by Nancy Finley
The Tigers, however, fought back and won Game Three by a 3–0 margin. And in Game Four, they clawed back from a 3–1 deficit in the bottom of the tenth, scoring three runs to stave off elimination to win an October classic by a score of 4–3. The A’s, who had been three outs away from winning the series, had blown a two-game lead and were forced into Game Five. The winner would go to the World Series. The loser would be, well, the loser.
Blue Moon Odom took the hill for the A’s in Game Five, while Woodie Fryman, whose errant pitch at Sal Bando back in August had incited the enmity between the two teams, started for Detroit. The Tigers scored a run in the first, and the ancient Tiger Stadium shook with the roar of fifty thousand fans. Odom, pitching on just three days’ rest, settled down and was stingy over the next four innings. Fryman was even better, but the A’s made him pay for every mistake.
In the second inning, Reggie Jackson—then speedy enough to start the game in center field—worked a leadoff walk, stole second, then went to third on Bando’s fly ball out to right. Mike Epstein walked and, with men on the corners, Gene Tenace came up to bat. Dick Williams called for a double steal, and like so many of his moves, it worked. Tigers catcher Bill Freehan threw to second to try to nab Epstein, and Reggie sprinted home. He collided with Freehan, barely beating the throw home. The A’s had tied the game, but Reggie had torn his hamstring.
In the fourth inning, George Hendrick, who replaced Reggie in the outfield, led off with a grounder to Tigers shortstop Dick McAuliffe, who made an error. Bando sacrificed Hendrick to second, and Tenace singled him home, giving the A’s a 2–1 lead. That score held as the Tigers came up to bat in the bottom of the ninth. Vida Blue had relieved Odom in the sixth and had pitched three scoreless innings. Back on the field, Blue got two outs but also allowed a base runner. He and the A’s now were one out from winning the series but one bad pitch from heartbreak. Tigers second baseman Tony Taylor stepped in the batter’s box. Vida took the sign from Tenace and threw a pitch. Taylor swung and lifted a fly ball to center. Hendrick stood under the ball, watched it drop into his glove, and squeezed.
Just like that, we were going to World Series to face the Cincinnati Reds. Dick Williams and all the players poured out of the dugout and mobbed each other on the field.
Vida Blue, struggling through a mediocre year, had been taken out of the starting rotation and put in relief. At the post-game celebration a fan told me there had been a fight between Odom and Vida Blue in the locker room. Blue apparently remarked to Odom that he fell apart during the game and Blue had to rescue him. The fan said we were an unruly team. “Yes!” I replied, “Isn’t it great?”
THE 1972 WORLD SERIES
Oakland’s “Swingin’ A’s” and Cincinnati’s “Big Red Machine” would be known as the decade’s two best ball clubs. Both franchises had been built painstakingly through excellent drafts throughout the ’60s, and their farm systems, aided by a great trade or two, were bearing abundant fruit in 1972. This World Series would go down in history as one of the best, going all seven games and featuring six well-pitched games decided by just one run.
The A’s were without Reggie Jackson. Unsung players and surprise heroes would make the difference. One of them was Gene Tenace, who was all the A’s needed in Game One. Playing catcher, he helped starting pitcher Kenny Holtzman limit the Reds to two runs, and as batter, he provided all three of the A’s runs. He scored the series’ first runs by slapping a homer to left of Gary Nolan in the second inning, giving the A’s a 2–0 lead. He then broke a 2–2 tie with a solo shot to left in the fifth inning. Rollie Fingers and Vida Blue shut down the Big Red Machine for the rest of the way, and the A’s won 3–2.
Game Two went much the same way, featuring that time-tested combination of great pitching and clutch hitting. Starting hurler Catfish Hunter helped his own cause with a single in the second inning, knocking in center fielder George Hendrick. Left fielder Joe Rudi provided an insurance run with a solo homer in the third. The Reds’ ninth-inning rally cut the lead in half, 2–1, but it died when pinch hitter Julian Javier swung at a Rollie Fingers pitch and popped out to first baseman Mike Hegan.
The baseball world was in shock. The young, hirsute A’s had captured the first two games on the road and headed home to Oakland for three games. The underdog A’s suddenly were in the driver’s seat.
