by Tim Wendel
Soon afterward McLain was scheduled to go for his thirtieth victory on a Saturday—September 14, 1968—against the Oakland Athletics. The night before the game Sandy Koufax and Dizzy Dean visited the ballpark. Koufax was a member of the NBC television crew in town to nationally broadcast Saturday’s game. Dean, meanwhile, had traveled from his home in Wiggins, Mississippi, to bear witness to the thirty-victory torch being passed. “I’m getting more publicity now with Denny winning thirty than I did when I won thirty,” Dean said.
Years later, McLain remembered Koufax as a class act, while Dean “was just a good ole boy who wanted to talk about the football season and point spreads.”
Unable to resist a dig at his larger-than-life teammate, Lolich put up a sign on the pillar in the middle of the home clubhouse. “Attention Sportswriters,” it read, “Denny McLain’s Locker This Way,” with big arrow pointing stage right. In perhaps the most intriguing interview conducted that season, he spoke with the Detroit News as the media hordes swirled about McLain.
“How could I be a thirty-game winner?” Lolich asked. “How could I ride my motorcycle on the Ed Sullivan Show?”
Lolich explained that he was getting into music, too, learning to play the drums. But in a stream-of-consciousness ramble, Lolich honestly summed up what it was like to live in McLain’s large shadow that season. “If I have a good year next year and win twenty, they’ll say, ‘So what?’”
Looking back over at McLain and all of the attention that enveloped him, Lolich added, “He’s sort of ruined things for everybody around here.”
After such a buildup, McLain’s thirtieth could have been anticlimatic. Instead it was again the kind of thriller that had become so indicative of the Tigers’ remarkable season.
By this point in the season, the game really didn’t have any pennant implications as the Tigers were only days away from clinching. The Orioles were history, reconciled with positioning themselves to win it all the following season. Yet on that sunny afternoon in Detroit, 33,688 fans still jammed into the old ballpark at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull. McLain’s opposing number was Oakland’s Chuck Dobson and before the game Jim Pagliaroni, the Athletics’ backup catcher—the one who had caught Catfish Hunter’s perfect game—did up a sign of his own that read “Dobson goes for #12 today.”
Usually pitchers don’t talk to the press before a start. Yet when McLain saw the crowd around his locker, no one was very surprised when he found he had plenty to say. “I never understood how a writer could have anything to do with my performance,” he later explained. “What a special day it was and what an absolutely marvelous time to be alive. I loved it all. I was a circus leader and these were my animals following me around. I told the writers that I’d been on the phone until midnight. Logically, one of them asked me what I’d dreamt. I said, ‘I dreamt about losing my contact lenses, and I spend more on contact lenses than most guys make.’”
McLain held Oakland scoreless the first time through the order. Yet in the fourth inning, Reggie Jackson clubbed a curveball into the lower deck in right field. Danny Carter had been aboard, giving the A’s a 2–0 lead.
Detroit fought back to take a one-run advantage on Norm Cash’s three-run homer, only to see Oakland tie it in the fifth inning. An inning later, Jackson homered again to give the A’s a 4–3 lead. That’s the way it stayed until the bottom of the ninth.
McLain left the game for a pinch hitter (Al Kaline) but remained the pitcher of record. Kaline walked to start the ninth inning and went around to third base on Mickey Stanley’s single with one out. The Tigers’ Jim Northrup then bounced a grounder to Cater at first base. Even though Cater led American League first basemen in fielding, Kaline took off for home plate. Unbelievably, Cater’s throw sailed high, but Kaline fell trying to avoid running into Oakland catcher Dave Duncan. After the ball flew over Duncan’s head, Kaline scrambled on all fours back to touch home, and the game was tied, 4–4.
With Stanley now at third base, the A’s had no choice but to bring the infield in. As McLain paced in the home dugout, Horton drove a 2–2 pitch over the left fielder’s head and Stanley, clapping his hands together, came home with the lead run.
When Horton connected, McLain jumped so high he hit his head against the underside of the Tigers’ dugout. Still woozy, he was half-carried out to join the celebration by Kaline. The image made the cover of the following week’s Sports Illustrated.
