The Mouth That Roared (20 page)

From the day in August 1979 that I came down from the front office to manage the Phillies, this was the situation I hoped we’d be in. With one more win, the Phillies would be World Series champions for the first time. Even better, the celebration would take place in our home stadium in front of our long-suffering fans.

*

Close to 11:30
PM
on October 21, 1980, Tug McGraw found himself in a familiar setting, pitching in a tense situation with the ballgame on the line. We led the Royals 4–1 in the top of the ninth of Game 6, but Kansas City had the bases loaded and only one out.

How badly did Philadelphia want a championship? So badly that the Philadelphia Police Department stationed mounted officers on the field to preserve order if Tugger recorded the final two outs. Also surrounding the dugout were police officers with German shepherds.

Steve Carlton had staked us to a lead by pitching seven-plus strong innings. Now Tugger was trying to seal the deal. He started the ninth by striking out Otis. But I could tell he was laboring. We had played 11 postseason games, and he had pitched in nine of them. Before White came to the plate, I wondered whether Tugger had finally run out of gas. Reed was warming up in the bullpen and was ready to come in at my signal. I stood on the top step of the dugout debating whether to walk out to the mound and take the ball from Tugger.

And there I stayed.

Tired and prone to bouts of wildness, Tugger was lucky White came up hacking. He lifted the first pitch high into the air in foul territory behind home plate. Bob Boone flipped off his catcher’s mask and gave chase. I saw the ball go up but lost sight of it as it descended near our dugout. It looked like a routine play, so I waited for confirmation from the crowd that we had recorded the second out of the inning. Instead I heard the collective gasp of 66,000 people, followed immediately by thunderous cheers.

What the hell just happened?
I wondered. I looked up at the stadium’s video screen to get the answer.

Pete Rose, who ran in to make a play on the ball, ended up an arm’s length away from Booney but backed off at the last second as Booney looked up and prepared to make the catch. What followed became a staple of every highlight reel of the 1980 World Series. The ball hit the middle of Booney’s glove and bounced back out. Pete instantly reacted, lunged, and picked the ball out of the air just as it was about to hit the ground. Instead of White getting new life and Tugger having to throw more pitches, we got an enormous second out. To this day, Boone insists it should have been Pete’s play all the way.

The only man who stood between us and a championship was Willie Wilson, whose World Series struggles belied how dangerous he could be. Tugger would later admit all his postseason innings finally caught up to him in the ninth inning of Game 6 of the World Series. Suddenly, it hurt like hell for him to throw a screwball, his best pitch. But that’s what he offered the left-handed-hitting Wilson to start the at-bat. The pitch started outside and broke back over the plate for a strike.

Booney, who called a game better than anybody, wanted Tugger to throw another screwball. But Tugger didn’t think his arm would cooperate, so he shook him off and threw a slider. Wilson fouled the pitch off his foot. The third pitch of the at-bat was a not-so-fast fastball that sailed a little high for a ball. Tugger had thrown three different pitches to Wilson and had him guessing now. On the fourth pitch, Tugger came in with another fastball.

Wilson swung through it to end the game.

Tugger danced off the mound and leapt in the air. Fireworks exploded over the stadium and the words
World Champions
blinked on the scoreboard as we raced out of the dugout and swarmed him.

In the clubhouse, Pope and I hugged each other and cried like babies. I composed myself long enough to take a congratulatory phone call from President Jimmy Carter. The victory was a culmination of everything Pope and I had experienced together as Phillies since 1956. He had trained me well, and it felt wonderful to help bring him and the organization a championship. I was ecstatic.

In his postgame comments to reporters, Tugger, his left arm wrapped in ice, deflected attention away from himself. “Dallas lined out his program of what Phillie baseball should be,” he said amid the mist of champagne. “He told us we had to be a team with character, that we had to look in the mirror. He was just an average player at best, and where he got his ‘Phillie baseball’ is beyond me. But he had confidence in his ideas, and he backed his people. It took us a few months to catch on, but then we did.”

