by Tim Wendel
Everything came together at a “disastrous point in terms of the picture,” Mann said decades later. “The little girl cousin, who has been crippled, is trying desperately to crawl and stand and start to walk, and the wheelchair rolls away. It was really quite a tense moment.”
So tense that Mann began to jump up and down in front of the television, cursing his own production. He wasn’t the only unhappy camper. By this point, the switchboard at NBC had ceased to function. Instead, irate viewers called NBC affiliates, local radio stations, and newspapers. In fact, the New York Times and NYPD absorbed so many calls in protest that the phone grid in Manhattan nearly went down. “Ten years before it wouldn’t have caused such an uproar,” NBC executive Scott Connell said. “[But] that’s how important football and televised sports had become.”
Soon after the film ended, NBC president Goodman issued a statement, calling the incident “a forgivable error committed by humans who were concerned about children expecting to see Heidi at 7 p.m.”
He added, “I missed the game as much as anyone else.”
Of course, back in ’68, television ratings weren’t as detailed as they are today. What the football moguls, especially those with the AFL, discovered was that their game was more popular with the general public than they even realized. Television executive Dick Ebersol said that the “Heidi Game” occurred “when the public was making the major leap from having baseball as the American pastime to making a full-body decision that football was the national game.”
The bottom line was that football was “a better match for TV than baseball,” said Robert Thompson, the founding director of the Bleier Center for Television and Popular Culture at Syracuse University. “People had been realizing that since they got their first television back in the late 1940s and into the 1950s. By the time we get to 1968, it’s really becoming clear that baseball may be America’s pastime, but football is television’s sport.
“It’s not like the ‘Heidi Game’ caused any of that. But what the game really symbolized was now that a television programming story, a mess-up in how the networks aired a program, could make the front page of The New York Times.... That was a big symbolic moment. The one thing that the story seems to be telling us is that you don’t take away our football. Maybe the ‘Heidi Game’ underscores that symbolic moment when football became, in the eyes of America, an inalienable right.”
That afternoon, as I drove home on Interstate 95, I tried to determine why football surpassed baseball as the most popular game in America. On sports-talk radio out of Philadelphia, the hubbub of the day was about Derek Jeter. The night before, in a game against the Tampa Bay Rays, an inside pitch had struck the knob end of Jeter’s bat. Looking for an edge, the Yankees’ shortstop jumped back, appearing to be in pain, pretending that the ball had hit him on the wrist or hand. For his Academy Award performance, Jeter was awarded first base and later came around to score. The following day the debate raged about Jeter’s actions. Was it cheating or simply smart baseball?
As I listened to the comments, I realized how rarely this happens in baseball. The grand old game still hasn’t fully embraced instant replay. In comparison, football long ago made the camera and slow-motion replay part of its game. Much of that process took place at NFL Films. In the time frame of the late 1960s, the replays of Bart Starr’s quarterback sneak in the Ice Bowl or Joe Namath signaling his team was number one while running off the field would be played over and over again—shown until they became ingrained into our sports consciousness.
In Super Bowl III, Namath’s Jets shocked the world, upsetting the Baltimore Colts, 16–7. Overnight, talk of play-in games, a postseason bracket that favored the more established teams from the National Football League, all but disappeared.
The epic upset solidified “the thinking of the public that football is football,” New York Jets guard Bob Talamini said in the victorious locker room, “and the NFL and AFL can be mentioned in the same breath.”
Back in the 1960s, the Hickok Belt was among the most prestigious awards an athlete could win. Given annually by the Hickok Manufacturing Company of Rochester, New York, a leading manufacturer of men’s belts and accessories, the prize itself was a wonder to behold, made of alligator skin with a five-pound solid gold buckle and encrusted with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. The gems were so valuable that some winners had them removed from the glittering cummerbunds and redone into necklaces and earring for wives and girlfriends. First awarded in 1950 to Phil Rizzuto, subsequent Hickok winners included Willie Mays, Arnold Palmer, Mickey Mantle, Jim Brown, Sandy Koufax, Brooks Robinson and Muhammad Ali, with Kenny Stabler receiving the final Hickok Belt in 1977 after the company suffered financial difficulties. Chosen by a panel of three hundred national sportswriters and sportscasters, the award was “an Oscar, a Tony and an Emmy all rolled into one,” said Scott Pitoniak, whose book Jewel of the Sports World details the history of the Hickok Belt.
