The Roger Angell Baseball Collection (42 page)

Bal’more: one possible cure for the American League’s attendance problems might be some form of massive group therapy for baseball fans in Baltimore. Although the Orioles are the class of the league, having attained the World Series four times in the past six years, their townspeople have responded with gingerly enthusiasm. The Orioles invariably draw more on the road than at home, where attendance barely reaches the million mark each year, and there are always a few seats in Memorial Stadium that go begging at World Series time. This year, Baltimore may be the only city to evidence any continuing public disaffection as a result of the players’ strike, and when I got to town early in June a number of cabdrivers (famous, even in this capital of low confidence, for their grousing) told me with relish how quickly Bal’more folks had turned against Brooks Robinson for saying during the strike that the players’ cause was a just one. The Orioles’ attendance, I learned, was already ninety thousand lower than last year’s comparable figures, but some of this was attributable to rainouts and to the fact that the team, though still only a half game out of first place, was bumping along barely above the .500 mark. Most of the Birds’ old regulars had been suffering frightful difficulties at the plate. Don Buford was batting .217, Mark Belanger .170, Andy Etchebarren .164, and Boog Powell .157, and Brooks Robinson had not hit a homer all year. (When I asked Earl Weaver, the Baltimore manager, if he missed Frank Robinson, he said, “Hell, we’ve missed Boog a lot more.”) Only the ardent play of some young strangers named Terry Crowley, Don Baylor, and Bobby Grich—all up from Rochester, in the Orioles’ richly stocked farm system—had kept the team alive while it waited for the seniors’ inevitable untracking.

Losing is hard on champions. That first evening, before another minuscule audience, the estimable Dave McNally, a twenty-game winner for the past four years, fell behind the visiting Red Sox in the very first inning, two runs coming in on a single by Rico Petrocelli that barely wormed its way through the left side of the infield. An inning later, McNally was groaning and glaring at home-plate ump Art Frantz, who was not giving him the corners. Now, in quick succession, the Sox’ Doug Griffin nubbed a little infield single and Carlton Fisk hit a fly ball that barely slipped over the left-field fence for a homer. Boston pitcher Sonny Siebert smashed the next pitch on a line right at McNally, who just managed to get his glove up in time to avoid dismemberment. With steam now pouring from his ears, McNally nailed the next batter, Tommy Harper, on the elbow and, his day and game ruined, departed the mound almost before Manager Weaver could come out and get him. Later in the evening, with the Red Sox ahead by 7–1 after an unchallenging single had gone right past Brooks Robinson at third, Boog Powell took a Siebert strike thrown just as he started to back out of the box, took a called change-up, took a fast ball up and in, and fanned badly on still another junky curve to end the inning; he spun his batting helmet away and, finding the ball on the ground, kicked it all the way into center field.

A somewhat larger company turned up the next evening to see Vida Blue and the Oakland A’s, the best of the West. Weaver benched both Powell and Brooks Robinson, and Don Baylor and Bobby Grich each hit a single and stole a base in the second inning, giving the home team the lead in its eventual and reassuring 5–1 win. Blue, making only his second start since the end of his long holdout, worked with his customary and delightful coiled-python delivery and looked as quick as ever, if not yet quite fine. He departed after five innings, down by four runs but having thrown only one bad pitch—a high curve that Paul Blair hit way up and way out for a homer. The A’s looked formidable even while losing, and now bear the mysterious but essential demeanor of total confidence that always marks a superior ball team. The Oakland players also bore some other new distinguishing marks—mustaches that the entire team (with the brave exception of infielder Mike Hegan) had sprouted at the behest of owner Finley for a coming Mustache Day promotion at his home park. Bribe, not behest: Finley paid three hundred dollars for each mustache. In the clubhouse, Vida Blue (his own mustache is a barely visible first effort) said that he was unsatisfied with his performance but not entirely surprised. Pitching form is not instantly attainable. Since his holdout and, before that, his sudden celebrity of last summer, Blue has become a guarded, somber, and apparently unhappy young man. His salary dispute did not win much support from his teammates (who also proved that they can win without him), and the famous holdout seems in retrospect an unfortunate affair in which both sides took defensible but conceivably mistaken stands. Yes, Vida brought out many thousands of fans last year, and yes, he was badly underpaid. On the other hand, yes, he had shown only a bare half-season of brilliance in his career so far. What was lost, in the end, was a spring-training season in which Blue could have worked on his curve and otherwise directed his shining talents toward the time when he becomes a truly great pitcher—which is a position far more secure than that of a great gate attraction. He has, however, already improved in one respect over last year, for he is visibly larger and even more impressively muscled. I mentioned this to him, and he managed a smile. “I’m just a growin’ boy,” he said.

