Game Six (32 page)

McEnaney came briefly into the dugout before taking the mound, and Sparky went over to say something to him. McEnaney held up a hand: “It’s okay, Skip, I know what I’m doing.” McEnaney trotted out onto the field, and Sparky retreated into the tunnel for another cigarette.

But the first batter of the Red Sox’s last stand wouldn’t be Bernie Carbo, who might have been able to reach down for another miracle with a single swing; Johnson had replaced Carbo in left field two innings earlier, when Boston still held a one-run lead, with defen
sive specialist Rick Miller, another decision that now came back to haunt him. Now, in place of the left-handed Miller, Johnson played percentages again, hoping he might elicit a pitching change from Sparky—perhaps to Rawly Eastwick, whose confidence had suffered such a blow the night before—and sent to the plate his last outfielder, right-handed Juan Beniquez, who had played sparingly in the last month and gone only 1–7 in the Series. Sparky, who only played percentages until his trusted gut told him otherwise, didn’t take the bait, and elected to stay with his tough left-hander McEnaney.

Looking calm and collected, and this time paying rapt attention to Johnny Bench’s signs, McEnaney worked Beniquez to fly weakly to Griffey in right on the third pitch he threw him, for the first out. Now events in the Red Sox dugout turned chaotic: Red Sox second baseman Denny Doyle, the only man on either team to hit safely in all seven games of the Series, had been the reliable sparkplug for their offense since the moment he’d arrived in mid-season. After the Reds took the lead in the top of the inning, Darrell Johnson had taken aside his right-handed backup second baseman Doug Griffin, who’d had one at bat in the entire Series, and told him that he’d be hitting for Doyle in the ninth. But Johnson never told Doyle, who was just now leaving the on-deck circle for the batter’s box, and who was shocked and not a little angry to hear his manager call him back to the dugout. But a moment later so was Doug Griffin, because as he walked onto the field to take Doyle’s spot, without telling him, Darrell Johnson now sent up yet
another
right-handed pinch hitter in his place: backup catcher Bob Montgomery, who had hit .226 with only two home runs on the year, the slowest man on the team, now being asked to make his first appearance in the entire postseason. Griffin returned to the dugout, fuming and humiliated.

Percentages be damned, this was a sequence of events far beyond baffling; in the Cincinnati dugout, Sparky could scarcely believe his eyes. The Reds’ coaches had to quickly consult their scouting book on how to position their fielders for Montgomery. A curious footnote: Montgomery was the last man in the major leagues who still went to
the plate without a batting helmet; although a rule mandating their use had been instituted four years earlier, it allowed players who had preferred not to use them prior to 1971 to continue the practice.

None of which mattered: Montgomery swung at McEnaney’s first-pitch fastball and hit a routine grounder to Dave Concepcion.

Two gone in the ninth.

Down one run, and down to his last out in the World Series, Johnson had no more moves to make, because the Red Sox couldn’t have asked for a better man who’d ever worn their uniform to enter the arena.

Carl Yastrzemski.

The crowd rose to its feet one last time, trying to will their aging captain to one last marvel. Yaz stood in, thinking home run; McEnaney knew it, and so did everyone else in Fenway Park. Yaz had been one of McEnaney’s baseball gods ever since he was a kid, and his mouth went dry as he watched him dig in; he suddenly couldn’t swallow. Will knew he couldn’t give Yaz anything to hit, but he couldn’t afford to pitch around him either, not with Fisk and Lynn to follow. McEnaney and Yastrzemski had faced each other twice before in the Series to date so there were no secrets or tricks to fall back on; it would be strength against strength.

Bench called for the slider; McEnaney missed with it outside for a ball. Bench asked for it again, and he missed low, behind in the count 2–0.

Now Yaz looked for the fastball, and Bench called for one inside, and it was perfect, on the black; Yaz laid off it and Art Frantz called strike.

Bench signaled fastball again, and again Yaz looked for it, but this time McEnaney let it get away from him, up in the zone and out over the plate, a dangerous pitch, and Yaz took a powerful rip. A high fly ball soared out toward left center field, and Yaz’s first thought was that he’d caught most of it, certainly enough to knock it off the wall, if not over.

