THE 1969 MIRACLE METS: THE IMPROBABLE STORY OF THE WORLD’S GREATEST UNDERDOG TEAM (37 page)

The times seemed to pass the Cubs by. They played at
Wrigley Field, a beautiful-but-dilapidated park. It had no lights
and would not until 1988. In the brutal Chicago summers Chicago
players had to endure all day games. Many enjoyed the Rush Street
bar scene, as did later broadcaster Harry Caray, a “hail fellow
well met” who was friends to hookers, cab drivers and fans of all
stripe. But Caray did not have to face 90-mile per hour fastballs
or curves dropping off the table while nursing his hangovers, as
the players did. Mediocrity marked the Cubs.

While the Dodgers, Giants, Braves, Pirates and later
the Cardinals built champions through integrated rosters, the Cubs
were more like an American League club. They did have a black
shortstop, Ernie Banks. Banks was a Hall of Famer, two-time league
MVP, 500-homer slugger, and an all-time great. His may be the
sweetest disposition in all of baseball history. He was such a
gentleman; so kind, so giving, so respectful, and so willing to
turn the other cheek to racial prejudice; as to be considered a
saint.

“Welcome to the
bee-yoo-ti-full
confines of
Wrigley Field,” Ernie would say to anybody and everybody. “What a
great day for baseball,” even it was 102 with 90 percent humidity.
“Let’s play two.”

Strangers would introduce themselves to Ernie.

“How’s your wife, how’s your kids?” Ernie would
ask.

Do I know him from some place? Does he know my
wife? How does he know I have kids?
It was just Ernie’s way.
The most prejudiced white Southerner had to be disarmed by Ernie
Banks. It was like Christ healing the sick. If you met Ernie and
still hated blacks after that,
you were legitimately evil
,
and God help you then!

In 1962 Banks was moved from shortstop to first
base. Each year he produced fabulous numbers on teams that went no
where. Chicago was a joke. Owner Philip K. Wrigley, the chewing gum
magnate, first failed to capitalize on his territorial rights to
Los Angeles, and later allowed a ridiculous system of revolving
coaches to manage the team to a succession of second division
finishes.

The Cubs, like Banks, were nice guys, nice managers,
a nice owner, with nice fans in a nice stadium in a nice town. In
1966 they hired a guy who famously said, “Nice guys finish last.”
That was where Leo Durocher’s team finished in his initial season.
However, Durocher sparked a talented young team to an incredible
improvement, from 59-103 to 87-74, good for third place behind St.
Louis and San Francisco in 1967. That was followed by another solid
third place showing in 1968.

They were confident. The Cubs knew they were good.
Third baseman Ron Santo made no bones about his belief, in himself
and his teammates. Banks had slipped somewhat by 1969, but was
still a star player, a fine first baseman, and the team’s symbol. A
string of celebrated players had finally been getting their shot at
the World Series the last few seasons. After toiling in splendid
obscurity for six seasons, Boston’s Carl Yastrzemski got his chance
to shine on the October stage in 1967. The next year, veteran
Detroit star Al Kaline played in his first World Series when the
Tigers made line-up changes, giving him a chance to start. It paid
off in Detroit’s seven-game win over St. Louis.

As the Cubs got off to a fast start in 1969,
establishing themselves as a
bona fide
contender if not
favorite for the East Division crown, they became the early
“people’s choice.” Banks was a sympathetic, sentimental figure. The
fans wanted to see him play in the World Series before his
inevitable retirement.

One man who was
not
a sympathetic figure was
Leo Durocher. This was a guy who said he would knock down his own
mother to win a game. Babe Ruth beat him up when, as his roommate,
Durocher stole his watch. He was a gambler, a hard drinker, a
womanizer who cheated on his wives. He ordered his pitchers to
throw at the opponents, often to outright hit them. He wanted
spikes flying, did not mind if the other guy got hurt. He probably
used a spy in the scoreboard to flash signals to the Giants, giving
them an edge in 1951. He went for every advantage; legal, illegal
or immoral.

