THE FINAL COUNTDOWN
Murph sat at his desk and stared at the walls of his office. They were more like pages of a history book than walls. Each was adorned with photographs of Braves’ past and all who had been there before him. He sipped his whiskey as his eyes went frame by frame. John Montgomery Ward, the man who was the first to call the national league team from Boston the Braves. Dick Rudolph and Bill James, the dynamic one-two pitching punch that carried the club all the way to its only World Series crown in 1914. Of course the photo next to that one interested him more. It was a faded shot of manager George Stallings, holding the World Series trophy. The words MIRACLE MAN had been inscribed on the bottom of the photo. Murph lingered over that one for a while.
There were so many others to look at, like Johnny Evers, Burleigh Grimes, Rabbit Maranville, and George Sisler—all Boston baseball icons. Then there were the framed still lifes of other watershed moments in Braves’ history—the opening of Braves Field in 1915, Tom Hughes’s brilliant no-hitter, and the 1948 National League pennant. Murph could have sat there for hours, trolling through the pictorial annals of Braves’ history, but knew if he had any shot at taking his place on those walls alongside the other greats, he had to focus on what was before him.
The first things he examined were the standings. After completing a sweep of the Dodgers, then going on to win three of the next four games, he found himself still trailing the league-leading Phillies by two games. That was the bad news. The good news, however, was that his final three contests of the season were to be played against those same Phillies, at home in front of a crowd that had grown more vocal in its support of the team as it crept closer to the ultimate prize.
Murph spent a good two hours working out his pitching rotation and lineups for the three-game showdown. His head hurt, but there was still a lot of work to be done. He had just opened a folder filled with game stats and player profiles, intent on double-checking everything he had already done, when the phone rang.
“Oh, Arthur, I’m so happy I finally got you,” Molly said. “I’ve been trying and trying to reach you at home but the phone just keeps ringing.”
“Yeah, I haven’t spent too much time at home lately,” he said, sighing. “I’ve pretty much moved into my office here at the ballpark.”
“I know, I know. Mickey told me all about what’s going on. Of course I have been following from here, but when he called the other night to tell me that you guys have a real chance to make it to the World Series, I couldn’t believe it. I am so happy for you. For both of you.”
He shut his eyes and shook his head. “You know, Molly, you would have known that, and a whole lot more, if you were here where you belong. I really could use the support.”
She said nothing. The silence irked him.
“So what—I could be playing on the biggest stage in the world in a few days, and you’re not going to be here—because it’s Boston?”
She fought valiantly to keep his words from marring the moment. “That’s why I’m calling. I told Mickey that I would not miss both of you playing in the World Series for anything. I have plans already to be there if—I mean when—it happens. How could I miss that? Don’t be foolish, Arthur. We’re having a little disagreement about some things, but I love you. And I know how much this means to you, how long you have waited.”
Ambivalence stabbed at him.
“I love you too, Molly,” he said. “I told you before, I spent many years in baseball as a bachelor. It got lonely. Very lonely. I was really happy the way things changed after we were together—felt right. And now this. I’m okay. And I’m happy you’ll be here if we manage to pull this thing off. I just wish things were different. That’s all.”
Murph carried that feeling with him to the opening game against the Phillies. He was worried, too, that he had taken his team this far and had accomplished so much but could still come up short. The anxiety made his head heavy, like the viscous clouds hanging low in the darkening sky that threatened to spoil the night’s activity. He had Spahn on the hill, and their bats had never been hotter all season, but still, he could not help but feel that it was all about to crumble beneath storm clouds and wild winds.
But the clouds never opened up, the winds moved on, and Spahn took the ball in front of forty thousand screaming fans and instantly set the tone—kicking his right foot high in the air before fanning leadoff man Eddie Waitkus on a 2-2 curveball that spun artfully over the inside half of the plate. It was a good sign for sure.
