Game Six

by Mark Frost

  They were asking a whole lot more of him now; after appearing only five times in relief all season, he was literally the last man Sparky could send to the mound, his eighth pitcher of the night, a new World Series record for a single game. And the first man Pat Darcy would have to face in the bottom of the tenth had also singled sharply off him during their last confrontation: right fielder Dwight Evans.

  Darcy’s first pitch was a fastball running in on Evans’s hands, and he fouled it back for a strike.

  Darcy was a tall, good-looking kid with a heavy fastball, a hard sinker, and an effective changeup, in the opinion of backup and bullpen catcher Bill Plummer some of the best stuff on the staff. In their methodical, systematic way the Reds were grooming him to become one of their key starters, perhaps to replace the aging Jack Billingham—who had from the moment Darcy arrived generously taken him under his wing—but this was easily the toughest spot the young right-hander had ever been in with a baseball in his hand.

  Darcy blew his best fastball right by a swinging Evans for strike two.

  Johnny Bench, encouraged by his young pitcher’s start, called for the fastball again. Darcy, betraying the first sign of nervousness, threw it over Bench’s head all the way to the backstop for ball one. Then Darcy’s next pitch missed low to even the count at 2–2.

  Darcy had finished the second-to-last game of the regular season for the Reds but sat out the playoff series against the Pirates, so aside from his brief outing a week before in Cincinnati, he hadn’t thrown in a game in three weeks. Less than an hour ago, he’d had no expectation of getting into this one.

  Evans cracked Darcy’s next offering, a low fastball, right back at him in the box. Darcy stabbed down and got his glove on it, knocked it a few feet to the left and took the sting off it, then raced after it, picked it up, and fired off-balance to Perez in time to beat Evans to first by a step. One out. Knowing exactly how tough this spot was, after they threw the ball around the infield, Joe Morgan trotted in to tell his young pitcher: “You just made a great play in the World Series.” That meant the world to him; Darcy felt some of the butterflies start to settle.

  Shortstop Rick Burleson came to the plate. Darcy started him with a fastball that missed low and outside. He came back with the fastball for a called strike, evening the count, then missed low again to Burleson, behind now 2–1. His next pitch was an overpowering fastball, up in the zone; Burleson swung late and popped it up to Davey Concepcion at short, easy play, two outs.

  Darcy had been sitting out in the bullpen earlier watching their ace Rawly Eastwick pitching to Bernie Carbo in the bottom of the eighth, thinking how overmatched Carbo looked, thinking how amazing it was going to be when they wrapped this up in the ninth, winning a World Series in his rookie season. And with Will McEnaney still available, the last thing Pat Darcy was thinking at that point was: I still have to pitch tonight.

  And then seconds later in the bottom of the eighth, with one swing Carbo had changed everything, and the call had immediately come from Larry Shepard in the dugout to Bill Plummer, and Plummer signaled to Darcy: Time to get ready. As he got up to throw, the whole stadium was still shaking from the noise.

  And it was again now, as Bernie Carbo came up for his second at bat of the game, to a thunderous standing ovation.

  Johnny Bench went out to talk to Darcy about their approach to Carbo, in particular how to avoid the mistake that Eastwick had made, which they weren’t going to repeat now. As he returned and settled back in behind the plate, Bench shook his head at Bernie again.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “I just don’t believe it.”

  “John,” said Bernie, grinning, “I don’t believe it either.”

  Darcy came at him with the fastball, moving toward the outside corner. Bernie’s feet had barely touched the ground since his home run, but with two outs and a fastball pitcher facing him, he had no reason to hold back; dreaming of even greater glory, he swung from his heels and missed, strike one.

  Bench, a step ahead of him, now called for Darcy’s changeup, and Bernie—swinging for the seats again—missed badly, behind in the count 0–2. Darcy missed low for a ball, trying to induce Bernie to chase one out of the zone, and then missed again in the same spot, another pitch Carbo resisted, evening the count at 2–2.

