The Roger Angell Baseball Collection (44 page)

In front of my set, I watched the Pirates take a courageous comeback win from the Reds by 3–2, mostly on some slashing bad-ball hitting by Manny Sanguillen. The next afternoon, the Pirates, now in a position to step into the World Series again, stepped all over their own feet instead, committing three errors and allowing several fly balls to disappear into the sun, all in the course of a dismal 7–1 pasting. Meanwhile, shuffling scorecards and statistics and rosters like a Japanese playground director, I also watched the Tigers (back home after a day off for travel) return to contention with a 3–0, fourteen-strikeout shutout pitched by Joe Coleman.

The next day, Wednesday, we were given an afternoon of baseball unlike any other in the annals of the sport. It was the day on which the playoffs—heretofore only an irritating preamble to the World Series, created to boost baseball’s television ratings—suddenly succeeded beyond all expectations. The two games (the fourth for the American League contenders, who had taken a day off for travel, and the deciding fifth for the Reds and Pirates, who had not) were continuously exciting, and the NBC camerawork was alert, subtle, and up to every sudden occasion, thus making it clear that television, at its best, has almost conquered the built-in obstacles involved in covering a spacious, intensely three-dimensional sport in a two-dimensional medium. Vivid closeups—Charlie Finley, the Oakland owner, glowering and chewing his thumb in his box; a ball boy nearly ill with suppressed excitement; Joe Morgan, waiting at the plate for a pitch, pumping his left elbow like a rooster wing—brought us details perhaps missed by most people in the stands, and multiple cameras, catching the play at different levels and distances, showed us more of the pitchers’ stuff than the batters seemed to be picking up.

In Detroit, Hunter and Lolich hooked up in another excruciating deadlock, which stood at one run apiece after seven innings, on home runs by McAuliffe and Epstein. The rival pilots, unstrung by possibilities, now indulged themselves in some grotesque overmanaging—Oakland’s Dick Williams with a succession of pinch-hitters that effectively stripped his infield of its most capable personnel, and Billy Martin with a wholly uninspired squeeze play that wiped out the potential winning run in the eighth. (Billy Martin loves the squeeze the way a wino loves muscatel.) Oakland brought home two runs in the top of the tenth, but the first two Tiger batters in the inning singled, and then a key force play was missed at second when Gene Tenace dropped the throw; Tenace, a catcher, was playing second because Williams had used up his infielders. Cash walked, to force in the tying run, and Northrup singled in the winner.

Instantly, we were in Cincinnati, in the midst of a taut, quickly played, elegantly pitched game that would decide it all for the National League. The Pirates led from the outset, and in the bottom of the ninth their palm-ball ace, Dave Giusti, came in in relief of Steve Blass, needing only three outs to hold the 3–2 lead. He got none of them. Johnny Bench, leading off, hit the fourth pitch on a frightening parabola into the right-field seats. Tony Perez singled. Denis Menke singled. The expression on Giusti’s face (seen in closeup) was almost too stricken, too private to look at. He departed, and his successor, Bob Moose, came in and painstakingly, with infinite care and anxiety, got two outs on fly balls. Foster, running for Perez, had moved from second to third on the first out, and now, with the hordes of the Cincinnati in full cry from the dugout and from all over the enormous park, Moose threw a strike to Hal McRae and then a ball, and then bounced a wild pitch cleanly away from the plate and past his catcher, and the game and the Series and the season were gone for the Pirates.

The final American League game remained, the next afternoon, and it was scarcely less than what had come before. The Tigers scored in the first on a single, a passed ball, and an infield out. The A’s tied it in the second on dash and daring—a walk, a stolen base, a sacrifice, a hit batsman, a double steal. The run came at a high price, for Reggie Jackson, the Oakland slugger and leader, severely tore the hamstring muscle of his left leg in a collision at the plate and was carried from the field, finished for the year. The lead run (the winning run, it turned out) came in the fourth on an error, a sacrifice, and a single by Gene Tenace. The pitchers took it from there—Fryman for the Tigers, Blue Moon Odom and then Vida Blue for the A’s. In each of the last three innings, the Tigers put the tying run on first base and could not advance him. Their difficulties—the difficulty of all baseball when it is well played—were so evident that announcer Jim Simpson murmured at one point, “This is a game that requires no description.” The Detroit elders, who had come so far on so little, died at last because of their lack of speed. (They had stolen only seventeen bases all year.) They were reduced in the end to playing the game one base at a time, which is the least rewarding way to travel the 360 feet around to home. Their demise (with the Oakland players leaping and hugging all by themselves) was the hardest to watch of this hard baseball year.