After the 1968 season, New York Jets quarterback Joe Namath was named the Hickok Award winner. The decision proved to be controversial in more ways than one. Many believed Bill Russell should have won, and indeed Sports Illustrated named the Boston Celtics player-coach its “Sportsman of the Year.” And of course such accolades overlooked the impressive parade of baseball stars that made ’68 the “ Year of the Pitcher”—Bob Gibson, Luis Tiant, Don Drysdale, Mickey Lolich, and Denny McLain.
That off-season Namath was on a USO tour of Southeast Asia and couldn’t attend the Hickok dinner. Yet Lolich and McLain were there and the Tigers’ duo made sure the evening made headlines.
“When Lolich took the microphone, he began blistering the voters who chose, in his words, ‘a one-game wonder over a thirty-one game winner,’” Pitoniak said. “This went on for a few minutes as the dinner organizers began sinking down in their seats. When Lolich finished his tirade, many in the audience applauded.”
Smooth as ever, McLain congratulated Namath when it was his turn at the podium, saying the decision was a good one. Afterward McLain told the organizers to donate his appearance fee to charity.
Years later, the Hickok family wondered if Lolich’s criticism was really all a ruse, whether Lolich may have felt he should have won the Hickok Belt based upon his three victories in the 1968 World Series.
After the 1968 season, baseball’s powers that be lowered the pitcher’s mound by five inches and shrunk the strike zone, with the area from the armpits to the top of the batter’s knee now being deemed a called strike.
This was done to generate more offense. Perhaps baseball should have simply let expansion and the new divisional playoff format do the heavy lifting instead. Before the 1969 season, four new teams were added—in Seattle and Kansas City in the American League, and Montreal and San Diego in the National League. Fifty players were parceled out to the new ballclubs, weakening several of the impressive pitching staffs of that era.
“Things were never the same again,” Bob Gibson wrote. “As soon as the 1968 season was over the great thinkers of baseball, in their infinite wisdom, started screwing around with the game on the premise that the only way to fix it—the implication being that good pitching, as demonstrated so conspicuously in 1968, was inherently a problem—was to manipulate conditions in a way that would offer new hope to hitters. Some have called these changes the Gibson Rules in light of the fact that it was my 1.12 ERA that caused so much of the panic.”
In 1970, Willie Horton made the American League All-Star Team for the third time. Before the game, while sitting in the visitor’s clubhouse at Cincinnati’s old Riverfront Stadium, Horton looked across the field at where the National League Squad was gathering and decided to try again. He knew that Bob Gibson had been selected, too. The Cardinals’ pitcher would be in uniform for his sixth consecutive Midsummer Classic.
“I’m not one who gives up that easily,” Horton said. “So I got ahold of another ball. But this time I was going to be a bit smarter about everything. I got one of the clubhouse kids to
take it over to get Gibson to sign.”
Later, the kid returned with the ball, which now had Gibson’s signature between the looping in the laces. Years later, when both were out of uniform, Horton would get to know Gibson well enough to personally ask for and receive an autograph from the famous pitcher. But such times were still to come.
For now, in the shadow of 1968, the two of them remained rivals, seemingly always going against one another. That’s why Horton couldn’t help but smile as he studied the autographed ball, so appreciative of what he now held in his hand.
Aftermath
When you’re successful, like we were last year, it changes your life. In a lot of respects, failure is easier to cope with. You’re all finding that out because your lives are completely different than they were last year at this time. You’ve had a lot of things come your way, a lot of good things, and a lot of new pressures.