  Red Sox pitcher Dick Drago waited in the on-deck circle, kneeling with his jacket on, not bothering even to swing a bat, knowing he wouldn’t be going to the plate if Bernie somehow got on base. Veteran starter Rick Wise was already getting loose in the Boston bullpen. Drago knew Bench would call for the fastball now—it’s what he would have thrown in the same situation—and Bernie would be looking for it.

  Bench did exactly that, but Darcy’s best fastballs had movement on them, and this one tailed away from the left-hander, and Bernie swung hard again and missed again, strike three, and the Red Sox were done in the bottom of the tenth. For the moment, Pat Darcy had answered Sparky’s prayers.

  So transported had Bernie Carbo been by the ecstasy of his eighth-inning pinch-hit home run that for decades afterward, until he turned sixty, he wouldn’t remember that he’d even batted a second time in Game Six.

  NINETEEN

  A good catch means just as much to me as getting a base hit.

  DWIGHT EVANS

  AFTER MIDNIGHT NOW, THE BRIGHT FULL MOON HUNG in a cool clear sky over Fenway. The wind had faltered some, the air felt electrically charged. A momentary lull in the lurching swings of momentum left the crowd quieter than they’d been since the ninth inning, worn out by surges and screeching halts of adrenaline. Sparky began to allow himself to think that his Reds might have just weathered the storm, maybe they could steal this one back now to take the Series; in support of that hope he had the top of his lineup coming to the plate as the eleventh inning began.

  For the last two weeks Pete Rose had never seen the ball better: It looked like a beach ball, he said. He’d hit everything Boston had thrown at him on the screws since Game One. And through all the whipsaw charges, retreats, and reversals of fortune on this night, being the competitor he was, he’d never enjoyed himself more. He turned to Carlton Fisk as he dug into the batter’s box to open the inning and said: “This is some kind of game, isn’t it?”

  At least three other members of the Red Sox and an umpire remember Pete saying to them, at one point or another in the long eventful evening: How much fun is this? What a great game. Can you believe this? In all sincerity. This wasn’t just about winning, it was the lure of the arena, the juice, being in the action; a night like Game Six was what Pete Rose, with all his contradictions and complexities, had lived for and hoped to experience his entire life.

  Dick Drago began his third inning of work with a slider that popped off of Fisk’s glove outside for ball one. It wasn’t nearly as much fun for Drago at this moment. Twenty-seven pitches in now—one of his longest stints of the season—he would have to rely on the stamina and guts he’d developed during his years as a starter to get through this inning, surely his last; he was due up to lead off the bottom of the inning.

  Drago came back with a low heater, and Rose, seeing it all the way, fouled it back for strike one.

  Rose had gone 2–5 on the evening, and now led all hitters on either team for both hits and average; he’d do anything to get on base now, anything to ignite the stacked lineup behind him and get his Reds that last, elusive win.

  Another low fastball—Drago still had his good stuff—and another foul, as Rose tried to take it to left field, behind in the count 1–2. Fisk dropped one finger to signal fastball and set up inside for the strikeout.

  Anything, anything to get on base now, by any means possible.

  Drago came inside with his fastball, high, toward the right elbow, and Rose spun around to his left to avoid it, but umpire Satch Davidson immediately and floridly gestured: It hit him, it hit him! Rose flipped his bat toward the dugout and sprinted for first; the ball hadn’t even grazed him, but he wasn’t about to argue
a gift. Fisk yanked his mask and got up into Davidson’s face again, veins popping in outrage; the crowd booed, and Darrell Johnson came running out from the dugout to join in.

  Nowhere near him! shouted Fisk. That’s a horrendous call! Johnson laid into him as well, and as umpires have been doing since the dawn of time, Davidson stood his ground and ignored them both.

  Rose stood on first base, grinning, and tried out his line about what a great game this was to Carl Yastrzemski. Yaz wasn’t buying.

  Sparky began pacing in the Reds dugout again, clapping his hands. Here we go, here we go.