He was a backstabber, a “table for one” guy who
played politics, went after the other fellas’ job, position, wife,
girlfriend, sister, friend. He spent years in L.A. lobbying for
Walter Alston’s job, making fun of the hayseed from Ohio behind his
back; to the writers, with players. Durocher had an exclusive
Hollywood Hills tailor, a mansion in Trousdale Estates, drove a
Caddy. Alston lived modestly, went back to Darrtown in the winter,
and wore clothes off the rack. Leo had guys in the press do his
dirty work. He made fun of people on a lower pay scale (“My dry
cleaning bills are bigger than his salary”). His endorsements were
for cigarettes and beer. He smoked, got in guys’ faces, reeked of
tobacco. The umpires felt his spittle on their faces, his shoes
“accidentally” kicking them during arguments. He had a deal with
Schlitz beer, an appropriately ugly name for an ugly man. Durocher
was no matinee idol, but he could “dirty talk” a woman into
bed.

“Always try to get her in the sack the first five
minutes of a date,” he advised. “That way if she says no you’ve got
time to score another broad. You’d be surprised, there’s a helluva
lot of famous broads who say yes quick.”

Durocher bragged of his sexual conquests, mostly
lying, not carrying if he spread rumors or impugned the reputation
of an actress in the tabloids. He was from Massachusetts, seemed
like he was from the Bowery, but thought of himself as Beverly
Hills or Park Avenue. He cultivated big shot friends like Frank
Sinatra, the Rat Pack, George Raft, New York Mob boys, gang
hitters. It was always “Frank called” and “Frank’s comin’ by,” and
most everybody looked at each other, rolled their eyes. BS

He thought money was class, a fancy car defined you,
a gold watch, a big ring. He was like the Alec Baldwin character in
Glengarry Glen Ross
who waves his expensive timepiece at
poor Ed Harris and says, “My watch is worth more than your car.
That’s who I am, pal.”

Branch Rickey fired him for immoralities, using the
cover of his gambling suspension of 1947. What an odd couple
those two
made. Leo and Walter O’Malley got along. Not
surprising. Strangely, the word that most appropriately suits Leo
is not
im
moral, but
a
moral. He was not evil. If the
right thing was convenient, that was okay by him. If anything good
can be said of Leo, it was that he was not a racist. Maybe an
anti-Semite, probably used the N-word, but for effect more than
anything. He gave Willie Mays his chance, stuck with him when
Willie needed a friend. It was a shining moment for “Mista Leo” and
he deserves credit. Mel Durslag wrote there was a “good Leo” and a
“bad Leo,” which was better than just a “bad Leo.” When he was
dying he appealed to God during an interview, expressing hope that
his sins would be forgiven and Heaven opened for a wretch. John
Wayne did a similar thing. At least Leo acknowledged the existence
of the deity, which is
certainly
better than nothing.

But beyond all other considerations, Leo Durocher
was a winning baseball man. He was a Yankee in their heyday, a
member of the St. Louis “Gashouse Gang” – winners – and resurrected
losers into winning outfits in Brooklyn, New York, Chicago, later
even in Houston, for a while at least. He was Billy Martin before
Martin, cut out of the same cloth. He always wore out his welcome
but left his mark wherever he went.

If Hodges was a new wave manager, platooning, using
a five-man rotation, employing advance scouts, Durocher was old
school, brother. His starters went every fourth day and they went
nine innings. His regulars did not beg out, take days off, sit out
the nightcap of a twin bill, a day game after a night game, or with
hangovers, hangnails or hangdog attitudes. They played through
injuries and pain. Durocher played to win. If the season was lost
he would dog it, not care, let his work ethic slide, but he did not
tolerate it in others. If the pennant was still on the line he was
relentless. He did not care about second place money, which some
players and coaches needed in those days. He had his, probably got
dough from his actress ex-wife, keeping him in style. Maybe he did
a little gigolo work on the side.

Durocher took over a yery young, very talented team
in 1966. They played well below their potential. The Cubs probably
took a year to get used to the tyrant. Second baseman Glenn
Beckert, shortstop Don Kessinger, and catcher Randy Hundley were
All-Star quality young players, now in their prime. Left fielder
Billy Williams was, like Ernie Banks, headed for Cooperstown, but
he was still at the top of his game. He played
every day
. He
had a big consecutive game streak going, although he still had a
ways to go to catch Lou Gehrig.

They had an outfielder named Jim Hickman, an ex-Met.
Leo prodded Hickman, made fun of his old team, using that to
motivate him. In the first half of 1969 it was working. The Cubs
had let a promising center fielder named Adolfo Phillips go. He was
a moody Latino and could not adjust to the “bad Leo,” who had no
empathy for him. Whatever soft spot he had in 1951 for Willie Mays
was lost. His young players did not get any leeway. Besides, Leo
was smart enough to know he had
Willie Mays
, and Phillips
was no “Say Hey Kid.” Phillips’s replacement was Don Young, a
rookie who supposedly had defensive skills but was a jittery mess
around “Leo the Lip.” Durocher openly criticized him in the
press.