But the wind held it up. Swinging for the fences, he realized then that he’d dropped his hands the smallest fraction and gotten just
under the ball. He looked on helplessly as Cesar Geronimo glided backward, ten feet in front of the warning track. The clock on the Green Monster behind him read 11:35 on Wednesday night.

Final score: Cincinnati 4, Boston 3.

Will McEnaney watched the ball land in Geronimo’s glove. Johnny Bench ran out toward him on the mound, tearing off his mask, his eyes wide with wonder, overwhelmed by the realization it was over.

“What do we do?” asked Johnny.

McEnaney answered by jumping into his arms and thrusting his fists in the air; a
Sports Illustrated
photographer immortalized the moment. The rest of the Reds piled out of the dugout toward the mound, as their teammates out in the field and the bullpen sprinted in to join them in a mass embrace.

But Sparky turned the other way, walking quickly up the tunnel toward the clubhouse, and he sat himself down on the ancient steps below Fenway, where it had suddenly gone as silent as a church, alone for a moment to offer up his private gratitude and prayers for this gift, preferring not to let all his young victors see the tears that flowed freely from him now.

Johnny Bench caught Don Zimmer’s eye—instantly seeing his heartbreak—and ran over to shake his old friend’s hand, before they were separated by an unruly pack from the crowd who jumped onto the field and began scavenging for souvenirs. A few tried to tear gloves or warm-up jackets out of the Reds’ hands, so forming a phalanx, the winning team quickly retreated past the line of police that had assembled along the dugout steps and ran up the tunnel. After gathering himself in privacy, Sparky now greeted his men one by one as they came in, handshakes and hugs, and led them into the sanctuary of their clubhouse to celebrate.

Some of the Red Sox lingered for a while in their dugout, staring blankly out at the diamond. Tactical police, wearing riot helmets, escorted the last of their pitchers in from the Boston bullpen through the unruly remnants. Luis Tiant, his hat off, looking out at the mound from the steps of the dugout, was the last man to quit the
field.

On this night, less than twenty-four hours after the dizzying crescendo of Game Six, the rest of a silent, depressed, and orderly crowd cleared out of Fenway Park in less than ten minutes. Four hundred policemen had been stationed between the ballpark and Kenmore Square, prepared for either trouble or even greater celebration, and they scarcely needed to move. Only eighteen minor injuries were reported on the night, most of those from people falling in the bleachers.

Tony Kubek, who’d made his way from the booth to the Cincinnati clubhouse during the bottom of the ninth, on this night without having to change direction, jumped up on some tables they’d thrust together and prepped for interviews alongside the Reds’ young broadcaster Marty Brennaman in front of NBC’s cameras.

Eight hundred and sixty-two miles away, car horns blared and firecrackers crackled through the night as thousands of fans celebrated in Cincinnati’s downtown Fountain Square: The Reds had won their first World Championship in thirty-five years.

Pete Rose and Joe Morgan hung on to each other in their locker room; their strong, unbreakable bond—perhaps the closest friendship in baseball history between a white and black player—had at last captured a championship for the Big Red Machine. If Tony Perez represented the soul of this team, and Bench its sturdy backbone, these two unlikely superstars remained its beating heart.

Tony Kubek brought a red-eyed Sparky Anderson up on the tables for the first interview. “This one’s for my friend Milt Blish, and my family who’s not here, and for all my friends and everybody I love.” Then, overcome with emotion once again, Sparky couldn’t say another word, turned away from the cameras, and down into the embraces of his coaches and players.

A beaming Joe Morgan gave all credit to Pete Rose and their hitting coach Ted Kluszewski, whom he credited with teaching him how to handle tough outside pitches, and then went out of his way to compliment losing Red Sox pitcher Jim Burton, saying he’d thrown him an almost perfect final pitch and that he’d been fortu
nate just to get a piece of it to drive in the winning run. Morgan had collected only seven hits in the World Series, but two of them had won exactly half the games they needed for the title.

