, articulate, polite, intelligent, optimistic, brave, clean, reverent … They very much suggested a UCLA or USC varsity baseball team, and the campus image was reinforced by their gentle, fatherly manager and by a front office (or dean’s office) that liked to talk about an ineffable, enlightened, shared motivation pervading and guiding the entire organization—a spirit known as “Dodger Blue.” The two-time-champion A’s were something else—whiskery veterans, grown men, distinct and famously quarrelsome personalities, stars who were motivated by their own reputations and the team’s fame and success but also, quite openly, by money. Their manager, Alvin Dark, had brought the team home in spite of the players’ known fondness and respect for his predecessor, Dick Williams, and their bitterness over the meddling of owner Charles O. Finley, which had caused Williams to give up the reins. Dark, who is a devoutly religious Baptist, had not had an easy summer of it (“You couldn’t manage a meat market!” team captain Sal Bando said to him one day), and there were other causes for contention, including Finley’s latest coup de tête: the signing and use of an athlete who had never played a day in organized ball until he joined the A’s. He was Herb Washington, a world-class professional sprinter, whom Finley, via Dark, employed frequently as a pinch-runner. Finley, the inventor and promulgator of the designated hitter, is now campaigning to admit designated base runners to the game, and Washington was his showpiece, or puppet. Learning the rudiments of the game as he went along, Washington stole twenty-nine bases this summer, and was caught stealing sixteen times—not a useful percentage. The company line on Washington, repeated at frequent intervals by Alvin Dark, was “He won eight games for us this year”—to which various old regulars responded with a muttered “Yeah, and how many games did he take us out of?”
This dispute, however, barely quivered the needle on the Oakland seismic scale, and in spite of the North-Jackson imbroglio, there had been some late-summer whispers that the A’s were growing more peaceable and cuddlesome. This horrid possibility was done away with, however, when it was revealed that ex-Oakland infielder Mike Andrews had just sued Finley for two and a half million dollars over his forced retirement during last year’s Series, that Catfish Hunter had commenced legal steps to force his contract release by Finley for nonpayment of fifty thousand dollars in deferred salary, and that Oakland pitchers Rollie Fingers and Blue Moon Odom had engaged in a clubhouse battle on the very eve of the Series: five stitches in Rollie’s scalp and a sprained ankle for Odom. The Oakland AC was ready to play ball.
The opener, which the defending champions won by 3–2, was a busy and absorbing affair, crowded with events and mistakes and discussable baseball. There was Reggie Jackson taking up exactly where he left off in the seventh game of last year’s Series—with a terrific near-line-drive home run muscled over the left-field fence in the second inning. There was Oakland pitcher Ken Holtzman, batting in his very first game of the year, rapping a double to left—his third two-bagger in his last four Series games; he proceeded to third on a wild pitch by Andy Messersmith, and was scored on a dandy suicide-squeeze bunt by Campaneris. Dodger dash brought in their first counter: Davey Lopes, on base after a Campaneris error, flew away to second as Bill Buckner bounced a single over first, and when Jackson bobbled the ball ever so briefly in right, Lopes steamed all the way around and easily beat the throw to the plate. The winning Oakland run, in the eighth, was pieced together out of a single, a sacrifice, and a terrible throwing error by Ron Cey. The young Dodgers, as flashy as they were fallible, scored again in the ninth, on a homer by Jimmy Wynn, and had the tying run aboard when Catfish Hunter, of all people, came in to relieve Fingers and fanned Ferguson for the final out. The Los Angeles fans went home stimulated and perhaps insufficiently troubled. In addition to the costly Dodger error and the costly wild pitch, there had been a mystifying failure of strategy after the Dodgers placed their first two batters on base in the second inning and again in the third; in neither case was there any attempt to bunt them along, and none of the four base runners scored.
