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As the Red Sox came to bat in the third inning of the scheduled game with the Detroit Tigers that afternoon, the announcer informed the crowd that Dan Nugent, who had been taken off the field on a stretcher at the end of the exhibition game and rushed to the nearby Beth Israel hospital, had died of the heart attack he suffered while making the final play. The fans were asked to participate in a moment of silence in his memory.
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STEALING AWAY
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“A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
—Jackie Robinson
YOU KNOW, DAVE, you’ve gotta be at least the tenth writer who’s asked me that already, and by God it’s only the first damn day of spring training. All everyone seems to want to know is why Mo Fontaine didn’t come back to play baseball this year.
Well, for the record, I’ll tell you the same thing I told all the others. Mo just decided he’d be happier catching passes on a football field than playing this here game again. The simplest way I can put it is to say he’d rather score a touchdown than steal a base. He knows he’s one of the fastest guys anywhere and there’s big money to be made in the NFL today. I guess that’s why he didn’t see any sense in playing even part of the season anymore. If he did, he’d have to worry about 90-mile-an-hour fastballs coming at him or getting a knee torn up by some catcher blocking the plate. Too many ways a man can get hurt out there, especially when he’s the fastest center fielder in the league, like Mo was. He had that habit of running into fences if that’s what it took to make a catch. Mo knew he had to decide which sport meant more to him, and we lost out. No big story in that. A kid with so much talent just made the choice that was best for him.
Now put away your notebook, Dave, and I’ll tell you what really happened. This is just between you, me, and the lamppost, understand? Not for publication any time, agreed? Okay, you’re about the only writer out there I can trust to keep something like this to himself, and it’s a hell of a tale. Sad thing is, it shows how a good ballplayer can go off the deep end over something that shouldn’t mean spit.
What happened to Mo goes back to the first game of the Series last year, the one the Mets beat us 3-2. When you’re playing for that big gold ring that says “World Champions” on it, you don’t want to drop the opener like that. But anytime you’re going up against Matt Saunders, you know you’re not going to score a lot of runs.
It was the playoffs against Oakland, before we took on the Mets, that really messed us up. That’s because they made us go the full seven games to win, and Jake had to pitch Tommy Gleeson the first five innings of the last one. We had just two days off when it was finally over, so Tommy couldn’t start the Series for us. Don’t forget, he’d already thrown 22 innings in nine days and beat the A’s three times. Buddy Walker did a hell of a good job against the Mets in place of Tommy, but you always want to have your stopper to open the Series.
Do you remember how we got our two runs off the Mets in that game? On the first one, Fontaine walked, stole second, and scored on a hit by Brandon. Later on, he doubled to left on what would’ve been a single for anyone else, stole third, and came home on a fly ball to short center. That’s the play he slid in headfirst and grabbed the edge of the plate with his fingernails just before the tag. So if it wasn’t for Mo, we’d have gone into the top of the ninth down three-zip to Saunders, not just needing one run to tie.
Fontaine led off the inning for us and Jake told him in the dugout to be patient up there, see if he could work Saunders for another base on balls. But Saunders knew what Mo was after and hit the corners with smoke for strikes on his first two pitches. He wasted one and then tried to break a curve or a slider over the outside. You remember the bunt Mo laid down on that pitch with two strikes on him? Well, it was his own idea, not Jake’s, and it was a thing of beauty. Even though Conlon was still playing in close at third, there was no way he could beat Mo going down the line. That man just flies.
I think Kippinger was out of the Mets dugout as soon as Mo crossed the bag at first. Old Kip must weigh about 60 pounds more than he did in his playing days, all in his gut, but he was out at the mound in nothing flat. He’s got his ace working for him, but he knows that with that leg kick Saunders has, and being a right-hander, Mo can steal second off him in a breeze. Kip didn’t want to see that happen with no outs and a one-run lead.
Saunders wasn’t happy about leaving, you could see that, but Kip gave him the hook anyway and signaled for a southpaw to come in. We figured it meant Chico Hilton because he usually got the call late in the game. It was a big surprise when Judd Wheeler came walking across the outfield from the bullpen. Wheeler had been back with the Mets just over a month and they’d used him in relief about half a dozen times. He’d been on the DL the better part of two seasons after he blew out his rotator cuff the year before. Kippinger was working him in slowly, raising his pitch count each time, just to get a good look at him while he could. Remember that Wheeler had been a starter in the league for eleven years before the injury. I guess the Mets had to figure out whether he could come back for them or whether they’d think about dealing him over the winter.
I’d known Judd for a couple of years when we were both with the Giants, and I didn’t like him personally. He was a tough redneck from Mississippi. He just had no shame about things he’d holler from the dugout to players on the other side during a game. It didn’t bother him that pitchers had to bat in the National League. He’d say whatever he felt like saying without worrying about the consequences. And if he ever had to move out of the way of a fastball up at the plate, the other team knew that one of their guys was going to get the same treatment. A lot of the ballplayers called him “Johnny Rooster,” which was their way of saying he had a foul mouth on him.
