On cue, Mitch gave up a run-scoring single to Fred McGriff, to make it 3–1, followed by a long sacrifice fly to David Justice, to make it 3–2. Then back-to-back singles to tie it up at 3–3. So much for Schill’s monster effort. Mark Lemke, the next batter, hit a rope down the line that had game-winner written all over it, but mercifully it landed just foul. Mitch retired Lemke, and then Bill Pecota, ending the inning with the score tied, setting the stage for me.
Mark Wohlers, the Braves closer, came in to pitch the top of the tenth. Wohlers was high-octane, throwing consistently 100 MPH gas. I worked the count to 2-2 and took a pitch that was borderline. The ump called ball three, and with the count full, I knew what was coming. I got ahead of the heater and jacked it to dead center and out. That proved to be the game-winner as we held them scoreless in the bottom of the tenth. We were heading back to Philly for the potential clincher in Game 6.
Unfortunately, we had our work cut out for us, because the virtually unbeatable Maddux was going for the Braves. Despite that, Game 5 was a turning point for us, which generated tremendous momentum going home. We caught a break in Game 6 when Mickey Morandini hit a liner back through the box, which hit Maddux in the leg in the first inning. Arguably, Maddux should have been removed from the game, but his competitive fire would not allow it. Dutch doubled in two runs, and my boy Head hit a two-run homer. Mitch even came in and pitched a perfect ninth, which was a miracle unto itself.
Game 6 ended. The fans went crazy. We had won the National League pennant. We were going to the World Series!
The victory over the Braves was especially sweet for me, particularly because my homer in Game 5 was a big momentum changer. It also served as a reminder to Atlanta manager Bobby Cox that not selecting me for the All-Star game that year, despite the fact that I was leading the league in four categories, was inexplicable. To this day, I still have no idea why. Moreover, I hated the Braves then because they had an irritating arrogance. Of course, I love them now, because they drafted my kid.
16
1993 WORLD SERIES: PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES VS. TORONTO BLUE JAYS
I’ve missed more than 9,000 shots in my career. I’ve lost almost 300 games. Twenty-six times I’ve been trusted to take the game-winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed.
—MICHAEL JORDAN
With our total focus on the Braves, I didn’t have much time to think about our next opponent, the Toronto Blue Jays. After celebrating our National League championship, we were all about completing our mission—bring home the World Series trophy to the starving fans of Philly. They had gone a decade with no championship in any major sport, since the famous fo’, fo’, and fo’ of Moses Malone and the 1983 76ers.
The Blue Jays’ pitching staff, featuring Juan Guzman, Dave Stewart, Pat Hentgen, and Todd Stottlemyre, was certainly a quality staff, but it paled in comparison to the Braves’ four Clydesdales. On the other hand, the Blue Jays’ everyday lineup was an offensive juggernaut with three future Hall of Famers. They could flat-out hit from one through nine (they have a DH) and put up a lot of crooked numbers. In fact, they had only been shut out once in 1993. They had a veteran lineup with Rickey Henderson, Roberto Alomar, Devon White, John Olerud, Paul Molitor, Joe Carter, Tony Fernandez, Ed Sprague, and Pat Borders—not an easy out in the bunch.
It was a battle of the aces in Game 1 at the SkyDome in Toronto. Schilling facing Guzman. The expected pitchers’ duel never materialized, as a Devon White homer tied the score 4–4 in the fifth. Olerud homered in the sixth to make it 5–4, and the Blue Jays tacked on three runs in the seventh to put the game out of reach, eventually winning 8–5. Robbie Alomar took a double from me when he made an incredible diving catch on a looper I hit over first base in the fifth. Schilling had a rare pedestrian outing, but we knew he would come back with a vengeance.
Game 2 was Mulholland versus Stewart. We put up a five-spot in the third when Krukkie and Head had RBI singles, followed by a three-run jack by Eisey to dead center off Stewart. Eisenreich was probably more well known for his Tourette’s syndrome, but that dude was an integral part of our success. He was a good defensive outfielder and a quality major league hitter, especially in the clutch. He handled his Tourette’s, a neurological disorder that causes involuntary tics and speech, in a manner that helped us to adjust to better understand his behavior, which, to be honest, was bizarre at times. We went on to win Game 2, 6–4, and we were going back to Philly with the split we desperately needed.
