100 Things Cubs Fans Should Know & Do Before They Die (9 page)

22. Game 163

Some teams have to back into the playoffs. In 1998, the Cubs and the San Francisco Giants were mediocre enough that they each had to back into the
playoff
for the playoffs.

Both the Cubs and the Giants lost what was supposed to have been their final game of the regular season in gut-wrenching yet similar fashion. The Cubs led their finale against Houston 3–1 in the bottom of the eighth before losing in 11 innings.

In a contest between future Cubs managers Dusty Baker and Don Baylor, the Giants led 7–0 in the fifth until Colorado came roaring back and won the game in the bottom of the ninth on a home run by light-hitting Neifi Perez.

Both teams engaged in extensive scoreboard watching as each game progressed at a similar pace and ended within minutes of each other, lending drama to what had been a thrilling National League Wild Card race. The New York Mets were also in contention before dropping their last five and failing to force a three-team playoff.

Thanks to winning a coin flip a couple weeks earlier, the tiebreaker was held at Wrigley Field on a Monday night as the rest of baseball either headed for winter break or enjoyed a day of rest to prepare for the postseason.

Even though the game was considered part of the regular
season, it most certainly felt like a playoff game. Michael Jordan threw out the first pitch, Bill Murray sang the seventh-inning stretch, and the famous Wrigley Field scoreboard was nearly barren, save for the only baseball game being played that day. “What a strange sight,” Cubs general manager Ed Lynch remarked.

It had been a long, tortuous march to this winner-take-all contest for the Cubs, the first of its kind at Wrigley since Game 7 of the 1945 World Series. All of Cubdom had been dealt a devastating blow in February when beloved broadcaster Harry Caray passed away. The grief then turned to amazement as Sammy Sosa turned in a 66-homer season for the ages.

One of the most memorable regular season games in Cubs history had taken place on September 23 in Milwaukee when Brant Brown dropped a fly ball with the bases loaded and two outs in the ninth inning to cost the Cubs a precious game. Nobody needed a win in the tiebreaker more than Brown, who never made it off the bench.

Cubs manager Jim Riggleman chose human rain delay Steve Trachsel to start while Mark Gardner took the hill for the Giants, whose roster was filled with ex-Cubs Joe Carter, Shawon Dunston, and Rey Sanchez not to mention future Cubs third baseman Bill Mueller.

Trachsel was hardly stellar with six walks, but he didn’t allow a hit through 6
⅓ innings. By that time the Cubs had gone ahead thanks to two unlikely heroes: Matt Mieske and Gary Gaetti. A little over a month earlier, Gaetti had been released by St. Louis and on August 19—his 40
th
birthday—signed with the Cubs. In just 37 games, he hit .320 with eight homers and 27 RBIs, including a two-run homer off Gardner in the fifth inning to give the Cubs a 2–0 lead.

Mieske, a right-handed hitting reserve outfielder, had been up and down from the minors and was hitting .130 as a pinch-hitter when he hit for Henry Rodriguez, a lefty, with one out and the bases loaded in the sixth. His two-run single put the Cubs ahead 4–0 and all eyes turned to Trachsel. By the time he departed with one out in the seventh, he had only given up one single. The forever-maligned Matt Karchner and Felix Heredia, a couple of middle relievers Lynch had obtained in July for former No. 1 draft picks, took over and got the Cubs out of the inning.

The Cubs tacked on a run in the eighth when Sosa scored on a wild pitch, and they entered the ninth inning with what any rational observer would have said was a secure 5
–0 lead. When it comes to the Cubs, there is no such thing and they proved that in the ninth.

Kevin Tapani, who had pitched a scoreless eighth, gave up back-to-back singles to Brent Mayne and Mueller before giving way to Terry Mulholland. Things were just getting interesting. Mulholland gave up an RBI single to Stan Javier and then walked Ellis Burks, bringing up Barry Bonds. This was in Bonds’ days before performance-enhancing drugs but well into what was already an incredible career.