“Spahny only threw nine curveballs last game,” Mickey whispered to Murph as the two sat on the bench watching the events unfold. “Just two for strikes. Rest were fastballs mostly. Seventy-eight exactly. The other fourteen were screwballs and changeups. Not sure how many of each. If you want I can—”
“Mick, it’s okay,” Murph said, still wrestling with anxiety simmering deep inside his stomach. “As long as he can drop that hook in the zone tonight, like he just did, and can do the same with everything else, I don’t give a rat’s ass how many he throws of anything.”
Spahn’s sharpness carried over to the rest of the team. The Braves batted around in their half of the first, sending ten men to the plate in one of their most productive innings of the season. They banged out seven hits and scored six times, a relentless barrage that sent Phillies’ ace Robin Roberts for an early shower.
The rest of the game followed a similar pattern. Spahn dazzled Phillies hitters with an assortment of pitches, rendering their bats ineffective, and the Braves’ offense continued to pump and grind like a massive machine, producing eight more runs en route to a resounding 14–1 trouncing of a stunned Phillies squad. Murph’s stomach was still tight, but he was able to smile afterward as he addressed his team.
“Okay, that was a pretty good start, fellas,” he said. The entire room erupted in laughter. Murph laughed too, but only until the circumstance in which he toiled again slid across his consciousness, altering his attitude and the rest of what he chose to share with his team.
“I want all of you to feel good, at least for a little while, but remember that we have not won anything yet. We are still one loss away from the end. Trailing by one game with two left is not cause for celebration. All it does is give us a chance—a chance that we need to take advantage of. Some of us may never get this close again.” He paused for a moment, as if he had never really thought about what he said until just now.
“When you walk out of here today, leave all the hoopla behind, men. We have a lot of work to do still. Tomorrow night is round two. Come back here ready for a fight.”
Murph’s words were powerful but also prophetic. The Phillies came into the Bee Hive wearing the wounds of the previous night’s beating, but they stood tall, suggesting they were not yet ready to just roll over and die.
They parlayed that attitude into an instant assault on the field. An angry Eddie Waitkus lined Johnny Sain’s first pitch right past the pitcher’s head for a leadoff single. The well-struck blow did more than just set the table for the visiting Phillies, who scored two runs in their first at bat—it delivered a clear message to the upstart Braves that they were not going to go down quietly, if at all.
The first fastball buzzed under the chin of Lester in the Braves’ half of the first inning. The purpose pitch sent Lester to the dirt. The normally even-tempered Lester emerged from the dust cloud a changed man, glaring out at the mound. He brushed off the evidence from his plunge to earth, cocked his bat, grit his teeth, and proceeded to deposit the next pitch over the center field wall, answering the challenge with a thunderous reply that had the home crowd cheering just as loudly as they had booed only moments before. It was the only run the Braves scored that inning, but it was enough to make everyone in the ballpark understand that they were for real and were not going anywhere.
Johnny Sain had his own answer to the Phillies’ calculated efforts. He knocked down two of their batters during the next inning, the second of which cleared the benches. Both
teams spilled out of the dugouts and onto the field, morphing into a riotous swirl that washed across the infield grass with fury and fire. They eventually paired off, with fists full of flannel. The umpires were quick to disperse the mob and restore order before any punches were thrown, but not before Murph and Phillies skipper Eddie Sawyer had an opportunity to exchange pleasantries.
“This ain’t rookie ball, Murphy,” Sawyer jawed. “You play with fire up here, you get burned.”
Murph appeared unaffected by his counterpart’s warning.
“I like it hot, Eddie. I’m from the South, so don’t you worry about me.”
When play resumed, Sain showed no ill effects from being at the center of the scrum, retiring the side in order with very little difficulty. The next few innings were tension-filled but just as uneventful, with both teams mounting little or no offense. The few runners on each side who managed to reach base safely wound up stranded as both squads traded zeroes for the better part of the game. Both sides were feeling the pressure, but it was Murph and the Braves that really felt the noose tightening as they still trailed 2–1 heading into their final at bat.