Scorecard, Chi.: Quick trip Windy City to ck. out ex-doormat White Sox. Attend. up 338 thou. last yr., already up another 120 thou. this yr. Pale Hose BO smash, also in 2nd place AL West. More bad planning: Arrive 1 day after Sox sweep Yanks in Sunday doubleheader, before 51,904 ecstat. fans. Popular Mgr. Chuck Tanner drew raspberry when he benched new Chi. godling Dick Allen for much-needed rest in nightcap. Tanner then drew heavy mitting when he called on Allen to pinch-hit in bottom ninth with Sox down by 4–2. Allen hit 3-run homer, won game. All Chi. transported, mad with old-fash. BB fever. Typical perform, by Allen. Typical perform. by Tanner. Dick Allen is ex-Richie Allen, erstwhile unhappy itinerant NL big bopper traded off by 3 clubs in 3 yrs., includ. last winter from LA Dodgers. Richie now Dick by own request. See Dick hit. See Dick run. Dick happy in new home.

Out to White Sox Park, still known everywhere by old handle, Comiskey Park. Old, white, steep-sided park, looks like docked paddle-wheel steamer. (Rumors used to hold environs of Park—Southside Chi.—a dangerous place for fans after night games; Sox began winning, rumors heard no more.) Chisox uniforms feature red pinstripes & red hose with
picture
of white sock on each calf. Decadence?

Night game vs. Boston (again). Wilbur Wood, portly port-side knuckleballer, winner 22 games last season, starts vs. Siebert (again). Bosox win, natch: 2–0. No foundation all down the line. No matter. Stay happy watching Richie—oops, Dick—doing his thing. Enormous man. Head nearly hidden under dishlike batting helmet. Glittery eyeglasses, droopy mustachios, odd eyebrows. Somehow suggests Levantine prince. Platformlike shoulders & long, lean legs also suggest Allen poured into uniform upside down. Nifty glove in field around 1B, has all the moves.
Enjoys
self. In bat. box, shifts minutely back & forth on long, floppy feet, awaiting pitch. Waves tremendous 40-oz. bat, swings through, holds back wrists.
Strong.
In v. first inning, whips bat like flyswatter—
whap!
—& ball leaps to deep LF, caroms off wall on 1 bounce. Dick instant. into 2B with double. V. fast runner. Allen currently tied for 2nd place AL homers (11), tied 3rd place BA (.315), 1st place RBI (40). Whew.

Next day. Mgr. Tanner soft-spoken yet volub. skipper. Young, bronzed face, snowy sideburns. Credits many for Chisox rise, incl. famed pitching coach J. Sain, known for unorth. methods. Much-traveled Sain the grand guru of 20-game winners. Tanner emphs. defense, shows tactical charts kept of every opp. AL hitter. Charts color-coded accord. to Chi. pitchers, show site of every fair ball hit in season, suggest defens. shifts. No wonder modern bat. aves. so low! Tanner on Allen: Finest BB player anywhere. Will go from Chisox straight into Hall of Fame, etc. Does not comment on Allen’s distaste for reg. hours, public appearances, batting pract., spring training, etc. Tanner knows right thing to know about Allen: Superstar.

Chisox take on Bosox again in afternoon. Chisox now play all home Wed. games in sunshine, for night workers, children, etc. Commendable. V. pop. Chisox broadcaster Harry Caray also works Wed. games from seat in CF bleachers, delighting kids. Kids further delighted now when Dick Allen rips 1st inn. pitch to CF for triple & RBI. Whew. Game then runs down, stops, dies, thanks to Luis Tiant, Bost. pitcher. Tiant, noted for odd pitching mannerisms, is also a famous mound dawdler. Stands on hill like sunstruck archeologist at Knossos. Regards ruins. Studies sun. Studies landscape. Looks at artifact in hand. Wonders: Keep this potsherd or throw it away? Does Smithsonian want it? Hmm. Prepares to throw it away. Pauses. Sudd. discovers
writing
on object. Hmm. Possible Linear B inscript.? Sighs. Decides. Throws. Wipes face. Repeats whole thing. Innings & hours creep by. Spectators clap, yawn, droop, expire. In stands, 57 disloc. jaws set new modern AL record, single game. Somebody wins game in end, can’t remember who.
****