Game Three was like the first two contests—a tense, close, wellpitched nail-biter that hinged on just one or two key plays. The Reds won, 1–0. Odom was great. The Reds’ Jack Billingham was better. He tossed eight shutout innings, surviving two errors from his defense.
Game Four was one for the ages. It symbolized this white-knuckle World Series—a close, dramatic game that featured great pitching, clutch hitting, see-saw scoring, and a one-run margin. After five innings, it felt like a replay of Game One. The A’s pitcher Ken Holtzman was dealing a beauty, holding the Reds scoreless and clinging to a 1–0 lead, thanks to a solo homer off Reds ace Don Gullett in the fifth inning by Gene Tenace. That tight score stuck until the top of the eighth, when the Reds chased Holtzman with a rally that reliever Vida Blue could not stop. Both pitchers got tagged with a run and the sold-out Coliseum crowd had been silenced.
It was Reds 2, A’s 1, going into the bottom of the ninth inning. As pinch hitter Mike Hegan came to bat to start the frame, the Oakland fans came to their feet, trying to will the hometown nine to a comeback victory. Reds ace reliever Pedro Borbon had other ideas. He retired Hegan. One out. The A’s bats—save for Tenace’s blast to left—had been quiet all night, knocking just six hits. Now, they were down to their last two outs. Gonzalo Marquez stepped into the batter’s box, pinch hitting for George Hendrick, the Athletics’ young center fielder. Marquez slapped a single, and the Oakland fans roared. Allan Lewis, a ligh-thitting but speedy outfielder nicknamed the “Panamanian Express,” ran for Marquez. Reds reliever Clay Carroll relieved Borbon to face Tenace. He promptly roped a single off Borbon, and now the A’s, though still trailing by a run, had the tying and winning runs on base.
The Coliseum crowd was standing, screaming, and waving the white, green, and gold pennants Charlie had ordered to be given out behind the team dugout. Williams inserted pinch-hitter Angel Mangual, who rose to the occasion. He promptly laced a single, and Tenace ran home and threw his arms in the air and jumped as high as his thick, catcher’s legs would allow.
When he landed on home plate, the A’s had won Game Four, taking a three-games-to-one lead over the favored Reds. The Coliseum crowd, led by a jubilant Charlie behind the A’s dugout, went crazy. While Carroll stared at the grass as he trudged off the field, a sea of A’s players swarmed Tenace at home plate.
The Oakland A’s now were just one win away from being world champs.
Game Five started out as every A’s fan had hoped. With longtime ace pitcher Catfish Hunter on the hill, the sold-out Coliseum was rocking. After three innings, the A’s led 3 to 1, and an inning later they led 4 to 2.
The Reds took the lead in the ninth, 5–4, on a Pete Rose single. Meanwhile Sparky Anderson continued to manage as if his life depended on it. The A’s got men on first and third with one out in the bottom of the ninth, and Anderson brought in starter Jack Billingham, the Reds’ sixth pitcher of the game. Bert Campaneris lifted a high fly ball in foul territory beyond first base. Joe Morgan raced over from second base, caught the ball, and fired it home to nail pinch runner Blue Moon Odom, who had tried to tag up from third base. Instead of celebrating a tying run by Odom, the Coliseum crowd was silenced by Morgan’s knockout punch. Cincinnati won the game, and Morgan, without even getting a hit (he had gone 0–3 with two walks and still was batting just .143 in the series), had swung the series’ momentum in the Reds’ favor.
The teams flew to Cincinnati and played Game Six the next night. The Reds convincingly won 8–1. It was the series’ lone game not decided by one run.
Within less than twenty-four hours, the A’s had gone from being one or two plays away from winning the W
orld Series to being on the verge of losing it. The series was now tied at three wins apiece.
Uncle Charlie and Aunt Shirley went back to the team’s hotel in Cincinnati. Charlie was in a dark mood. He was uncharacteristically quiet, and he could not sleep well after midnight. This is when he called early to talk. It was about two a.m. in California. The phone woke me. I listened to Dad’s side of the conversation. This phone call lasted about an hour.