The survivors, gathering in Cincinnati for the Series opener, came together in an atmosphere of almost palpable letdown. All the players, it seemed, were less aroused about the games to come than relieved about the ones just past, and as one watched the Reds cheerfully taking their cuts during pregame batting practice it was hard to discount their evident conviction that their most dangerous opponents of the year had already been buried. They looked over at the hairy young A’s, in their outlandish green-and-gold-and-white costumes, with a patronizing curiosity that was perhaps shared by the great majority of baseball fans everywhere. Oakland, to be sure, was the best the AL had, but the National, by every comparable measurement, was by far the stronger of the two leagues. The Oakland pitching was good—perhaps even first-class—but Reggie Jackson, the team’s only certified slugger, was over there uncomfortably balancing on crutches, and, anyway, who had ever
heard
of a major-league team wearing mustaches? (Charlie Finley’s ugly little scheme of paying each of his players to grow a mustache as part of a promotion stunt last June had a cheerful, unexpected result. The players—most of them, at least—liked their new and wildly variegated whiskers and long locks, and remained unshorn through the summer, and in time this eighteen-nineties look became a proud attribute of the squad. During the Series, the young and exuberant and showy A’s sometimes suggested a troupe of actors in a road company of
Cyrano de Bergerac,
laughing backstage in their doublets or swaggering a little on the streets after the show. The Reds, by front-office decree, were as clean and barefaced as Kiwanians.) In spite of the imbalance of styles, and the imbalance of talent in the lineups which seemed so strongly to favor the Reds, both teams were equally avid for the reputation and honors that would accrue to the new champion. Over the past two decades, the fall classic has usually offered a match between a famous champion and a new challenger—the Orioles against the Pirates, Reds, and Mets; the Cardinals against the Tigers and Red Sox; the Yankees against almost everybody. Now, relieved of this allegory, we looked at the two clubs with total surmise, wondering not only which would win but whether one of them might not also represent the game’s next dynasty.

The sense of mild anticlimax persisted in Cincinnati right through the first game, which the Buttercups (or Bushwhackers, or Pale Feet) won by 3–2. Gene Tenace, the Oakland catcher and, on his record, a rather minor member of the A’s entourage, struck a two-run homer off Gary Nolan his first time at bat. The Cincinnati rooters near my seat behind third base smiled at this accident in a rather indulgent manner: these things happen sometimes in baseball, and
their
catcher-slugger, of course, was named Bench. Tenace came up next in the fifth and hit another one out, thus accounting for all the Oakland runs, and this time the hometowners sprang up and cried “Aw, come
onn!”
in unison. Tenace was the first man in history to hit home runs on his first two World Series at-bats. Still, the fans went home in the end only a bit cast down, and the tone of the afternoon was somehow struck by two banners that had been towed over Riverfront Stadium by circling airplanes—
“OAKLAND HAS WEIRD UNIFORMS”
and
“WOMEN’S LIB WILL DESTROY THE FAMILY.”
The Oakland pitchers, I noticed, had allowed only two walks and a single to those first three Red batters.

The next day (a brilliant, sun-drenched Sunday afternoon), Johnny Bench had more unwanted practice as a leadoff man, as Catfish Hunter and Rollie Fingers confined the Top Three to a lone single and one free trip to first via an error, and the Goldenrods won again, 2–1. Catfish Hunter, a somewhat unappreciated star (he won twenty-one games in each of the past two seasons, and is one of the few players never to have played a single game in the minor leagues), is a control pitcher of the very first rank, and must usually be scored on in the first couple of innings if he is to be scored on at all. He settled this particular game in the second inning when he struck out the side with two (and eventually three) Reds on base, and in the A’s third, left fielder Joe Rudi hit the game-winning solo homer. The hometown crowd, their white-and-scarlet banners drooping, waited in polite but deepening silence for something to cheer about, and their one true yell of the day, in the bottom of the ninth, was suddenly severed when Rudi, in pursuit of a very long drive by Denis Menke, plastered himself belly-first against the left-field wall like a pinned butterfly and somehow plucked down the ball. Later, in their clubhouse, the Reds variously attempted a statesmanlike situation report (“We’re a bit flat” … “Their offense doesn’t impress me” … “We’re embarrassed, you could say”), but their faces were a little stiff, a little shocked. Tony Perez used both hands to enact for Dave Concepcion a couple of Catfish Hunter’s half-speed pitches dipping gently over the corners of the plate.
“Nada!”
he cried bitterly.
“Nada!”