Still seeing stars, McLain answered questions from the media who had rushed onto the field, too. The mob included Koufax and Dean. As McLain turned to acknowledge the cheering hometown crowd, many of whom had probably booed him back in May after he called Tigers fans the worst in the world, he saw a woman behind the dugout throw her panties at him. Soon afterward McLain was ushered back into the Detroit clubhouse. But ten minutes later, he returned as the fans refused to leave without a curtain call from him.
With the Motown crowd still chanting, “We want Denny. We want Denny,” the Tigers’ ace walked back down the tunnel from the clubhouse and stood atop the dugout steps to wave at the crowd, which included several thousand Detroit school safety-patrol boys, who had been given free passes for the day’s game. The kids screamed their lungs out, making the scene reminiscent of a Children’s Crusade to Detroit Free Press reporter George Cantor.
“Isn’t this incredible. Isn’t this incredible,” repeated Sandy Koufax, who was still at McLain’s side. The veteran of four World Series was as amazed as everybody else by what was going down that day in Detroit.
McLain responded by blowing kisses to the crowd. For one of the few times in his career, the pitcher who lived the high life like none other was at a loss for words. “Right now,” he said, “I’m numb.”
A day later, the St. Louis Cardinals clinched the National League pennant at the Astrodome. In the 7–4 victory, Roger Maris hit his 275th and final home run in the major leagues, while Curt Flood collected five hits.
About the only thing left to determine in the regular season was whether Bob Gibson could continue his amazing run. Since Robert Kennedy’s assassination, he had willed himself into becoming the best pitcher in baseball. Entering August, he held an astonishing 0.96 ERA. It hovered around 1.00 into early September and crept up to only 1.16 heading into his final start of the regular season. Even with a mediocre outing, Gibson was almost assured of breaking what many considered to be the National League record of 1.22 set by Grover Cleveland Alexander in 1915. But the all-time record—1.14 held by Walter Johnson—was there for the taking.
That day, Gibson took no prisoners. He pitched a complete-game shutout, his thirteenth of the year, and struck out eleven Astros. When he returned to the Cardinals’ clubhouse, he found a stuffed Tiger hanging by a rope in his locker. Yes, everyone was gearing up for the pending World Series.
Gibson finished the regular season with a 22–9 record; something that appears almost pedestrian when linked with his record 1.12 ERA. Bill Deane from the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, later pointed out that Gibson was victimized again and again by poor offense in ’68. Nine times during the season, Gibson had allowed three earned runs or less, only to lose every time. Granted, he was often matched against the top pitchers around the league (Don Drysdale, Ferguson Jenkins, Gaylord Perry). Still, St. Louis’s offense rarely did him any favors.
In that nine-game stretch, all losses, Gibson’s ERA was 2.14. As Deane detailed, if the Cardinals had scored 3.43 runs a game, the league average in the “Year of the Pitcher,” Gibson would have finished with a 30–4 record, which would put him in the same conversation with the Tigers’ Denny McLain when it came to victories. Even if the Cardinals had averaged only one run a game for their ace in 1968, Gibson still would have had a winning record, 13–10. Suffice it to say that Gibson was the best in the National League, perhaps in all of baseball. Five times during the season, he had a streak of twenty-plus scoreless innings. Perhaps more incredibly, he had a 1.83 ERA in games in which he did not pitch a shutout.
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“In the summer of 1968, I mastered my craft,” Gibson later wrote. “This is not to say that I was a perfect pitcher, because I made mistakes (although not as many as other years) and a perfect pitcher is an impossible concept, anyway, as long as major-league hitters remain capable, as many are (damn them), of hitting perfect pitches. But in 1968, we of the pitching profession came as close to perfect as we’ve ever come in modern history and probably ever will.”
Denny McLain and Mickey Mantle were both fun-loving guys, willing to skirt the rules when possible, so it didn’t come as any surprise when one of the most curious moments of the ’68 season occurred when the two of them got together. Only a few weeks remained in the regular season, and with the pennants already decided McLain came to the conclusion he needed to have some more fun.
“Denny McLain always gave you a ball to hit,” Reggie Jackson said. “I think he liked home runs almost as much as hitters did.”