Most people will remember the ’93 Phillies as a group of characters who played hard and partied harder. Nobody had more fun than we did, or did as much outrageous shit. But know one thing: when we stepped between those lines, we were all business. Game on, dude, and we would do whatever it took to win. Unlike today, when opposing players are all chummy with each other, back then you didn’t even talk to the players on the other team. Everyone hated us for the way we did things, and that’s the way we liked it. It was comforting to know that we had Dave Hollins, my man Head, who was one of the most feared players in the league. It was like having the toughest dude in the schoolyard, who always has your back. Nobody fucked with Head!
Game 3 at the Vet presented an interesting decision for Blue Jays manager Cito Gaston. Since we were in a National League park, there would be no DH. This created a dilemma for Cito, because their DH was future Hall of Famer Paul Molitor, who was a hitting machine. Gaston decided to bench John Olerud, the American League batting champ with a .363 average, and insert Molitor at first base. Gaston was sacrificing defense as well, as Olerud was an excellent left-handed first baseman while Molitor was right-handed and inferior defensively to Olerud.
The pitching matchup was Pat Hentgen versus Danny Jackson. Danny got lit up early, surrendering three runs in the first inning, en route to a 10–3 shellacking. Hentgen had a quality outing, giving up one run in six innings. Molitor made Gaston look like a prophet, as he went three for four with a dinger and three RBI and handled first base without any difficulties.
Game 4 would be pivotal.
It was a rainy day in Philly prior to Game 4, which only served to make the archaic turf even more treacherous than usual. Starting pitchers Todd Stottlemyre and Tommy Greene did not last long. Stottlemyre exited after giving up six runs in two innings, and Greene left after allowing seven runs in less than three innings. Meanwhile, I was in the midst of possibly the greatest day of my career. I led off the first with a walk and hit a two-run blast in the second off Stottlemyre.
Going into the bottom of the fifth, the score was tied and Al Leiter, a lefty, was on the mound for the Jays. Dutch hit a two-run shot, and Milt Thompson had an RBI single. I then deposited a two-run homer into the right field bleachers, which opened the floodgates. We had broken it open and were leading 12–7 after five.
In my previous at-bat against Leiter, I thought I had my third dinger of the game, but I had to settle for a double when it hit the top of the wall. In total, I had a walk, two homers, a double, four RBI, four runs scored, and a stolen base. I had surpassed Joe DiMaggio with my eighth and ninth postseason homers. The great “Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?” who was in the pantheon of the greatest center fielders—or baseball players for that matter—who ever lived. That is some rarefied air, dude. This should have been the greatest day of my baseball career.
Entering the eighth inning, we were leading 14–9 when Fregosi summoned Larry Andersen, another one of our short relievers, out of the pen. Larry promptly gave up a single, a walk, and a double to make the score 14–10 with one out. Enter Mitch. Tony Fernandez singled to left to bring in another run. Pat Borders walked, but Mitch struck out Ed Sprague for the second out. This was so fucking familiar. I was desperately hoping that Mitch would somehow wiggle out of this. But no, desperation was about to turn into devastation. One more out to get out of the eighth. Henderson singles to center to drive in two, making it 14–13. Then Devon White hits a triple to the deepest pa
rt of the yard, chasing home two more runs, and we go on to lose 15–14.
Yes, our starter, Tommy Greene, had given up seven runs in less than three innings, and the Blue Jays had eighteen hits that day, only a few of which were off Mitch, but he was our closer, and he didn’t close the deal.
As devastated as we were, I felt horrible for our fans. These fans had lived with us through all our ups and downs. They had learned to love us because we had epitomized the blue-collar work ethic of the city of Philadelphia. They identified with our scraggly looks and our scrappy, swashbuckling style. They knew we brought our lunch pails every day. They also understood that you could work hard, grind it out, but let your hair down and enjoy it when you were not working. Philly fans are real fans. They wear their hearts on their sleeves, living and dying with your successes and your failures. They always stayed until the last out because we gave them a reason to stay. We always battled to the end. The Philly fans cared. That was what made the winning there so enjoyable.