Riggleman stayed with the lefty Mulholland against Bonds, who in the seventh inning had grounded out to first with the bases loaded. This time he ripped a screamer to right that luckily found Sosa’s glove but still allowed Mueller to tag up and score from third, making it 5–2.

The Cubs closer in 1998 was Rod “Shooter” Beck, one of the most intimidating-looking yet affable and fun-loving guys you could ever hope to come across in the clubhouse. He saved 51 games in his only full season with the Cubs, none more important than this one. Beck, who passed away in 2007 at the age of 38, got Jeff Kent to hit into a fielder’s choice and then jammed Carter, whose meek pop-up along the first-base line landed gently in Mark Grace’s glove for the final out.

A wild scene broke out at Wrigley with players dancing on the field, champagne being sprayed into the crowd, and Sosa racing toward his most devoted fans in the right-field bleachers to bask in their glow.

Finally, the Cubs had won a big one. Even if it wasn’t the biggest one.

23. Spend a Day in the Bleachers

Take heed of the warnings that you need to be very careful when you sit in the bleachers. You’re liable to enjoy yourself too much and may never want to sit anywhere else.

Wrigley Field’s gorgeous, sun-drenched bleachers aren’t for everybody. If you don’t like loud, rowdy people or if you’ve got a bad back and need a standard seat with a back rest, then go to the grandstand. If you want to keep an opponent’s home run ball, head over to U.S. Cellular Field.

Detractors will say the bleachers are just an oversized bar, that fake fans drink too much, the girls show too much skin, and fights get in the way of a good time. Well, sure. On occasion that’s all true. Deal with it.

A day in the bleachers is a chance to experience arguably the most famous section of any ballpark ever built. So get yourself a bleacher ticket, sit down, and prepare to chant, “Right field sucks!” Unless you’re sitting in the right field bleachers, in which case you probably want to yell that left field sucks.

The bleachers were built in 1937 when Cubs owner Phil Wrigley green lit additions that included the same manually operated scoreboard that is still there today. There was an expansion in 2005 to add several thousand seats, but the bleachers are essentially the same as they were 75 years ago.

Today, the term “Bleacher Bum” is used to describe anybody sitting in the bleachers whether they’re one of the regulars or a tourist from Dubuque. But in 1969, when the Bums became a local and then a national phenomenon, they were an actual organization with an actual president. They even had a cheerleader and kindred spirit in Cubs relief pitcher Dick Selma, who directed them with waves of his arms from the left-field bullpen.

Ron Grousl was a 24-year-old who didn’t work much but because bleacher tickets were just $1, only went on sale the day of the game,
and weren’t nearly in as much demand as they are today, he and the rest of the Bums never had any problem getting into games. Grousl was the president of the Bleacher Bums, who wore yellow construction worker helmets, carried membership cards, and heckled the bejeezus out of any player not wearing a Cubs inform.

Many opposing players came to despise the Bums, but there was also a grudging respect and playfulness with the rabid fans. In August 1968, in the ninth inning of an 8–0 St. Louis victory, Cardinals outfielder Lou Brock came out to his spot in left field with a sign reading, “We’re Still No. 1,” taped to his back.

But his teammate Ron Davis, who claimed he was hit in the back by a battery during that Cardinals win, was shellshocked. “You know, I just got back from two weeks of army training and that was safe compared with playing the outfield here if you don’t wear a Cub uniform,” he told the
Chicago Tribune
. “Come to think of it, I ought to get hazardous duty pay when I play here.”

The Bums began their days at Ray’s Bleachers, now known as Murphy’s Bleachers, and ended them there, as well. Among the 300 Bums were teens and seniors, including a 72-year-old Bum and a Gramma Bum. Grousl limited official membership but the Bums eventually started to become victims of their own fun.

“Now everyone wants to be a Bum and sit in the bleachers,” one of the original Bums, Jim Donohoe, told the
Tribune
in June 1969. “We’ve really got to get up early to get to our seats.”

The highlight of the 1969 season for the Bums came when Wrigley bankrolled a trip to Atlanta for 100 of their lot. The trip proved to be a great success as the Cubs swept the Braves. As Rick Talley wrote in
The Cubs of ’69
, the Bums also were at the top of their game “...with one Bum trying to lasso the Atlanta mascot, Chief Noc-A-Homa, another trying to burn down his tepee, and another being hospitalized after taking a 22' plunge off the railing of the left-field stands.”