Despite past heroics (Triple Crown winner in 1956, twelve World Series appearances), in 1968 Mickey Mantle did about as well as any other power hitter not named Frank Howard. In other words, he was scuffling. But unlike other sluggers, Mantle, who was in his eighteenth major league season, had more at stake as the regular season came to an end. With 534 career home runs, he stood tied with Jimmie Foxx for third place on the all-time list. Even though “the Mick” didn’t realize it at the time, McLain had grown up a huge fan of his. As a kid, McLain had worn the number seven, tried to hit from both sides of the plate, and even played center field until better success on the pitching mound took him in that direction.
Facing off against his childhood hero on September 19, 1968, staked to a 6–1 lead in the sixth inning, his thirty-first victory well in hand, McLain found himself in a giving mood. That’s when he motioned for Jim Price, who was catching that day in place of Bill Freehan, to come out to the mound. There McLain told Price, “I want Mantle to hit one.”
At first Price didn’t know what McLain was talking about. So McLain spelled it out for him. “I’m going to throw a pitch and I want him to hit a home run. He needs one more to move up on the all-time home-run list.”
Dumbfounded, Price stared back at McLain, then slowly realized what was about to happen. They were about to groove a pitch to one of the top sluggers of all time.
“All you gotta say is, ‘Be ready, Mick,’” McLain told Price.
With that, the catcher nodded and walked back behind the plate. But somehow, the message didn’t make it to Mantle. McLain saw Price say something, but the only one really paying attention was home-plate umpire Russ Goetz. Sure enough the Tigers’ ace served up the first pitch on a platter. It arrived at barely sixty miles per hour, splitting the heart of the plate. Everything went according to plan, only Mantle didn’t swing.
Instead he turned around to ask Price, “What the hell was that?”
The catcher replied simply, “Be ready.”
It was a response reminiscent of the cryptic line from W. P. Kinsella’s novel, later immortalized by Kevin Costner in the movie Field of Dreams—“Go the distance.” Indeed, everything seemed set for the Mick to do just that as McLain lobbed the next one right in there, as well. Yet a confused Mantle once again took the pitch, this time for strike two.
“Is he gonna do it again?” Mantle asked, incredulously.
“I’m not sure,” Price replied. “Let me ask him.”
Unbelievably, Price took another trip out to the mound to ask McLain if the fix was still in now that everybody in uniform and a growing number of spectators had already figured out something was going on.
“Mick wants to know if you’re going to do it again,” Price told McLain.
“Of course I’m going to do it again,” McLain answered, barely able to contain his laughter. “Tell him to be ready this time.”
Price went back behind the plate and confirmed to Mantle, “Yeah, he’s gonna do it again.”
Not quite as memorable as “Be ready,” but this time it would do the trick. McLain wasn’t leaving anything to chance, however, and so he yelled in from the mound, asking Mantle where he wanted the ball. The slugger motioned for an offering almost letter-high, on the inner half of the plate. After nodding in reply, that’s exactly where McLain put his next pitch and Mantle promptly jacked it out of the park. As he circled the bases, Mantle doffed his cap and yelled “Thank you” to McLain.
When the celebration was over, Joe Pepitone, the next batter up, stepped into the box and mimicked Mantle, motioning for the ball about letter-high, right out over the plate. McLain’s first pitch came in just under Pepitone’s chin, sending him to the ground in self-defense.
The Tigers won the game, 6–2, which made McLain 31–5 for the season. He was the first thirty-plus game winner in the majors since Lefty Grove in 1931. But, of course, what everybody wanted to talk about after the game was the incident in the eighth inning.
“I’m a big fan of Denny McLain,” Mantle told reporters.
At the time, McLain refused to acknowledge that he had orchestrated the at-bat. But years later, in his second autobiography, the pitcher declared, “It was a Hall of Famer being honored in the best fashion of all, having him perform what he was most famous for. I cherish it as one of my warmest baseball memories.”
When told that McLain had served up a home-run ball to Mantle in a measure of respect, Bob Gibson couldn’t believe it. “My method of showing respect for a guy like Mantle,” Gibson said, “would have been to reach back for something extra with which to blow his ass away.”