But what the Cubs had, and boy did they ever have
it, was pitching. Gold star, gold plate pitching. The mother’s milk
of winning baseball. 90 percent of the game. The right stuff that
stopped good hitting. As the season shaped up, it was apparent that
Cub pitching was at least as good as Cardinals pitching, Tigers
pitching . . . and Mets pitching.

Their ace was a strapping black Canadian, literally
a country hardballer named Ferguson Jenkins. If baseball had
modernized since the days of Denton True “Cy” Young and “Iron Joe”
McGinnity, this guy was a throwback. He pitched nine innings every
time out, or so it seemed. Pitch counts? Fergie didn’t need no
stinkin’ pitch counts.
Hitters knew what was comin’. High
heat, brush back, in, in, in; bust the hands, break the bat, numb
the fingers, blue hammers all day . . . then a nasty slider for
strike three!
His pitching motion was utilitarian, he worked
real fast, probably cheated a little, had a temper and nobody
wanted to screw with him. He was Gibson’s equal as a competitor. In
Chicago, they were just glad he was on their side. It was like
being with Patton or MacArthur. You did not want to be against
those guys!

Right-hander Billy Hands: up ‘n’ coming star, now
experienced, he would pitch 300 innings, win 20. A day laborer in
Chicago’s summer sun. Hands could win a Cy Young some day, maybe be
more than that.

Then there was Ken Holtzman. He was tall, skinny and
Jewish. Later in Oakland they called him “Jew.” It went over well
there, a crazy club in crazy uniforms, everybody an oddball, and a
winner. But in Chicago it was a mean environment. Lord of the
Flies.
Papillon
. As long as Kenny won, he and Leo were all
right, but if he did not then it got ugly. Whether Kenny was in
Leo’s doghouse because he was Jewish was really just speculation,
but it seemed that way. Perception is half the environment. Early
in 1969 Holtzman was unhittable. He had been an All-American in
college but his competitiveness was a question. Even Red Boucher
sensed that in Alaska, when he picked Seaver over the more-heralded
southpaw to pitch in the National Baseball Congress at Wichita.
Now, he seemed to have found his place in this tough baseball
world, like Koufax finally had. Holtzman threw gas and had pinpoint
control. Like Jenkins he did not fool you. 80, 90 percent fast
balls, up and in, down and away, a little change-up, a wrinkle
curve, and
talent
from the left side. He was golden. But
Kenny was a business major in school, read the
Wall Street
Journal
in the clubhouse, put business plans together on the
plane. No chew. Light drinker. Leo tolerated it as long as he won,
but if that train stopped rolling there would be trouble down the
line.

It did not end there. Leo had more
arms
. Rich
Nye was a talented lefty out of the University of California. His
potential was like that of Holtzman, but he was a college boy, from
Berkeley
, so that made him suspect in Leo’s eyes. Hey,
Frank
never went to college, dropped out of school in
Hoboken . . .

Phil Regan was one of the toughest relief pitchers
in baseball, kind of the last of the old school bullpen aces before
the Rollie Fingers’s and Goose Gossage’s re-defined a closer’s
role. Dick Selma, Seaver’s boyhood pal, was very effective in
whatever way he was used. Ted Abernathy had a
nasty
submarine pitch delivered from below his knees.

So what was Ron Swoboda
talking about?
Seaver
avoided the other team’s ace, huh? He got the best Montreal could
muster on Opening Day, Gibson twice, and now Ferguson Jenkins when
Fergie was probably at the absolute apex of his career. It was just
a rumor that New York City paramedics were called to the clubhouse
after the game for removal-of-bats-from-anal-cavities after Jenkins
used nasty inside heat to shove them up there all day. Tom was
effective but got touched, losing 3-1.

Cubs bats could not be stopped in 8-6 and 9-3 wins.
Chicago was the hottest team in the National League. Leo talked it
up with his boys in the New York press corps. The Mets? They was
nothin’. No respect. Ron Santo was out-spoken. Nobody gave the Mets
any respect except for Ernie Banks, who could find something nice
to say about the Grand Wizard of the KKK. But before Chicago could
depart, having raped and pillaged the Big Apple to their
satisfaction, Tug McGraw stepped up big time with a 3-0 “stopper”
win in the series finale. New York was 7-11.