The best thing we had going for us was that Schill would be on the mound for Game 5, in a rematch of Game 1 against Guzman. Neither pitcher disappointed; a true pitchers’ duel ensued. I walked to lead off the bottom of the first, stole second and went to third on a Borders throwing error, and scored on a groundout by Kruk. True aficionados of the game appreciate the value of manufacturing a run without a hit. In the second, Dutch doubled, went to third on a groundout, and scored on an RBI single by Kevin Stocker. We were playing small ball and led 2–0 after two innings. It would prove to be more than enough, as Schill dominated the Jays with a five-hit, complete-game shutout, only the second shutout the Jays experienced that year. Our Clydesdale pulled the carriage, and the ride was smooth, dude.
Our confidence restored, it was back to Toronto for Game 6. We realized that winning two games there would be difficult, but we felt it could be done. Toronto got on top quickly with three runs in the first on Molitor’s RBI triple, a sacrifice fly by Carter, and an Alomar RBI single. In the fifth, with a chorus of “MVP!” echoing throughout the SkyDome, Molitor went yard, ensuring that he would receive the MVP trophy.
Things were looking bleak as we entered the seventh down 5–1. However, we had fought back all year and we were not about to quit now. I hit a three-run homer off Stewart to get us back in it. Head had an RBI single to tie it, and Inky—Pete Incaviglia—had a sacrifice fly to take the lead. Roger Mason, a big old right-handed country boy, came in from the pen and mowed the Jays down in the seventh and eighth. Suddenly we could taste a W and a Game 7, where anything can happen. Three outs and we were there.
Fregosi summoned Mitch, who promptly walked Rickey Henderson to lead off the ninth. Walking the leadoff batter in any inning is a no-no in baseball. Walking the leadoff batter in the bottom of the ninth in a one-run game is a fucking cardinal sin. Walking Rickey Henderson, the greatest base stealer in the history of baseball, in the bottom of the ninth in a one-run game in the World Series is egregious.
Recognizing the distinct threat of Henderson, who stole 53 bases that year, Mitch decided to go to a slide-step delivery to keep him close to the bag. Ordinarily a good idea, except that Mitch had never used a slide-step delivery prior to that moment. Nonetheless, he got Devon White to fly out deep to left. We were only two outs from victory. Just as I started to think, Maybe, just maybe, Molitor hit one of the hardest balls I’ve ever seen hit. It was a rocket into center. The ball was hit so hard that Henderson stopped at second without rounding the bag. There was no thought of going to third. Joe Carter was the next batter.
I’m going to ask you to recall the details of what happened next, since to this day I can barely talk about it. Here are the basics. Carter went yard, and I stood and watched as the ball flew over the left field wall to end the World Series.
Joe was and remains only the second player in history to hit a walk-off home run in the World Series finale; the other was Bill Mazeroski with a famous shot in 1960, which handed the Pirates the World Series over the mighty Yankees.
I have an interesting perspective on it, because remember, I was on the field during the 1986 World Series when we got the last out and won. So I knew what it was like to be on the winning side celebrating on the field in front of the whole country. And then in Toronto, in ’93, I got to experience what it was like to lose a game on the final play.
When it happened, I stood there in center field in complete disbelief. I could see the Blue Jay players celebrating at home plate. It was like, I have to get out of here now. Do I run off? Do I walk off? I decided I would jog off, and when I did, I focused on our dugout and stopped paying attention to what the delirious Blue Jays were doing.
Both of my World Series had ended in craziness. One on the winning side, the other on the losing side. That’s pretty much par for the course of my life.
All or nothing.
It comes down to that.
After the game everyone on our team handled it pretty well. It wasn’t too maudlin in the clubhouse. Fregosi handled it well, too. Even though Mitch found a way to hit the fat part of Carter’s bat, it wasn’t Mitch’s fault that we lost. We were a team, and as much as there were mixed emotions, we fully supported Mitch. That’s what you do.