There was another moment on that same bright Sunday—a moment before the game, which only took on meaning a few days later. In a brief ceremony at the mound, Commissioner Bowie Kuhn presented an award to Jackie Robinson, honoring him for his work in combating drug addiction, and celebrating his arrival, twenty-five years before, as the first black man in the major leagues. Robinson responded, his thin, high voice barely reaching us over the loudspeakers. He was glad to see some of his old Brooklyn friends there—Pee Wee Reese, Joe Black, Red Barber. He introduced his family. He ended by saying that it would be nice to see a black manager standing in the third-base coach’s box someday soon. There were handshakes and applause, the party walked away, the microphones were taken down. I had seen Jackie for a minute or two in the tunnel behind home plate—a frail, white-haired old man, with a black raincoat buttoned up to his chin. I remembered at that moment a baseball scene that I had witnessed more than twenty years earlier—a scene that came back to me the following week, when I read about Robinson’s sudden death. It was something that had happened during an insignificant weekday game between the Giants and the Dodgers back in the nineteen-fifties. Robinson, by then an established star, was playing third base that afternoon, and during the game something happened that drove him suddenly and totally mad. I was sitting close to him, just behind third, but I had no idea what brought on the outburst. It might have been a remark from the stands or from one of the dugouts; it was nothing that happened on the field. Without warning, Robinson began shouting imprecations, obscenities, curses. His voice was piercing, his face distorted with passion. The players on both teams looked at each other, uncomprehending. The Giants’ third-base coach walked over to murmur a question, and Robinson directed his screams at him. The umpire at third did the same thing, and then turned away with a puzzled, embarrassed shrug. In time, the outburst stopped and the game went on. It had been nothing, a moment’s aberration, but it seemed to suggest what can happen to a man who has been used, who has been made into a symbol and a public sacrifice. The moment became an event—something to remember along with the innumerable triumphs and the joys and the sense of pride and redress that Jackie Robinson brought to us all back then. After that moment, I knew that we had asked him to do too much for us. None of it—probably not a day of it—was ever easy for him.

A couple of hours before the beginning of the third game (which became a rainout), Charles O. Finley, resplendent in a Kelly-green double-knit blazer, got aboard a crowded elevator inside the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum. When it reached the field level, he stood aside to let the rest of us out, and then turned to the young woman running the elevator. “Listen, dear,” he said urgently. “I want you to stop at two on the way back up and pick up the boys with the coffee urns. You got that?” Charlie Finley is a man who must do everything by himself, even when fifty thousand paying customers are at the gates. He is a self-made millionaire, in the insurance business. He bought his ball club by himself and, almost entirely without advice, developed and traded for the players who brought him the championship. (He is also a jock satrap, owning teams in two other sports—the California Golden Seals, of the National Hockey League, and the Memphis Tams, of the American Basketball Association—which he operates and oversees in the same shouldering style.) He designed the A’s’ uniforms. He designed their style of play. (This year’s policy of pinch-hitting for the second baseman as early as the second inning is a Finley invention, and reflects his conviction that baseball should open itself more to pinch-hitting and pinch-running specialists.) He used up nine baseball managers in ten years, and imposes strategy upon the incumbent, Dick Williams, like a Little League daddy. He is a man who must control every situation in which he finds himself, from arranging the seating at a dinner table to personally dispensing the last five hundred World Series tickets behind the Oakland dugout (an area he refers to as “my box”). He brings his team mascot, an enormous mule named Charlie O, to all the A’s’ public functions, indoors or outdoors. In his relations with his players, he has a fondness for the sudden paternal gesture—an arm around the shoulder and the whispered message that the athlete’s contract has just been upped by a few thousand for some deed well done. Last year, Finley tried to persuade Vida Blue to change his first name to True. Later, he publicly presented him with a new Cadillac, but this spring, when Blue held out for a very sizable increase in salary, Finley fought him with such unbridled vehemence that Blue fell into a state of embittered withdrawal that accounted in great part for his disappointing 6–10 record. Mr. Finley believes he enjoys excellent relations with most of his players, and would probably point to his new championship as the best evidence of their happiness. Yet considerable evidence suggests that the A’s were united and matured most of all by their shared individual resistance to the Finley style and the Finley presence. During the Series, Reggie Jackson talked to me about this. “The man is insulting and meddlesome,” he said. “This team found itself in the summer, but this is not the way to make a team.”