Tony Kubek informed Pete Rose, who’d hit .370 and driven in Game Seven’s tying run, that he’d just been named the Series’ Most Valuable Player; the writers also couldn’t help but notice that Pete had reached base on eleven of his last fifteen plate appearances, remarkable by any standard. As Morgan poured champagne over his mop-top haircut, Rose barely appeared to hear what Kubek told him. His vocal cords shredded from shouting at his teammates, Pete gave all the credit to Tony Perez for getting them back in it with his home run in the sixth—“That was the turning point”—and to Joe Morgan for coming through in the ninth just as he had ever since he’d become the final piece of the Big Red Machine. The power, the defense, the bullpen, and timely hits and speed and hustle—in the end this flesh-and-blood wonder that Bob Howsam and Ray Shore and Sparky Anderson envisioned, designed, and assembled had at last come together.

“This is the happiest moment of my life,” said Rose. “Let’s do it again; I’m ready to start spring training tomorrow.”

An elated, articulate, exhausted Johnny Bench echoed that sentiment, his voice cracking with emotion, and also gave worlds of credit to the Red Sox, who had fought them longer and harder and tougher than they or anyone else had ever imagined they would be able to do. Reds team president Bob Howsam shook hands with Commissioner Bowie Kuhn, accepting his congratulations for the cameras. Both men agreed that they had just witnessed the end of the greatest World Series in baseball history.

Three of the team’s second-stringers jumped up on a table and mocked the Fenway crowd’s chant of “Loo-ee, Loo-ee!” Joe Morgan, annoyed, told them to knock it off and show some respect.

“Luis Tiant can pitch on any team in any league and be a winner,” he said.

After Johnny Bench was done talking to the press, utterly spent, he sat and watched Tony and Pete and Joe and Gary and the others letting loose, the pressure finally off them all, and then his gaze
settled on Sparky, his eyes dazzling now, moving through the room, stopping to savor and share the triumph with each and every one of his players, and Bench felt happier for him at that moment than for anyone else there. The lively little man who’d chased the dream for a decade but never found success as a player himself, who with hard work, persistence, and bedrock strength of character had made himself into the best manager in the game, showing more insight, fairness, and compassion for the men in his charge than anyone Bench had ever known. Sparky had always tried to tell them that what they’d all been striving for wasn’t about money or fame or trophies; it was about the
feeling
, what getting there together would give their hearts and souls that no one could then ever take away.

And this was it, right here and now—
this moment, this feeling
—after all their years of striving and winning and falling short, they had finally made it to the top, and with that peculiar, distant second sight of his, Johnny knew right then that it would live on in all of them forever.

THE RED SOX
stayed in their clubhouse while the Reds celebrated long into the night. The mood in the home locker room remained solemn, and they spoke dutifully to reporters, but no one seemed to have the energy for anger. Subdued and wrung out, all struggled for words to adequately express their disappointment; the contrast from the extraordinary high they’d experienced less than twenty-four hours earlier was almost too great to comprehend.

Only an agitated Bill Lee couldn’t let it go, already sick and tired of talking about the lollipop pitch he’d thrown to Perez, wondering why nobody asked him about the pitch he’d thrown to Bench just before that should have resulted in an inning-ending double play if Doyle had made the throw to first.

“Dynasty, my ass,” Lee said bitterly, when asked if he thought the Reds were now confirmed as the best team in baseball.

“I know we made believers out of a lot of people,” said a red-eyed Don Zimmer. “Especially the Cincinnati Reds. They know they were
in a dogfight.”

Denny Doyle didn’t come out of the showers until the last of the reporters had drifted away. Cecil Cooper sat banging a bat into his duffel bag after he’d packed up his belongings. Rick Burleson just stared into his locker.

As Rico Petrocelli sat in front of his locker, contemplating his uncertain future—his doctors would now have to decide whether he should keep playing—Bernie Carbo came by to quietly shake his hand: “I really hope you come back, Rico.”

“What do I do now? How do I take this? I just feel dried out, mentally,” said Dick Drago. “I mean, it’s been a lot of fun, but…”

“We should have won five of the seven games,” said Jim Willoughby. “We lose on a bleeder. We lose the World Series on a chip shot to center field.”

“We had nothing to be ashamed of,” said Dwight Evans. “We gave it all we had.”

“Yes, I’m drained,” admitted Carlton Fisk. “I think we all were tonight after last night’s game, and that’s probably why we couldn’t take advantage of the opportunities we had early in the game.”

“I think this brought us closer as a team,” said Carbo. “We know what we can do now. With all this talent, we’ll be back in this thing again. But I know, right now, I couldn’t play another game tomorrow.”