Charlie was asking Dad what he thought about the player lineup. I felt really good that Charlie was seeking Dad’s advice, even though Dad was no longer with the team. Charlie knew that Dad and I would be watching the games. He invited us to attend the postgame party if we won.
With Game Seven just hours away, he knew exactly what was on the line. If the A’s won, it would be sweet vindication. The ’72 season was his twelfth as A’s owner, and Charlie had spent most of that time battling a baseball establishment that loathed and ridiculed him. An A’s victory would change the game—on and off the field. Charlie knew the baseball establishment was rooting against him personally as much as they were rooting against his loud green and gold uniforms, his white shoes, his mule mascot, and his mustachioed squad of brawling ball players.
Charlie’s young team would be facing a rejuvenated Reds team and their rabid home crowd at Riverfront Stadium. At times like this Charlie almost always called Dad to pick his brain, to talk to a trusted friend, to be reassured, or just to feel a little less alone during a dark day.
Major League Baseball didn’t have an Executive of the Year award in 1972. But if it did, Charlie would have won it by a mile. Instead, he’d have to settle for winning the Sporting News Man of the Year Award, which in its heyday was a prestigious honor. He had earned it. During the ’72 season, he had negotiated more than forty transactions—trades, sales, releases, farm-system promotions and demotions—involving around thirty players. And it was obvious that most of Charlie’s deals had worked.
The Reds’ Jack Billingham took the mound in front of fifty-six thousand fans at to start Game Seven. Campaneris hit a single but was left on first while Angel Mangual and Joe Rudi were retired. Then the A’s caught a bit of luck when Reds center fielder Bobby Tolan misplayed a fly ball by Gene Tenace (playing first base in this game). With the speedy Campy running on contact with two outs, he raced home and scored. After one inning, the A’s led 1–0.
When a manager is making a lot of player substitutions, the play-byplay announcer will sometimes say he’s “managing this game like it’s Game Seven of the World Series.” Well, that’s how Dick Williams, with good reason, was managing this game. Fortunately, Charlie had loaded the roster with good pitching. Williams would need every last ounce of it.
The A’s had a 3–1 lead in the eighth, when Pete Rose laced a single off Catfish. Williams replaced Hunter with Kenny Holtzman—yet another ace pitcher. Holtzman was in just long enough to give up a double to Joe Morgan.
The Reds had the tying run on second with no outs and the heart of the order coming to bat. Williams brought in the A’s third pitcher of the inning, Rollie Fingers. The Riverfront Stadium crowd, smelling blood, got up on its feet and roared.
The four A’s pitchers who pitched Game Seven had combined for sixty-six of the A’s ninety-three wins in 1972. Fingers had won eleven while notching twenty-one saves. The franchise desperately needed one more from him on this night. For the national TV audience, the World Series had been their first glimpse of Fingers, whose waxed handlebar mustache became the enduring symbol for the Swingin’ A’s and their band of “longhairs.” Everyone quickly forgot about his mustache as he got to work, retiring Joe Hague and intentionally walking Johnny Bench to load the bases.
It was a risky move, as putting Bench on first meant that the winning run now was on base, and a double from first baseman Tony Perez could give the Reds a one-run lead with just one inning to go. But the strategy paid off. Fingers got Perez to fly out, scoring Rose and slicing the A’s lead in half. They now led 3–2 with two outs and two on. But Fingers put out the fire by retiring third baseman Dennis Menke. The rally was over and the A’s were just three outs away.
Fingers took that 3–2 lead into the bottom of the ninth, where he quickly retired the first two batters, Cesar Geronimo and Dave Concepcion. The Reds’ final hope was their fifth pinch-hitter of the night, Darrel Chaney. (Sparky Anderson was managing like it was Game Seven, too.) Chaney was one of the weaker hitters on the team. That’s why A’s fans watching on TV back in Oakland gasped in horror when Fingers plunked him, putting the tying run on first base with Pete Rose coming to bat. Once again, a double with two outs probably would tie the game.
WHITE KNUCKLES
In the stands at Riverfront Stadium, Charlie put his hands together and nervously squeezed them. It was, literally, white-knuckle time. While Dad and I were watching on the big-screen TV at Oscar’s, our favorite restaurant in Oakland, Dad whispered his signature “Dammit!” I felt like throwing up. I was old enough to understand almost everything that was going on, but too young to have become philosophical about it. To me, losing this game would be the end of the world.