—DETROIT TIGERS OWNER JOHN FETZER
THE DETROIT TIGERS
After taking the 1968 World Series, the Tigers appear ready for a long run as the premier team in the American League. It isn’t to be.
The Baltimore Orioles, with new manager Earl Weaver firmly in charge, run away from the rest of the league in the first year of divisional play, finishing nineteen games ahead of second-place Detroit. After sweeping the Minnesota Twins, the Orioles are favored to take the Fall Classic. But they are upset by the Amazin’ Mets in five games.
The Tigers don’t return to the postseason until 1972, where they lose three games to two to the Oakland Athletics in the American League Championship Series. Led by Catfish Hunter, Blue Moon Odom, and Rollie Fingers, the Athletics become the preeminent team in the junior circuit, winning three consecutive World Series.
Detroit doesn’t win another championship until 1984.
Mickey Lolich
After winning three complete games in the 1968 World Series, the last pitcher to accomplish the feat, Mickey Lolich appears poised to be recognized as one of the top pitchers in the game. But the transformation to elite status doesn’t quite take hold. In 1971, he goes 25–14, leading the American League in victories, games started, innings pitched, and strikeouts, only to finish second to Oakland Athletics’ phenom Vida Blue in Cy Young balloting. In 1976, Lolich is traded to the New York Mets and then finishes his career with the San Diego Padres. While his career winning percentage is a pedestrian .532 (217–191), he ends his career undefeated in World Series play.
If anything, he becomes just as beloved for running a donut shop in the Detroit suburbs. He eventually sells the business and retires to his homes in Oregon and Michigan. He often coaches at the Tiger Fantasy Camp in Lakeland, Florida.
Denny McLain
Six days after the World Series ends, Denny McLain plays the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas. The marquee sign reads Denny “31” McLain and he’s booked for a two-week engagement in the hotel’s lounge, which is also home to comedian Shecky Green. Other headliners within a few blocks include Alan King, Harry James, and Mama Cass.
A row of baseballs top McLain’s organ and he certainly looks the part, dressed in a Nehru jacket and gold-chain medallion. His joke that he “wouldn’t trade Bob Gibson for twelve Mickey Lolichs” brings down the house, but overall the act doesn’t have legs. Standup comic Marty Allen, who is appearing in the main showroom at the Riviera, pays a visit along with singer Phyllis McGuire to help spice things up. McLain’s Vegas debut is called “less than smashing” by critics and his two-week engagement isn’t extended. The right-hander claims it doesn’t matter. He has plenty of other gigs, several in Detroit, so many in fact that he expects to clear $250,000 in his first off-season after winning thirty-one games.
As well as McLain pitched in ’68 while becoming the first pitcher in three decades to reach the thirty-victory plateau, many believe he threw even better the following season. While he drops to just twenty-four victories, McLain leads the American League with nine shutouts. But his career is closer to the end than anybody realizes.
Cortisone shots and innings pitched have taken their toll. In addition, new commissioner Bowie Kuhn suspends him for his involvement with gambling. McLain wins only three games in fourteen starts and is traded to the lowly Washington Senators after the 1970 season in a blockbuster deal that sends Tigers McLain, Don Wert, Norm McRae, and Elliott Maddox to the nation’s capital for Joe Coleman, Ed Brinkman, Jim Hannan, and Aurelio Rodriguez. Senators manager Ted Williams, a critic of the trade, doesn’t really want the right-hander. McLain splits the 1972 season between the Oakland Athletics and Atlanta Braves (this last deal involving Orlando Cepeda) before retiring from the game.
Outside the lines, McLain’s life dissolves into equal parts soap opera and Greek tragedy. After becoming a popular radio talk-show host in Detroit, he’s charged with racketeering, extortion and cocaine trafficking in 1984. Sentenced to twenty-three years in prison, he serves less than three after an appeals court throws out his conviction. The government decides not to retry the case.