Schmitty, who got us rolling in Game 6 with a two-run single in the third inning, earned World Series MVP honors. He had shaken off a subpar NLCS to go 8-for-21 against Kansas City. Carlton won three games for us in the postseason. When we needed them, our stars came through. But the championship wouldn’t have been possible without our bench and bullpen.

We celebrated through the night and went straight from the ballpark to a ticker-tape parade down Broad Street and into John F. Kennedy Stadium. Pope, Ruly Carpenter, and I clutched raised hands in the air aboard the Phillies’ truck. In my speech at the stadium, I uttered words that could only be said in October: “You people are beautiful, and this team is beautiful.”

We had reached the top of the mountain. For two lifelong baseball guys like Pope and me, there was no better feeling. Back in those days, baseball could still boast that it was the country’s most popular sport. Almost 55 million people watched Game 6 of the ’80 World Series, the largest audience in postseason history. And all those viewers got to witness the Phillies’ first title in franchise history. Unfortunately, due to a Major League Baseball restriction on local broadcasts, Harry Kalas and Richie Ashburn didn’t get to call any of the World Series games.

I wondered if I would hear from my former manager, Gene Mauch, in the weeks following our triumph. Gene was between jobs at the time, having been fired by the Twins during the 1980 season. I thought he might call to deliver a quick congratulations. But my phone never rang.

Ironically, I didn’t win the
The Sporting News
Manager of the Year Award that season. In a vote taken before the start of the playoffs, baseball writers gave the award to Bill Virdon of the Astros.

*

Sylvia was a trouper during that amazing season, rarely missing a home game. After teaching high school all day in Newark, Delaware, she’d drive 15 miles to our home in West Grove, Pennsylvania, and pick up our youngest son, Doug. Then they’d drive 40 miles from our home to the ballpark. By the end of the season, she was equal parts exhausted and thrilled.

Our lives changed after winning the World Series. There began to be a lot more demands on my time, and everyday outings were no longer quite so routine. If we went to the Christiana Mall in Wilmington, 50 people would line up for autographs while we were eating french fries in the food court.

Our fans sure were thrilled with our championship.

I guess the alternative is the last-place manager who’s met with indifference or jeers when he visits the local mall. Given a choice between the two, I’ll take my experience every time.

In addition to bringing a ton of satisfaction to me, the Phillies, and the city of Philadelphia, winning a World Series had the unforeseen benefit of helping me graduate from college.

In 1955, following my junior year at the University of Delaware, I signed a free agent contract with the Phillies. At the time, I was several courses short of getting my degree. During my playing career, I took classes during the off-season, but when I became the Phillies’ minor league director in 1972, I decided I probably didn’t need the diploma to fulfill my career goals. With the passage of time, however, I got to thinking about my four kids and the messages I wanted to convey to them through my actions. By finally getting my degree, I would be able to impart two lessons in one: the value of education and the importance of finishing what you start.

With Sylvia’s prodding and after discussing the situation with administrators at the University of Delaware, it was decided I could obtain the final credits required for graduation by completing a special project for labor relations professor Arthur Sloane. On top of being a brilliant mind and an accomplished author, Sloane was also a real baseball nut. I had already appeared as a guest lecturer in his class, speaking to students about the influence of the Major League Baseball Players Association on the economics of the game. For my project, Professor Sloane tasked me with writing a paper on what I did to change the Phillies in 1980. I wrote the essay, and with that, obtained my degree in business administration.

I wasn’t your typical manager. I won a World Series in my first full season as skipper of the Phillies. I also became only the third former major league pitcher to manage a team to a championship. It’s a rule of thumb in baseball that retired pitchers become pitching coaches, not managers, probably because pitchers are so focused on mastering their own craft that they develop tunnel vision. Until someone misses a cut-off man behind them or fails to score on a double because he doesn’t run the bases properly, pitchers tend not to think too much about what’s going on around them. I was never like that. I learned how to bunt, field my position and hold runners, run the bases, and take signs. I schooled myself on the intricacies of baseball. I faced enough obstacles as a player, and I didn’t want a lack of fundamentals to be one of them.