The disappointment of 1969 didn’t prevent 1970 from starting off with a bang. After the Cubs nearly blew their home opener before a sellout crowd, a riot broke out as fans stormed past Andy Frain ushers and raced onto the field. Cubs second baseman Glenn Beckert was attacked by three fans, according to a
Tribune
story. The same story was careful to point out that “the Bleacher Bums were not involved” in the riot.

However, the bleachers were becoming an increasingly difficult place to police, and the following day a no-standing policy was enforced at the start of the game. With only a few thousand people in Wrigley Field the rule was relaxed by the end of the game but changes were being planned.

A few days later, the Cubs announced beer would only be sold at concession stands in the bleachers and they would stop the practice of selling 750 standing-room-only bleacher tickets. The biggest change, however, was to add a wire-mesh basket to prevent beer cups as well as people from entering the Wrigley Field playing field. The first game with the basket was played on May 7. Three days later, Billy Williams became the first player to have a home run land in the basket.

The conversion of the bleachers from an inexpensive way to catch a game to huge moneymaker began in 1985 when the Cubs ended the practice of only selling tickets on the day of the game. Within a few years the prices started to skyrocket, and by 2011 the top price for a general admission bleacher ticket was $72.

Occasionally incidents show the bleachers in a negative light, such as the time in 2009 when one fan threw a beer on Philadelphia outfielder Shane Victorino during a nationally televised game only to have an innocent fan ejected.

But the bleachers are still a tremendous place to watch a baseball game. Even if it doesn’t cost a buck anymore.

Bleachers Bums: The Play

The 1977 play
Bleacher Bums
isn’t the story of the actual Bleacher Bums. The fictional characters sat in right field while the real Bums were in left, and the eight disparate characters didn’t always get along while the real Bums were a close-knit group.

The real Bums also didn’t enjoy nearly as much success as the play, which premiered in 1977 at Chicago’s Organic Theater and was conceived—where else?—in the Wrigley Field bleachers by actor and longtime Cubs fan Joe Mantegna.

“I had the idea start germinating in my head when I was, like, 18 or 19 years old,” he told the
Chicago Sun-Times
’ Bill Zwecker in 2004. “I thought, ‘Wouldn’t it be interesting to do a play about this group of people I sit with every day in the bleachers?’”

Mantegna’s idea turned into an improvised play that also starred Dennis Franz and ran in Chicago for two years before going to Broadway for a short run and then to Los Angeles for 13 years.

One of the original stage performances was taped by PBS in 1979 and can still be seen in its entirety with Mantegna and Franz in the roles they originated. A made-for-TV version was made in 2002.

24. Billy Williams: The Quiet One

There may not have been a more soft-spoken superstar in Cubs history than Billy Williams, except maybe the painfully shy Ryne Sandberg. Williams wasn’t shy, however, he was a quiet, confident man who came to play every day and let others do the yapping.

That approach worked for years until late in his career, after destroying pitchers for an entire season and getting bypassed for recognition, Williams, who a
Chicago Tribune
writer called “the quiet man of the club,” got fed up.

In 1972, Williams not only had his best season—he had one of the best years any Cub had ever put together, maybe even better than any by former teammate Ernie Banks, who had retired after 1971. Williams came within three homers and three RBIs of capturing the National League’s Triple Crown, hitting .333 with 37 homers and 122 RBIs. And for his efforts he felt he got kicked in the teeth.

Cincinnati catcher Johnny Bench beat out Williams for the National League’s MVP award even though Bench hit only .270, 63 points less than Williams. Bench was the one who denied Williams the Triple Crown, hitting 40 homers, driving in 125, and playing a demanding position. The real difference was Bench’s Reds had made the playoffs and Williams’ Cubs, as usual, stayed home.