The suffocation grew worse after Sam Jethroe flew out to left field on the first pitch he saw. The massive ballpark, which was once bristling with hope and anticipation, now resembled a balloon that had lost most of its air. Everyone felt it—a nagging, impending doom that became even more real after Willard Marshall grounded out to shortstop. The entire Braves’ dugout seemed to wilt. An eerie silence rolled across the stands like a thick fog. They had come so far, and now they stood on the precipice of elimination. Murph couldn’t even watch as Earl Torgeson, their final hope, stepped into the batter’s box.
Torgeson took the first pitch he saw for a ball. He stepped out of the box, exhaled loudly, then got back in to continue his at bat. The next pitch also missed, high and tight. The classic hitter’s count made Torgeson breathe a little easier, but did little to assuage the angst of his teammates and the crowd that was watching the proceedings through fanned fingers. Even when the third and fourth balls were thrown, and Torgeson was granted first base, all that remained in the stadium was a somber silence, interrupted by the impassioned cries of some of the Phillies players who were now urging their pitcher for one last out.
It was only after Lester lined a 2-2 curveball into left field that the collective heartbeat of the crowd resurfaced and became alive once more. Hands that had previously been used as a shield against heart wrenching catastrophe were now creating thunderous clapping that reverberated for miles. In a matter of seconds, despair had been converted to hope. There was—all at once—a chance. It was possible. Everyone knew it.
All eyes were on Buddy Ozmore as he carried with him to home plate an opportunity for salvation. Murph was watching too. He couldn’t help but be swept away by the reality that they were just one hit away from tying this thing.
“Come on, Ozzy,” he yelled. “All you, now. This is you. Take us home.”
Ozmore had never expected to be in this position. After Marshall made the second out, Ozmore had already untied his cleats and pulled off his jersey. His thoughts had left the field and traveled to his cabin in the woods, to his off-season hunting and fishing trips. But a turn of events had him right back, front and center, with an opportunity to rescue his team and the city that so desperately wanted something to cheer about.
It took him some time to get ready once he walked up to the plate. He placed one foot in the batter’s box, moved around some dirt, then pulled it back out, like someone testing the temperature of bath water. He breathed in the excitement that was riding on the crisp night air, moved his head back and forth in an effort to loosen the muscles in his neck, and stepped back into the box with both feet this time.
The first pitch he saw was a called strike. He made no attempt at it—let it go by as if it were tossed to him in a dream. He was awake now and uncomfortably aware of the disadvantage his momentary paralysis had created. The hammering of his heart matched the pulsating excitement of the stadium. His blood rushed quickly now, filling his muscles with renewed purpose and strength. The sudden surge of vigor served him well, flowing through his arms and hands and into his bat. The next pitch he saw would be the last. His eye caught sight of it the second it left the pitcher’s hand, as if released in slow motion. It moved toward him, laces spinning, on a path that was straight and true. The closer it came, the larger it grew, until finally it sat before him, a great white pearl whose value rose exponentially when Ozmore struck it clean, sending it through the middle of the diamond into center field. Torgeson, who took flight the instant he heard the crack of the bat, scored easily, bringing with him the tying run and immediate cause for a wild celebration that ripped through the entire ballpark.
“We’re alive again, Murph!” Keely yelled, jumping up and down like a little boy. “Shit, I can’t believe this. Do you hear this place? We’re back! We are back! Whoa! I just hope the building holds up long enough so that we can finish the damn thing.”
Murph smiled. All of a sudden the weight of the dark sky above them was endurable. “We’re gonna finish it,” Murph replied. “We’ve got to.”
The crowd continued to stand, roar, and stamp its feet. It was complete bedlam inside the Bee Hive. Phillies’ pitcher Blix Donnelly was eager to get back to work, but had to step off the rubber more than once just to gather his thoughts. Sid Gordon waited as well, just outside the batter’s box, as the legion of Boston Braves fans continued to bask in the splendor of their sudden good fortune. It took a full four or five minutes before order was restored so the players could resume their business.