Belonging: Arriving late for an afternoon game against the Reds, I found the Shea parking lot filled and was forced to explore some of the distant Queens outback before finding an empty space in front of a lumberyard. The game was already under way when I came hurrying across the lot past acres of metal heating in the sun. Looking up around the big scoreboard, I could see crowds packing the steep, curving stands against the sky. Tom Seaver was starting for the Mets, so I wasn’t worried about missing much, but then, as I came closer, I heard the voice of the public-address announcer from inside the stadium: “Batting for Cincinnati in the fourth poh-sition …” Bad. The Reds had a man on, at least. There were confused cries, and I heard “Batting in the fifth poh-sition …” I had never before realized that a public-address man omits all the essential information about a game. I began to run. More noises, more cries. “Batting in the sixth poh-sition …” What was going
on?
Maybe there had been a last-minute switch in the Mets’ pitching rotation. Maybe—There was a long ascending roar, suddenly cut off. Now I was almost next to the stands in left. Sweating, I stopped and tried to peer back at the face of the scoreboard, but the angle was still wrong. “Batting in the seventh poh-sition …”

It was all true. In time, I got to my seat and saw the big “4” up on the board for the Reds’ first. I picked up the details of the disaster from my neighbors: three singles, a sacrifice, and then a two-run homer,
just
fair, by Joe Hague. All this off Tom Seaver. It looked like a ruined day, but things picked up a little when the Mets scratched out a run in the first, and when Seaver fanned Bench and Perez, both on big, swinging strikes, in the third. Then Willie Mays, leading off in the fifth, banged a single off Cincinnati pitcher Ross Grimsley’s leg. Bud Harrelson, going with an outside pitch, doubled off the left-field wall, and then Rusty Staub lined a low shot that Joe Morgan leaped for and missed, and the score was suddenly up to 4–3, and the noise at Shea insupportable.

So much and then no more. A double play ended that part of things, and in the sixth John Milner’s bid for a pinch-hit home run was pulled down a few feet short. He had batted for Seaver, necessarily, and a few minutes later Tony Perez hit a 1-1 pitch by Danny Frisella over the 371-foot mark in right center, and the game was gone, this time for good. All that for nothing, and later, as I walked back to the lumberyard and then fought my way slowly home through the traffic, there were other troubles to think about. This was the eighth straight game that Seaver had failed to finish, and his earned-run average, the best in the league last year, was way up. Jerry Koosman’s arm was still untested, and the rest of the Mets’ starting corps was unsteady at best. The team had now lost its last two series and most of its lead; the Pirates were only a couple of games back. In contrast to the familiar and often frail-looking home hitters (flash of Bud Harrelson leaning across the plate and flicking that double over third base), the Reds had looked frightening—Rose and then those two cool, quick batsmen Morgan and Tolan, and then the sluggers Bench and Perez. And yet the Pirates looked even better. Stargell and Clemente and Sanguillen …
Seven
of their regulars were batting over .300. And the Cubs were coming on fast, too.…

Cares abound among other teams, of course, and also some hopes. Just lately, the Orioles won nine straight games, but still trail the Tigers by one. The White Sox are still second to Oakland, but slipping back. The Dodgers have fallen behind Houston; Houston has fallen behind Cincinnati. The Giants are seventeen games down. Yaz is back, and hitting a little. Three, maybe four, real pennant races are under way. Somehow, after that ridiculous and painful afternoon against the Reds, it all mattered to me again. Anxiety and difficulties afflict me, a fortunate fan, and this baseball season has begun to happen after all.

*
The qualitative difference between the two leagues has diminished since this gloomy report was written. The AL continues to trail the NL in attendance, but the disparity is now down to about two million, and since 1973, when the American League invented the designated hitter, it has usually slightly surpassed the National League in homers and batting average.

**
Met fans should be forgiven if they are overtaken here by groans or a sudden wish to lie down. Fregosi, who was in fact well past the best summers of his playing career, lasted for a season and a half with the Mets. To acquire him, the club had sent California a young, hopelessly wild right-handed pitcher whose lifetime record stood at 29–38. Once on the side of the Angels, the pitcher (it was Nolan Ryan) became a certified twenty-game winner, led his league in strikeouts for three years running, and set other notable records, thus establishing himself as one of the greatest fastball pitchers in the annals of the game.

***
It wasn’t. The Astros and the Dodgers finished the season in a tie for second place, ten and a half games behind the Cincinnati Reds.