Jake had seen plenty of Wheeler over the years too, and knew what he liked to throw. I reminded him that Wheeler had a sneaky pickoff move to first. “That’s why Kip’s bringing him in,” I said, “to try and keep Mo from taking off.”
While Wheeler was getting loose, Jake sent word out to Fontaine to draw a few throws so he could get a good look at his motion before taking off for second. Mo had the green light all the time, so it was just a matter of what pitch he’d go on. That’s why the whole damn infield came over to the mound after Wheeler finished his warm-ups. They were all reminding him that he had to keep Mo close at first.
You covered the game, so a lot of this ain’t news to you. When he got set, Wheeler threw over to the bag a couple of times before his first pitch to the plate. His move didn’t look anything special to me or to Jake either, though you can’t always spot everything on a lefty from the third base side.
The pitch to Brandon was a strike so that gave Fontaine less time to fool around. He took a longer lead off the bag and drew a hard throw, but got back standing. Then he moved off another half foot or so, where he knew he had to start from if he was going down. Wheeler gunned another one over, but Mo slid back in, way ahead of the tag. “Sneaky move, shit,” Jake said, “he must’ve lost it.” He spit out some seeds as he got up off that seat pad he uses on the bench during the game.
We both knew that Fontaine would be moving on the next pitch. Heck, everyone in the ballpark was looking for it. Remember, Mo had already stolen second 58 times in 62 tries, counting the playoffs. That gave him over 100 for his two years in the big leagues. No one else had numbers like that, but he had the perfect body for it. He was lean, all muscle, and those long arms and legs of his were a hell of an advantage on a close play. The only times they caught him all season were on pitchouts, and he should’ve been called safe on two of those. But some of those damn umpires standing there at second are all set to give the “out” sign as soon as they see the catcher figured the steal was on. Most runners don’t have a chance on a pitchout if the guy behind the plate has a decent arm. That’s why the umps treat it like an automatic out. I’ll tell you, Dave, sometimes the way they miss a call and scr
ew up the game can break your heart.
Anyhow, Wheeler went into his stretch, stopped, and then came up high with his right leg so you’d swear he was throwing to the plate. Fontaine was leaning towards second, ready to turn on the burners, and all of a sudden that crafty bastard made a move to first that he hadn’t shown before. It was a pisser. He’d been playing cat and mouse with Mo, giving him just one move all the time, setting him up for that one. Mo was dead in his tracks. He didn’t have a prayer in either direction. He took off for second but they got him in a rundown. You know something? It was the first time in his two big league seasons he’d ever been picked off.
Jake was on the field like a bat out of hell, screaming “balk” at the umps. But he knew that Wheeler had put one over on us. He didn’t want to get thrown out of the game, so he just bitched for a few minutes, making some moves with his body for the ump over at first. Problem was they didn’t look anything like what Wheeler had done.
Fontaine had to wait out there while Jake pleaded his case with the umpires. Meanwhile, the big scoreboard out in center field replayed the pickoff twice. Every time the Mets fans saw Mo fooled again, they cheered the play and jeered him unmercifully. When Jake got through beefing, Mo began to cross the infield toward the dugout. I could see Wheeler smirk at him and say something, but I couldn’t hear what it was.
I didn’t know back then that while Mo was jogging in, he felt like he was in the middle of a nightmare. I found out later that all he could think of at the time was his last two years of high school in Louisiana when the black kids from his neighborhood got bused to a school in the white part of town. Fontaine was the star player there in three sports: football, baseball, and track. The crowds at his games used to cheer the things he did on the field. But that was it. In school and after class the white kids wanted nothing to do with him. It was like he didn’t exist when he wasn’t playing ball.
In his senior year Mo was nominated for captain of each of those teams. But the coaches always made sure there were more whites playing than blacks. So he always lost out when the vote was between him and a white kid. He had to come to grips with the fact that the treatment he was getting in school was just because of his color. Fontaine was real sensitive, and that made it very painful for him. The only way he could hang in there emotionally was by always telling himself he was a better athlete than his white teammates.
Near the end of his senior year Mo got into trouble. A couple of white guys on the track team kept harassing this girl he used to date. Whenever she came around to watch him practice, they’d give her a hard time. One afternoon a fight started and the coach had to pull Fontaine off one of those kids. He told his story, but they expelled him from school and just gave the other boys a slap on the wrist. The black parents raised a fuss, but the school wouldn’t let Mo graduate with his class or attend the senior prom. Eventually, they backed down and gave him his diploma, but he’d missed out on all the fun.
One of our scouts saw Mo playing baseball that summer. We signed him and sent him to Single-A ball in the Gulf League. With that speed of his, he moved up fast through the minors, but always had a bad attitude toward whites. He didn’t give his managers or coaches any trouble but never wanted to have a white player for a roommate. They let him have his way on that until Charlie Bromax got him at Richmond in Triple-A. Charlie wouldn’t stand for it and told Fontaine he’d never see the inside of a major-league clubhouse if he didn’t smarten up fast. So Mo roomed with white ballplayers after that whenever he was told to — we put him with Gerry Graboski on the road all the time — but I guess he could never let go of that feeling he had from everything that had happened.