Williams was immediately and publicly critical of the vote, and he had a right to be. On one ballot he was completely left off. The writer either didn’t think Williams had been one of the top 10 most valuable players in the NL that year or he was rigging the vote in Bench’s favor. The hurt hadn’t worn off by the following spring, and Williams, who came into camp having settled for a one-year $150,000 contract well below market value, made his feelings known.

“I’ve been a nice guy too long, and it has cost me money and endorsements,” he told the
Chicago Tribune
’s Ed Prell. “I’m convinced it helps an athlete to pop off and that the fans don’t care if you’re right or wrong, as long as it’s controversial. You’ll get more attention than if you make eight hits in a row.”

Players try out all sorts of new things in the spring before going back to their old ways, and it was the same with Williams. He remained the calm, thoughtful player he had always been, and history remembers him for his beautiful left-handed swing that brought him to the major leagues and carried him on to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1987.

Plain-spoken and with a permanent twinkle in his eye, the kid from Whistler, Alabama, didn’t hit as many home runs as Ernie Banks, throw no-hitters like Ken Holtzman, or click his heels like Ron Santo. He just played and played, every single day. And along the way, he hit seemingly almost every day.

From his first full season in 1961 up until 1973, Williams was practically slump-proof despite averaging 159 games and setting a National League record by playing in 1,117 consecutive games. He drove in at least 84 runs for 13 straight seasons and during that span averaged 29 homers and 98 RBIs.

Hall of Famer Billy Williams addresses the crowd outside Wrigley Field after a statue of him was dedicated before a game between the Houston Astros and the Cubs on Tuesday, September 7, 2010, in Chicago.
(AP Photo/Charles Rex Arbogast)

When he retired in 1975 following two final seasons with Oakland, Williams had 426 homers and 1,475 RBIs to go with a .290 batting average. He also had his work cut out for him to get into the Hall of Fame. If it was possible to hit a quiet 426 homers, Williams had done it. Never playing in the postseason for the Cubs didn’t help, and neither did going 0-for-7 in his lone postseason appearance with the A’s in 1975. In his first year of eligibility, Williams only drew 23 percent of the vote and had to wait six years before his election.

But on the day he was inducted Williams used his bully pulpit to speak out for the rights of
African American players, coaches, and managers. He never forgot the virulent racism he encountered in the minor leagues that forced him to stay in different hotels, eat in restaurant kitchens, and put up with repeated chants of “nigger.”

If it weren’t for legendary Cubs scout and coach Buck O’Neil, who went to Alabama in 1959 to convince the proud, angry 21-year-old Williams to return to his minor league team, Cooperstown would have had one less bust. And so on July 26, 1987, after finally getting elected in his sixth year of eligibility, Williams went to Cooperstown to speak up for himself and others. His induction came just a few months after Los Angeles Dodgers GM Al Campanis was forced to resign after saying on national TV that African Americans might not be suited for managerial and executive positions.

“The next courageous step rests with the owners of 26 major league ballclubs. They can make the difference by not looking at the color of a man’s skin but by examining his ability, talent, knowledge, and leadership. If this is the land of opportunity, then let it be true to become the land of opportunity for all.

“Questions have been raised in recent months by the media about the participation of blacks and other minorities in decision-making positions in baseball. The issue wouldn’t have come up if every job in baseball was open to every league, creed, race, and nationality. But this is not the case.

“We minorities, for the past four decades, have demonstrated our talents as players. And now we deserve the chance and consideration to demonstrate similar talents as third base coaches, as managers, as general managers, as executives in the front office, and yes, owners of major league ballclubs themselves.”

“Baseball has become considered America’s favorite pastime. Now let’s make this sport that reflects the true spirit of our great country and nation that more than 200 years ago was dedicated to the proposition that all men, all men are created equal. Yes, plans and words can be transformed into actions and deeds.

“We ask for nothing less but we seek what is just. I know the experience I’ve had over the past years as a coach have helped me to prepare myself for the days when I’d be considered for managerial or executive position with a major league ballclub.”

Williams never became a big-league manager, but he paved the way for others. His call for justice was similar to how he played the game, with a quiet dignity and an uncanny ability to know just when to speak up.