Perhaps it didn’t matter. It didn’t seem to the next afternoon, when Don Sutton and Vida Blue faced each other before the same enormous, sun-drenched multitudes, and the home side reversed things, winning by 3–2, for a split on the weekend. It was a quiet, minimal sort of game for most of the distance, with Sutton, now in quest of his twelfth successive win, having a bit the better of things. Vida, down by a bare run, gave up a single to Garvey in the sixth and then tried to throw an inside fastball past Ferguson, who redirected it over the fence in dead center field, exactly between the two “395” markers. Blue threw up his hands in despair. Oakland loaded the bases in the eighth after a fielding error by Dodger shortstop Russell, but Russell now took North’s hopper behind second, sprinted over and stepped on the bag, and got off a straining, anxious heave toward first, which Garvey backhanded on a short hop, for an inning-ending, Little League DP. A livelier finale was still to come. In the ninth, Oakland scored twice, on a hit batsman, an accidental, checked-swing double to left by Jackson, and a solid single by Joe Rudi. Reliever Mike Marshall fanned Tenace, whereupon Mr. Finley, suddenly aware of a vivid opportunity to trot his new hobbyhorse, ordered Herb Washington to run for Rudi. Washington now represented the tying run, and Marshall, who is known as perhaps the fastest pick-off gun in the West, sourly eyed him over his shoulder, exactly like Bat Masterson registering the arrival in town of still another uppity gunsel from the prairies. He stepped off the mound three times as Washington, swinging his arms between his knees in a nervous, amateurish fashion, took up a minimal lead. Marshall then spun and fired, Garvey made the tag, umpire Doug Harvey threw up his arm, and Washington, figuratively shot between the eyes, lay twitching in the dust, as 55,989 Los Angelenos cried “Ah-HAH!” in one single splendid shout.
Up in Oakland, two nights later, a pattern began to show itself—not just the third successive 3–2 score (this one in favor of the A’s) but something woven more subtly into the texture of these games. Some miserable Dodger luck was part of it: two whistling Los Angeles line drives were hit directly at Oakland infielders and converted into instant double plays. Contrariwise, with two Oakland men on base and two out in the third inning, Reggie Jackson barely topped a pitch by Dodger starter Al Downing, nubbing it feebly but luckily up the first-base line; Jackson flung his bat away in disgust and raced for first, closely accompanied by Joe Ferguson (on this day the Dodger catcher), who lunged for the ball and saw it dribble off the end of his glove for an error. A run was in, and then Rudi hit a single up the middle that barely skipped under Lopes’ glove, good for another run, and only the third Oakland run—a trifling walk-sacrifice-and-single affair—was earned. Catfish Hunter gave up two solid solo homers—to Buckner and Crawford (“I had some friends here from North Carolina,” Hun
ter said afterward, “and they’d never seen a home run, so I gave ’em a couple”)—but somehow it was Oakland that was now ahead in the Series. It was almost unfair. Bad baseball luck, however, can usually be contained or nullified by perfect defense, but these careless young Dodgers were letting the genie out of the bottle.
Charles O. Finley, it must be added, did not fail to intrude himself into the proceedings. During that third game, we could all watch him leading the hometown hordes in banner-waving, or, up on his feet, joining in the fervent singing of “God Bless America” during the seventh-inning stretch. Then, too, the public-address system announced that Mr. Finley himself could be observed in his box, next to the Oakland dugout, in the very act of placing a call to President Ford, in which he invited him to come and throw out the first ball at one of the remaining Series games. The President said sorry, he was busy, but thanks anyway, and moments later we watched Charlie calling up ex-President Nixon in San Clemente—with the same result. The crowd loved it. (Charles O. Finley, I have begun to think, may be the last of the true populists.) Then, the next day, Finley abruptly benched and enraged Gene Tenace just before game time, replacing him in the lineup with another protégé and discovery of his, also named Washington—in this case, Claudell Washington, a twenty-year-old rookie outfielder, who, by the looks of him, may become one of the best left-handed hitters in baseball. (Charles O. Finley, I have concluded, is never boring.)
Game No. 4, both managers had stated in advance, would be the core of the Series, and its core inning, it turned out, was the bottom of the sixth. The Dodgers were leading by then, 2–1, thanks to a triple by Bill Russell; Ken Holtzman had accounted for the Oakland score with another personal editorial on the subject of the designated hitter—this time, a home run. In Dodger retrospect, the Oakland sixth may have turned on a trifling mistake by Andy Messersmith, who made a bad pick-off throw that allowed North to move along to second base, with none out. Or perhaps it was Bando’s lucky, blooped, wrong-field single to right (his first hit of the entire Series), or possibly the unfortunate walk to Jackson that came next. Nothing much could be done about the surprising but excellent sacrifice bunt that Joe Rudi now laid down (Rudi bunting?), which in turn, of course, required an intentional walk to the next man, and set up the only solid blow of the rally—a pinch single by Jim Holt. There was hardly anything to the whole business, then, except that four runs were in (Was that right—four?) and the game, now somehow at 5–2, was nearly gone. It vanished forever in the top of the ninth, on a fantastic sliding, lunging stop by Oakland second baseman Dick Green, who flipped to Campaneris from the dirt to begin a double play. These A’s knew how to play this hard old game.