Anyway, when he jogged off the field in Shea after the pickoff, the fans were already letting him have it. That was bad enough, I guess. Then, as he went by the mound, he heard Wheeler say, “Better luck next time, black boy.” Those words brought that whole high school scene right back to him. This time, though, the white guy was better than he was, and had embarrassed him in front of 50,000 people.
Mo sat down on the bench and just stared out at the field while Wheeler got the last two outs. And that was the ball game.
No, that’s not the end of the story. It’s just the beginning. You wouldn’t have known what went on the rest of the Series from watching the game in the press box. You had to be there in the dugout to see what was happening with Fontaine and how it was driving Jake up a wall.
Gleeson came back for us in the second game. Tommy was still a little sore from the playoffs with Oakland, but he gave us seven good innings. We led all the way, after Corcoran’s three-run shot in the second. Morrison came in to finish up and we won it easy.
After the off day, we were home in our park for the next three games. I’ll tell you, Davey boy, that was the thrill of my life, especially the first one when the crowd stood up and really let us hear it while we were getting introduced. That’s the first World Series I was ever in, remember, and this here’s my seventeenth year in the Big Leagues, playing and coaching. Even though we’d already had those two games in New York, it took me a couple of innings to settle down and get into what was happening.
Every one of those games at home was close, and we were damn fortunate to win two of them. Of course Gleeson showed them all goose eggs in game five to put us one up going back to Shea, but Jake was beginning to have a nervous breakdown on account of what Fontaine was doing out there. Actually, it was because of what he wasn’t doing.
Go back to game three, for example. If you remember, we were tied 4-4 in the seventh. But at that point we’d blown a 4-1 lead and Jake had to lift Jimmy Ricci in the top of the inning to keep the Mets from going ahead. In our half he was hollering for the guys to get some runs on the board. If you remember, Fontaine walked with one out.
“Here we go, here we go,” Jake was saying. He whistled out to Fontaine to get his attention and told him to go on any pitch. He hollered it loud enough for everyone in the infield to hear him. Jake figured Mo was going to take off anyway, but he wanted Cooper to start worrying about it on the mound. That way, maybe he’d groove a fastball for Brandon or McTigue while he’s trying to give his catcher a chance to nail Mo when he went.
Cooper did everything he could to keep Mo close. For a right-hander, he’s got a really sweet move over there. Before every pitch to Brandon, he made Mo dive back to the bag two or three times. The count to Brandon went to 2 and 2, and Mo was still standing on first.
“What the hell’s he waiting for?” Jake kept asking, and I’m saying before every pitch, “This is it. He’s taking off now.” But I was wrong every time. I think the whole ballpark expected to see Fontaine on second already. The “Go, go, go” they were giving him kept getting louder all the time.
Well, Mo finally went on the next pitch and would have had the base stolen, but it was too late. Brandon swung at the ball and skied to right on a curve, deep enough so that Mo could have tagged and gone to third if he’d been on second at the time. But now he had to go back to first. By then, Jake was hot under the collar, and it got worse when McTigue smacked the first pitch into center for a single. Mo moved to third on it, but Jake knew we should have been up by a run already.
Cooper’s an old hand at this stuff and he stayed cool as a cucumber. He got ahead of Browning two strikes with a couple of good sliders and then froze him with some inside heat that caught the corner. We came up empty. Jake cursed, pulled a bat out of the rack, and looked like he was ready to do a small number on the watercooler.
One of the guys brought Fontaine’s glove out to him over by third, so Jake didn’t have a chance to say anything to him right then. The Mets went down one-two-three in their eighth and then Graboski put us ahead with his homer leading off. Jake told me he was going to have a little heart-to-heart talk with Fontaine before his next at bat. But we shut down the Mets in the ninth to end it, so Mo didn’t get up again.
There was a lot of stuff in the papers the next day about how it looked good for
us to win three in a row at home and take the Series. If I remember right, you had a story like that yourself. The Mets didn’t agree with you guys the way they handed us our lunch on the field. Saunders wasn’t great for them that day but he had it when he needed it. They had ten runs across by the fifth inning and no one Jake sent out there could do the job.
Then it happened with Mo again. We were down 14-3 in the eighth and Kippinger brought in Wheeler to mop up. Maybe he needed a few more tosses to get loose, because he hit Fontaine, leading off, with his first pitch. Jake was happy about that. He figured that now Mo could get another good look at the guy’s motion. Stealing a base wasn’t going to help us, but Mo could do it to get his confidence back.
Brandon was up next. He got ahead on the count and then flied out to the warning track in left on the first strike Wheeler put over the plate. Before every pitch to Brandon, Mo was no more than two or three steps off the bag. Wheeler didn’t even bother throwing over there.
Jake got up off his pad and went over to the watercooler for a drink. His face had started getting that beet color and I knew what was on his mind without him saying a word.
“Mo figures there’s no sense taking a chance with the score what it is, Jake,” I told him. “He knows that if he gets thrown out, the scribes will say you made a bonehead call sending him down.”
That wasn’t something my old double play partner on the Tigers wanted to hear. “I manage the game my way, not how the chicken-shit writers think I should do it,” he said.
Painting the Corners Page 18