A decade later, he’s back in prison after he and a business partner purchase the Peet Packing Company in Chesaning, Michigan, and then rob almost $2.5 million from the employee pension fund. They are convicted of embezzlement, money laundering, and mail fraud. McLain does time at a federal prison camp for nonviolent offenders and later performs work release at a 7-Eleven store in Sterling Heights, Michigan. “It was packed in there, but I was very lonely,” McLain says of his time behind bars. “The boredom in prison just kills you.”
“I believe in forgiveness,” retired Tigers’ announcer Ernie Harwell says after McLain’s release in 2003. “Denny’s had a lot of lives. He’s come back and then fallen again, so we’ll have to wait and see.”
Willie Horton
By hitting thirty-six home runs in 1968, Willie Horton establishes himself as one of the outfield stars for the Tigers. He plays for Detroit until 1977 when he is traded to the Texas Rangers. From there he plays for the Cleveland Indians, Oakland Athletics, Toronto Blue Jays, and Seattle Mariners in short order. He goes on to play two more years in the Pacific Coast League and another season in Mexican baseball. Through it all, he still wears the same batting helmet from his Tigers’ days, which he repaints at each stop.
In July 2000, a statue to Willie “the Wonder” Horton is unveiled behind the center-field fence at Comerica Park, the Tigers’ new home in Detroit. By then Horton has returned to the fold as a special assistant to Tigers president Dave Dombrowski. Horton still prides himself on knowing somebody wherever his travels may take him.
Al Kaline
If it wasn’t for Mickey Lolich’s heroics, Al Kaline could have been named the 1968 World Series Most Valuable Player. He hit .379 in his first and only Fall Classic appearance in his twenty-two-year career, with two home runs and eight runs batted in. By the time he retires in 1974, he has played in 2,834 games, fifth-best in baseball history at the time. Elected to baseball’s Hall of Fame in Cooperstown in 1980, he is named a special assistant to the Tigers. Decades later, he would say his biggest thrill in baseball was winning the 1968 World Series. His biggest disappointment? Losing the pennant on the last day of the season in 1967.
Gates Brown
With his eighteen pinch-hits, Gates Brown will be remembered as one of the few hitters to have success in the “Year of the Pitcher.” In 1974, he again demonstrates why he is one of the top clutch hitters ever to wear a Detroit uniform as he picks up a league-high sixteen pinch-hits in fifty-three at-bats.
Brown retires after the 1975 season, all of them with the Tigers, ranking tenth on the American League all-time pinch-hitting list. Decades later, he can still be found at the ballpark in Detroit, signing autographs and talking with the fans.
Dick McAuliffe
After leading the American League in runs scored in 1968, Dick McAuliffe is limited to seventy-four games the following season due to a serious knee injury. Even though he will play another four seasons in Detroit, he will never be the threat he was in 196
8.
After the 1973 season, the Tigers trade McAuliffe to Boston for outfielder Ben Oglivie. Expected to challenge Doug Griffin for the Red Sox’s second base job, McAuliffe hits only .210 and retires after playing just seven games the following season. “I never should have left Detroit,” he says. “That’s where I was the most comfortable. That’s where I should have finished up.”
Jon Warden
Despite being the only player on either roster in the 1968 World Series (fifty players in total), not to appear in a single game, the future appears bright for the hard-throwing left-hander. With baseball expanding by two teams in the American League and National League, Warden is left unprotected by the Tigers and selected by the Kansas City Royals. Soon after reporting to camp in the spring of 1969, though, Warden becomes sidelined with a sore shoulder. Instead of going north with the big-league club, he is sent down to the minors. While Warden struggles to find the prowess he exhibited early in the ’68 season, he discovers he has a knack for making people laugh. In Oklahoma City, where the hometown team has a cowboy fire blanks to the sky after an 89ers’ home run, Warden decides the visiting Omaha Royals could do just as well. He brings a blank-shooting pistol to the ballpark and teammate Steve Boros helps him tape on a fake mustache. When his team hits a long ball, Warden comes bounding out of the visiting dugout, firing away. Jack McKeon, then the Omaha manager, calls Warden the team’s cheerleader and appreciates his ability to keep his teammates loose.