  Davidson claimed later that he’d seen the ball tick the sleeve of Rose’s shirt. NBC’s slow-motion replay revealed no obvious intimate or incidental contact between ball and any part of Peter Edward Rose or his uniform. Below the stands, feeling the momentum swing again, Tony Kubek moved over to the Cincinnati clubhouse and started down the tunnel toward the visitors’ dugout.

  Dick Drago barked at Satch Davidson, too, but had to eat it, knowing it was a lousy call, and that Rose had sealed the deal with the way he ran to first; he did everything but ask for a tourniquet. That’s baseball; you have to take the bitter with the bad. Back to work.

  Right fielder Ken Griffey came to the plate. The Red Sox expected him to sacrifice the runner to second; Yaz and Rico crept in at the corners as Rose took his lead. Drago spun around out of his stretch for a pickoff, realized Yaz wasn’t on the bag, then had to soften and alter his throw. Yaz reached back for it, and Drago just avoided what would have been a disastrous balk.

  Drago came to the plate with a fastball, outside for a ball, and Griffey showed bunt. Rico and Yaz remained drawn in; the percentage play, that was Sparky’s MO: He would give up this out to advance that runner to second for his RBI men, Morgan and Bench. Griffey confirmed the sign with coach Alex Grammas at third.

  Another high fastball, outside, Drago giving him nothing off-speed he could kill into the dirt, and another show of bunt by Griffey, ahead in the count now, 2–0. Anxiety for the infield: Would Sparky take the sacrifice off and let Griffey swing away, try to punch something past the drawn-in corners? The Red Sox stood pat.

  Drago came back with the fastball again on the outside corner, and Griffey laid it down, almost too softly into that brick red New England clay; the ball died just inside the third base line, and with mask already flying, Fisk pounced out from behind the plate like a cougar, gathered it up barehanded, and fired to Burleson rushing over to cover second…and Rose, flying in with that reckless trademark headfirst slide, was forced out by the slightest measurable fraction.

  Brilliant play by Fisk, the crowd whipped to life again. The sacrifice had failed. Sparky’s stomach turned over.

  Griffey on first. One out. Joe Morgan came to the plate. The sacrifice bunt was off the table now, but the steal or hit-and-run might be in play. A throw to first from Drago checked Griffey back to the bag, then another. Harry Coyle punched up the split screen again for NBC, detailing the action at home and first.

  Drago missed outside with heat for ball one. Morgan glanced down at Grammas again for the sign, made sure Griffey wasn’t running. This was his second look at Drago in the game now; he’d been watching closely from the bench and thought Drago was losing velocity. Morgan wanted that fastball again, and he wanted it inside, knowing he could turn on it.

  Drago came back with the fastball, but outside, on the corner, popping into Fisk’s glove for a called strike, 1–1. No loss of velocity there.

  Drago gathered himself, deep breaths. How many more of those heaters did he have in him?

  Morgan saw something he couldn’t quite decipher in the signs from Grammas and left the box, walked down toward third to clarify with his coach; both covered their mouths: Is he going? No, Joe, look for your pitch. Morgan turned back to the box.

  Denny Doyle saw Fisk flash the sign to Drago for the cutter and shifted to his left, and he signaled back to Dwight Evans so he knew that the hard breaking ball was coming inside. Behind him in right field, Dwight Evans took two steps to his left.

  And through Evans’s mind’s eye flashed an isolated, fleeting vision he’d had in a dream some days earlier: making a catch of a Joe Morgan drive that prevented a home run from reaching the seats.

  Drago went into his stretch and unleashed his cutter, a two-seam fastball that ran in on a left-hander’s hands and often sawed off the bat at the handle, and the moment he let it go Drago knew he’d made a mistake; the ball was headed inside toward Fisk’s glove but not far enough, and instead of breaking toward Morgan it was running back to the right.

  Morgan turned on it.