One thing about Mitch: he worked hard, and he gave you everything he had out there. When you go out there, you succeed or you fail, but he never once lost because he didn’t try his best. He was a competitor, and he wasn’t a quitter. I liked that he was a competitor, because in spring training he and I played golf, and I would bury him for thousands of dollars. Mitch was a fighter, but things happen, and it was unfortunate. But on the flip side, man, he sure made it a long year. It was as though we played three hundred games. The ups and downs of the ninth inning . . . it seemed like it was never easy. Fuck, it was a torture chamber out there.
That was the character of the club. We were a bunch of brawlers. We had been picked to finish last, but this team had tremendous chemistry. In a way, it was similar to my experience on my ’86 Mets team.
I was sorry to see the season come to an end. We had accomplished a lot.
I had given everything I had. In the World Series I hit four home runs, and nearly had a fifth. Had we won, and we should have, I would’ve had a second World Series trophy and probably a World Series MVP trophy as well. But we didn’t. It wasn’t meant to be.
Nonetheless, as our 3,137,674 home attendance can attest, 1993 was a magical year. Despite the fact that we didn’t achieve our ultimate goal, we invigorated the city of Philadelphia, and it rewarded us with its undying support.
I have come to realize how truly special the relationship was that we had with our fans. They supported us until the bitter end. The Phillies gave me the opportunity I craved, playing every day. I will be forever thankful to them for that. I was privileged to have played in that organization, especially with that unique group of characters that constituted the ’93 Phillies. We certainly made baseball fun again in Philly.
17
AMBASSADOR LENNY
If women did not exist, all the money in the world would have no meaning.
—ARISTOTLE ONASSIS
In November 1993, after dominating the game of baseball like not many players have ever done before, I was invited by Major League Baseball to tour Europe as MLB’s ambassador to represent and promote the game of baseball. An honor? Sure, maybe. The only problem was that they wanted me to promote baseball in places where the people didn’t have a fucking clue about baseball.
Accompanying me were my wife, Terri; my business partner, Lindsay Jones; and his wife, Sheri. These were the days before I discovered Lindsay was stealing me blind, so at that time the four of us were having a blast traveling around Europe together. It was the first time I had ever been to Europe, and it was the beginning of my education in world-class travel.
Ironically, before I landed on French soil, I actually thought Paris was a country. In high school, I was a good student, but my real focus had been on what I had to d
o to become a Major League Baseball player. In other words, subjects like geography and world history tended to take a backseat.
We went to Amsterdam, Holland; Paris, France; and Düsseldorf, Germany. I talked to kids, participated in baseball clinics, and did whatever the MLB had lined up for me. In Düsseldorf, I signed autographs at the Hard Rock Cafe, and even though there was a mob of people attending, it seemed like most of them didn’t know what they were showing up for. I guess the mentality of people in Europe is the same as it is in the United States: when you put a celebrity in front of a crowd of people, whether they know who you are or not, they go nuts.
I was thirty years old and happened to be firing on all cylinders. Not only was I put together like a Greek statue, and felt bulletproof, I was on the verge of signing a new contract that could potentially pay me $30 million over five years. Life couldn’t have been any better. Throw in the handful of pain pills and amphetamines I was swallowing at will, and days would turn into nights, and nights would turn into days, with the lines blurring in between.
The city of Amsterdam was a complete trip. One minute you’re strolling along a street dotted with nice restaurants and hotels, passing by families, then the next thing you know, you’re in the red-light district, with its prostitutes, sex shops, peep shows, and sex museums. But since my wife was with me, it goes without saying that we didn’t spend a lot of time browsing the goods and services of the red-light district. We stayed at the Amstel Amsterdam, which had been completely remodeled. They gave me a suite that was off the charts, and after we got settled in our room, I walked down to the concierge to ask him where we should go. He told me that Amsterdam was known for its diamonds, informing me that the diamond industry went back more than four hundred years and that the city was still the best place in all of Europe to buy diamonds. I asked him to give me the name and address of the best diamond shop in Amsterdam. I told Terri that we needed to go somewhere, but I didn’t tell her where, because I wanted to surprise her. When we walked into the best diamond shop in Amsterdam, I said to the man who greeted us, “I want the biggest and best diamond you have for my wife.”
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