Gordon jumped right in the second the umpire put on his mask and pointed to the pitcher’s mound. He felt only a fraction of the trepidation that those before him wrestled with, for the worst that could happen now—even if he failed—was extra innings. And, of course, there was that chance that the baseball gods would smile on him at just the right moment, branding him the creator of some late-inning heroics.
Gordon’s peace of mind was evident in his approach, as he offered at Donnelly’s first delivery, fouling it straight back. The crowd, which was still on its feet, let go a collective oooh that washed across the field from one foul line to the next. He had just missed it. Donnelly knew it too and altered his plan accordingly, serving up back-to-back breaking balls that both missed low and away.
With the count again back in Gordon’s favor, he dug in deeper and focused on getting something out over the plate that he could drive somewhere. Donnelly knew that was what Gordon was probably thinking, so he ran his next fastball in on Gordon’s hands, resulting in an awkward check swing that produced a harmless foul tip that rolled quietly to the side of home plate. Donnelly’s next pitch was in tight as well, but missed its mark by two inches. The 3-2 count escalated the crowd’s impatience and engendered once again a cacophonous outpouring of emotion. Donnelly stepped off the rubber, waiting for the surge to subside, but when it became evident that the only end to the storm would come by way of a third and final out, he resumed his position on top of the mound, took his sign, and fired. The payoff pitch was yet another two-seam fastball designed to bore in on Gordon’s fists. When it left Donnelly’s hand, the beleaguered hurler was satisfied that he had executed the delivery successfully; the ball would slice the air and slash across the inner half of the plate, ending up in Gordon’s kitchen. It was the perfect 3-2 pitch.
But somewhere between its takeoff and appointed destination, the ball veered off course, altering its trajectory just enough to allow Gordon an opportunity to pull his hands through the hitting zone in an inside out motion, lofting a weak fly ball—the proverbial dying quail—that spun and fell in between the second baseman and right fielder. Under normal circumstances, such a weak effort would not have been enough to allow Lester to come around with the game winning run. But the wily catcher’s two out jump from second base, coupled with a crazy English that had the ball spinning all over the pl
ace, made Lester’s jaunt home more like a leisurely jog than a mad dash to victory. By the time the Phillies’ right fielder had the ball, Lester was home safely and the celebration was unfolding.
The mania of the moment spilled over into the next night, fueled even further by the various headlines emblazoned on every newspaper in town. The sentiments varied, but the city had just one thing on its mind.
BRAVES ALMOST THERE
ONE WIN AWAY
BRAVES SHOOT FOR SERIES
It had been on Murph’s mind too, so much that he could barely close his eyes the previous night when his head had hit the pillow. It was no better now, as he sat in his office, scratching out the lineup card for the most important game of his career.
His stomach burned, and his breathing was labored as if he just had the wind knocked out of him. His ears were ringing with the sound of Molly’s voice wishing him good luck. It made him feel better on some level, but he could not help but think that he could have used her there with him. The phone call actually had made him feel worse.
But he was riding a serious wave of momentum, and he had Mickey, who by now was the odds-on favorite for Rookie of the Year honors, taking the ball. It all seemed perfectly lined up. Even the weather was right. The morning sun, which had been blinding and unusually warm for this time of year, slipped quietly into the night. Now what remained was a brilliant twilight sky, a cobalt blue mat that was diffused artfully with pinkish hues. Murph wanted to believe it was a harbinger of good things to come.
As game time approached, the sky faded to black, lit now only by a three-quarter moon and a collection of stars that were scattered about. The crowd was sparkling too, intoxicated with excitement and expectation and nourished by the thought that maybe, just maybe, they were about to witness another chapter in baseball history.
Welcome to the Show Page 23