Commissioner William Eckert announced an investigation into the Mantle incident but nothing really came of it. The Yankees returned to the Bronx to play the Red Sox and that’s where Mantle hit the last home run of his eighteen-year career—a two-out shot in the third inning off Boston’s Jim Lonborg, the previous season’s Cy Young.
Of course, McLain wasn’t the first pitcher to play favorites. In fact Milt Pappas, who took such a strong stand after Robert Kennedy’s assassination, had nearly changed the course of baseball history by doing so. In 1961, the Yankees’ Roger Maris was chasing Babe Ruth’s single-season home-run record. Ford Frick, the commissioner at that time, decreed that if Maris didn’t break the Babe’s record in the same number of games (154), any new mark would have an asterisk.
“In so many words, Frick was telling Roger that his achievement wasn’t worth full recognition and he, Roger Maris, wasn’t as good as the great Babe Ruth,” Pappas later accounted. “What a crappy thing to do to a nice guy like Roger. Frick had a lot of shortcomings as commissioner, and this was the lousiest of them all.”
The Yankees played games 153, 154, 155, and 156 that season in Baltimore against the Orioles, Pappas’s team at the time. And lo and behold, Pappas was scheduled to start game Number 154. The night before the contest, Pappas ran into Maris and Mantle deep in the bowels of Memorial Stadium in Baltimore. At that point, the outspoken pitcher laid it out for Maris. As a disbelieving Mantle looked on, Pappas told Maris that he was going to throw him nothing but fastballs the next day.
“I want to see you break the record,” Pappas said. “So if I’m shaking my head, I’m calling off either a slider or a changeup. I’m throwing nothing but fastballs.”
“Are you serious?” Maris asked.
“Damn right, Roger,” Pappas replied.
The next night, Pappas’s plan nearly rewrote the record book. True to his word, he grooved fastball after fastball to Maris. In his first at-bat, Maris didn’t quite get under the ball enough, lining out to right field. In his second appearance at the plate, Maris drove a Pappas fastball deep for his fifty-ninth home run of the season, putting him one behind the Babe.
Yet Pappas also threw one too many fastballs to the rest of the Yankees’ lineup. New York was ahead 4–0 when Maris came up next and Pappas had already been lifted for a reliever. Maris went homer-less in his next three at-bats in Baltimore.
As Pappas remembered, “That was the end of Roger’s a
ttempt to equal Ruth’s record in 154 games.”
Maris did finally hit his sixty-first home run, on the last day of the season, off Boston’s Tracy Stallard. For his part, Frick rolled out a designation in the record book that there was a 154-game record (Ruth) and a 162-game record (Maris).
Regardless of skill or ability, there are often many intangibles that remain outside a pitcher’s control. How else to explain Bob Gibson’s nine losses in a season when his ERA was an as-yet-unsurpassed record 1.12? Or Milt Pappas’s inability to take baseball history into his own hands? As Nolan Ryan once said, “To have any hope at succeeding as a pitcher, you can have the best stuff in the world, but can you put it where you need to with several thousand people at a given time watching? That’s the real challenge.”
Since reaching the big leagues in 1961, right-hander Ray Washburn had been an enigma for the Cardinals. Despite a quality fastball and outstanding slider—stuff that drew comparisons with Gibson at times— Washburn rarely had the record to show for it. Beginning the ’68 season, his major-league record stood at just 51–44. Yet, perhaps to the surprise of many, he would be the author of one of the most fitting footnotes to the regular season.
On September 17, 1968, the Giants’ Gaylord Perry no-hit the visiting Cardinals at Candlestick Park. Undoubtedly Perry received a major assist from the fact the contest came days after St. Louis clinched the National League pennant in Houston. Matched against Gibson, Perry allowed walks to Mike Shannon and Phil Gagliano in no-hitting the Cardinals. Tim McCarver and Gibson himself were the only visiting hitters to even get the ball out of the infield. With the feat, Perry became the second pitcher from eastern North Carolina to no-hit a team in the majors that year. The A’s Jim “Catfish” Hunter, who grew up in Hertford, North Carolina, about sixty-five miles from the Perry’s family farm, twirled his perfect game on May 8, 1968.