None of the coaches on my staff in 1980 were standout major leaguers. Ruben Amaro, who hit .234 in 11 major league seasons and got some MVP votes in 1964, had the most successful career. Herm Starrette, our pitching coach, won just one game in three seasons. Mike Ryan (.193 in 11 seasons), Lee Elia (.203 in two seasons), Bobby Wine (.215 in 12 seasons), and Billy DeMars (.237 in three seasons) were, like me, mediocre at best during their playing careers. But they were all outstanding teachers who contributed significantly to our championship.

A relatively small number of Hall of Fame players have managed in the majors. At least in recent years, that’s a result of star players retiring with so much money that they don’t need to continue working. But managers and coaches who struggled as players bring a valuable perspective to a team. They tend to be hard workers who know how to handle adversity.

Despite my successful transition from the front office to the dugout, the plan was still for me to take over as Phillies general manager when Paul Owens decided to retire. At the age of 56, Pope wasn’t at that point yet, so I agreed to return as manager for the 1981 season. We had righted the ship and won a World Series, and I saw no reason why we couldn’t repeat as champions. I loved almost everything about the Phillies organization and wanted to see it remain as successful as possible.

*

I say “almost everything,” because, dating back to my playing days, one thing the organization had always struggled with was stinginess. As a player I fought tooth and nail to earn an additional $500, only to be denied the raise. After 10 years in the front office, I was still only making around $40,000 a year. As manager, I got bumped up to $75,000. Pope helped reinforce the organization’s reputation for frugality by never making hay about his own salary, which paled in comparison to his counterparts around the majors.

“Jesus Christ, Pope, you don’t get a raise, so no one else gets a raise!” I’d playfully scold him.

My family was doing fine, but with four kids to put through college, a few extra bucks wouldn’t have hurt. After winning the World Series, I was sure I’d be in line for a sizable pay increase. I thought a salary of $120,000 was a reasonable expectation. I bounced that number off Pope, who went to team treasurer George Harrison for approval. We were having a ball at the 1980 team Christmas party when Pope reported back to me with disappointing news.

“That goddamn George Harrison!” Pope bellowed. “He won’t give an inch. He’s willing to give you $90,000.”

Thanks to the party, I was very much feeling the yuletide spirit, but not to the point where I couldn’t identify an insult when one was slapping me in the face. Pope and I had already gone a few rounds with George over the issuance of World Series rings. We rightfully believed the championship came about due to the efforts of everyone in the organization, from the scouts to every player on the roster. But George decided he was only going to give rings to the top front office people, the manager, and the starting players! Bill Giles, who was the Phillies vice president at the time, intervened on our behalf. Everyone got a ring, though not everyone got the
same
ring. Some had fewer diamonds than others.

Still sore about that battle, I let my feelings be known.

“You gotta be shitting me, Pope!” I responded. “We just won the first goddamn World Series in almost a hundred years, and this son of a bitch is holding me up on a few thousand dollars?”

In the days that followed, I pouted like hell. But the Phillies didn’t budge. Pope told me he could go behind George’s back and find a way to get me almost to $100,000. I wasn’t happy, but I asked Pope to go ahead and do that, and I signed a one-year contract for close to six figures.

By the time we got to spring training in 1981, I had put that whole deal behind me. Another situation took precedence.

It shocked us all when Ruly Carpenter announced his family was putting the Phillies up for sale, citing concern over the escalating costs of operating a major league team. Part of that had to do with free agency. Atlanta’s signing of Claudell Washington to a five-year, $3.5 million contract after the 1980 season really turned off Ruly’s dad, Bob. He and his son both realized that many players would soon command million-dollar salaries. The growing disagreements between owners and the players union threatened to come to a head in 1981. A strike loomed if they couldn’t work out their differences.