  Dwight Evans saw the flash of Little Joe’s bat in the bright lights and immediately picked up the track of the ball. He’d played right field in Fenway now for three years, and this one looked like trouble from the jump, if not a home run then at least a line shot off the short right field fence. Normally whenever a left-hander hit an inside pitch this hard toward him, it turned over toward the line, hooking like an errant golf ball, and that’s where Evans headed on instinct.

  Where’s he think he’s going? thought Morgan. He’ll never get to that ball.

  Griffey took off for second at the crack of the bat. Drago’s heart sank as he spun around to watch the ball rocket toward right; he was reduced for a dreadful heartbeat to just another spectator.

  But as Evans sprinted toward where his heightened senses had told him this ball was going to land, his chest facing the foul line, he was already on the warning track when he realized it wasn’t breaking toward the line at all, it was headed straight for him; he’d taken the wrong path, and in another split second the ball would be behind him, over his head, right where the Reds’ bullpen ended, three hundred and eighty feet from home plate, where the fence dropped down to little more than a yard high. This ball was about to end up in the seats.

  Fred Lynn raced over from center field to back up the play, toward the section of the field he and Yaz called “Death Valley” because the ball just didn’t seem to carry there, but this one had looked gone from the moment it left Morgan’s bat.

  Griffey rounded second, motoring for third.

  And somehow, at full speed, even losing sight of the ball for a split second, Dwight Evans adjusted in a single step back toward center, threw his glove hand up behind his head, leapt into the air, and came down somehow in balance, with his left knee and hip bumping up against the lowered wall, and, to his infinite surprise and delight, the baseball stuck firmly in the webbing of his glove.

  The front row of fans and ushers in the right field bleachers jumped to their feet screaming, the first and so far only ones in Fenway to realize he’d pulled off the impossible grab, and Reds pitcher Clay Kirby—the lone man now in their bullpen, less than ten feet from the play—flung his arms down in disgust.

  The moment he landed, Evans was already working on regaining his composure—knowing they had Griffey dead, he didn’t want to wheel around to his left, which would delay the throw back in by a beat—so he pushed back off the top of the wall with both hands, turned to his right, and unsheathed his rifle arm, firing the ball back toward the infield twenty feet wide of first in foul territory, where Yaz slid over to pick it up on one hop and tossed to Rick Burleson, alertly backing up the play and covering first base all the way from short…and Ken Griffey, who had slammed on the brakes after the catch but only just now made it back around second base, might as well have been out by a mile on the double play that had just abruptly terminated the Reds’ eleventh inning.

  Yeah, that’s right, thought Dick Drago, as he walked to the dugout, his work done for the night, the most relieved man in North America. Another routine double play.

  Oh my God in heaven, thought Sparky.

  Jubilation in Fenway Park.

  “Nice throw, Dewey,” said Fisk, needling him as they made it back to the dugout.

  By answering George Foster’s double play in the ninth, he had saved a certain run, if not two,
and if Dwight Evans had not just made the greatest catch in the history of the World Series—as Sparky was the first to say afterward—no man had before or ever since made a better one at a more important moment.

  TWENTY

  That was the greatest catch I’ve ever seen.

  SPARKY ANDERSON

  TO LEAD OFF THE BOTTOM OF THE ELEVENTH, RED SOX manager Darrell Johnson sent reserve outfielder Rick Miller to pinch-hit in pitcher Dick Drago’s spot. A light-hitting left-handed defensive specialist, the twenty-seven-year-old Miller had seen action in only one World Series game, four innings of work in Game Four, replacing Juan Beniquez in left field to successfully help protect Luis Tiant’s lead. He had grounded out then to Joe Morgan in his only at bat.

  As Miller stood in, the crowd, whipped into a frenzy by Evans’s extraordinary catch, clapped and cheered in rhythm, trying to will their Red Sox to get this thing over with now. Pat Darcy, beginning his second inning of work, missed outside with a fastball, and then another in the same spot, falling behind to Miller, 2–0.