If anyone was going to be the Reds’ hero, it would be Rose. But Fingers was no slouch, either. He waited for Dave Duncan to flash the sign, nodded his head, gave a quick glance to Chaney at first, and then tossed his pitch. Rose swung and lifted a lazy fly ball to shallow left field.
Joe Rudi got under it and made the catch, squeezing the ball into his mitt.
The Oakland A’s were World Series champions!
Charlie Finley, the insurance salesman who had been mocked and vilified all these years, now had a team that was the envy of everyone.
I was jumping and skipping among the tables, and Dad just sat there with a huge grin on his face. I could tell he regretted not being part of it. I went to the big post-game party, but Dad stayed home.
Uncle Charlie was the king of the baseball world. In the stands he kissed Aunt Shirley while Williams kissed his wife, Norma. The A’s clubhouse was soaked with champagne. The celebratory food, as usual, included lobster, steak, ribs, chicken, prawns, good champagne, beer, pasta, cookies, and crackers with wonderful mystery stuff on top. The food didn’t last long.
The players’ beards and mustaches were shampooed with a mix of beer and bubbly. The fun continued on the flight back to Oakland. Charlie loaded the plane with old friends, family, and no shortage of booze, along with the players and coaches. Charlie walked up and down the plane aisles, grinning and singing.
The next day more than a hundred thousand people lined Broadway in downtown Oakland for the victory parade, which ended with the cheering throngs surrounding a stage where the players and Charlie gave speeches to the adoring A’s fans.
The World Series title was just as momentous for Oakland and all of Northern California as it was for Charlie. The A’s victory was the first major sports championship in Bay Area history. The 49ers, Giants, Raiders, and Warriors had all been playing longer than the A’s, but Oakland’s baseball team reached the top first. Charlie spared no expense, throwing a huge post-parade party for the players and team employees and their families.
“1972 was my favorite of the three World Series–winning years because it was the first one,” said Steve Vucinich, then the A’s visiting clubhouse attendant and now the team’s equipment manager. “Charlie went all out with the parties, and it was all so new and fun.”
CHAPTER 21
RETURN OF THE UNSEEN HAND
1972
When Dad left the A’s, Charlie lost more than a key employee. Carl Finley was the unseen hand guiding Charlie’s genius. Rarely heard from, he was virtually invisible to fans and the media. He had never played baseball and was content with his career as a high school principal in Dallas when he was plucked from his quiet and comfortable life and thrust into the maelstrom of Charlie Finley’s baseball team.
The telephone at our house would ring at five o’clock every morning. It was Charlie calling. Da
d would be up with a cup of coffee. Their daily phone call would last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. When I was in the room, I could usually tell from Dad’s end of the conversation what the topic was. He’d mention players’ names, money matters, trouble with the commissioner, team rosters, scouting prospects—the usual baseball subjects. He had a way of planting ideas in Charlie’s head. After a few days, Charlie would convince himself that they were his ideas and start talking about them. Dad would just smile his little smile, and I knew what was going on.
Dad ran not only the front office, but just about everything other than scouting and meddling with the team. Well, he did meddle a bit, but he did it through Charlie. And a game couldn’t begin until he had signed off on the lineup for the day. He had various titles over the years, such as V. P. of public relations, V. P. of ticket management, V. P. of business, including hiring and firing everybody except the team manager. He was the one you talked to when you “talked to the A’s.” Dad had the Oakland Coliseum’s alarm code. Sometimes at home a call would come that the alarm had gone off, and Dad would drive to the Coliseum to check on it. George Toma, the Kansas City Municipal Stadium groundskeeper, who saw and heard everything going on there, recalls, “He ran the complete operation. Today it would take more than a dozen people to do what he did.”
A few of the press people noticed Dad’s broad range of duties. Ed Leavitt, a columnist for the Oakland Tribune, observed that “Charlie sends him where there’s the most pressure. People like Carl knock themselves out, and nobody ever hears about them.” Mike McKenzie, a sports columnist, called him “Charlie’s buffer.” David Bush of the San Francisco Chronicle called him “the lone front-office guy.”
