October Surprise

Although my workout regimen on the Cybex equipment at the YMCA -- which I tackle two or three days a week -- is not particularly strenuous (I haven't increased the weights in ten years, nor do I subscribe to the well-substantiated theory that slower is better), I have a tendency to loiter between machines and daydream, examining bodies both shapely and not or gazing at one of the silent but scrawling televisions perched above the crowd.

I was in just such a pose about a week ago -- actually the eve of World Series Game One -- when I saw it, at least the end of it: ESPN's countdown of the ten most memorable moments in World Series history (filched from the Internet I later determined). I stood entranced, expectant, fascinated, wondering whether the mysterious individuals whose judgments on these matters are accepted as gospel had been sufficiently perspicacious to overcome their natural bias towards more recent personally-witnessed events and crown the proper champion.

And when, suddenly, it flashed up on the screen, the grand finale of the dramatic seventh game of the bizarre 1960 World Series, its grainy black-and-white footage flickering like an old newsreel, I could barely contain my emotions. "Yes!" I wanted to shout to the pained, perspiring, panting masses, immersed in their exertions (and i-pods) and oblivious to the ephemeral imagery on display. "Look up, sports fans. I was there -- at the greatest World Series game ever played," I silently exhorted, the hyperbole rolling off my silver tongue as glibly as if it were Howard Cosell's.

Those of you who may have read on this blog my defense of Barry Bonds and my lamentation on September will know by now that I am a baseball fan, infatuated and intrigued by (not to reprise myself): the perfect symmetry of the game -- nine positions, nine innings, three strikes, three outs, four balls, four bases; the unique physical and mental confrontation between pitcher and batter; the pristine beauty of the delicately manicured field, its green and sandy areas in bold contrast, upon which each player has staked out his exclusive territory; the graceful agility of a pitcher in motion, a batter unleashing his power, a diving shortstop, a fleet-footed outfielder; the seemingly endless, but nevertheless too soon concluded, 162-game season, necessary to separate the contenders from the pretenders; the mesmerizing statistical record -- of every pitch, every at-bat, every play, every game -- posted and archived for cowhide devotees to ponder and analyze.

The numbers are what lured me to baseball; it certainly wasn't athletic proficiency, since I lacked the strength, speed, and coordination to play it -- or any other sport -- at even a mediocre level. As a youngster, I could always withdraw from the playing field to the printed word -- I was a child let loose in a candy store after I learned to read, sampling one tasty treat after another -- a refuge that became more problematic when I was sent away to summer camp in the White Mountains of West Virginia at the tender age of eight. There I was thrust into a gaggle of budding baseball enthusiasts who were not only reasonably adept at hitting, fielding, and throwing -- and these were Jewish kids to boot -- but also amazingly well-versed in all sorts of Major League trivia. When camp lights went out, they would chatter on incessantly about teams, players, and averages, conversation to which I had nothing to contribute.

Upon returning home, I resolved never again to find myself adrift in a sea of sports ignorance -- even if I couldn't play the game. I embarked on a voyage of self-education, investing as much time and energy in baseball lore and current events as I did in school work, and thus became a fan. I was first out the door every morning to retrieve the newspaper, not for the front page, but for the comics, the sports section, and the box scores. I became an avid collector and trader of baseball cards, reveling in the statistics of even obscure players. I learned how to keep score, diligently recording hits and putouts on composition paper as reported by Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese on their Saturday Game of the Week. And I would listen to AM radio broadcasts while lying in bed in the dead of night, including the remarkable performance of Pittsburgh Pirate Harvey Haddix when, on May 29, 1959, he pitched twelve perfect innings against the Milwaukee Braves only to lose in the thirteenth.

Of course, every baseball fan -- especially a burgeoning one -- needs a team to root for. Inaugurating a personal foible that persists to this day, I became hopelessly enamored of two lovable losers: the Washington Senators in the American League, probably because their home was closest to my own (or maybe it was their early sixties eclectic flavor: who could ever forget Camilio Pascual and Pedro Ramos?) and the Pittsburgh Pirates in the National League -- in their case because my mother hailed from the Pittsburgh area and whose father, as she was fond of relating, was a diehard Pirate fan who himself had played semi-professional baseball. Sadly, this family athletic gene expired permanently with his death from a heart attack in 1955.

If you were attracted to underdogs, the Pirates were an insightful choice. From 1950 through 1959, they averaged 61 wins and 93 losses, finished last five times, and posted winning records only in 1958 and 1959. Their one star, slugger Ralph Kiner, the League leader in home runs from 1946 to 1952, was traded the next year to the the Chicago Cubs after a contract dispute with General Manager Branch Rickey, who told him the Pirates could finish in last place without him.

But before he himself was fired in 1955, Rickey had laid the foundation for a competitive team: moving the quick, nimble Bill Mazeroski from shortstop to second base where he became, according to statistician guru Bill James, the position's premier defensive player; shipping diminutive reliever Elroy Face to Double A New Orleans in 1954 to learn to throw a forkball (today the split-finger fastball); drafting the gifted Puerto Rican outfielder, Roberto Clemente, from the Brooklyn Dodger's farm system; and signing Duke basketball All-American Dick Groat and the two pitchers who would become the backbone of the staff, Vernon Law and Bob Friend.

Although these capsule descriptions I have borrowed from William Nack's October 23, 2000, Sports Illustrated article, the names are as familiar to me today as my own children's, as well as others added by Rickey's successor, Joe Brown: the catching tandem of left-handed hitting Smokey Burgess and righty Hal Smith; the "fiery third baseman," Don Hoak; the aforementioned "wiry, chain-smoking Harvey Haddix, a crafty lefty nicknamed the Kitten because he had studied at the paw of St. Louis Cardinal veteran Harry (the Cat) Breechen"; the "sweet-fielding, bespectacled" Bill Virdon, also a former Cardinal; the well-traveled minor leaguer Rocky Nelson, mistaken by one of Brown's colleagues for television wonder boy Ricky Nelson; and the "tobacco-chewing, beagle-faced" manager, Danny Murtaugh, himself a former Pirate second baseman.

In searching my memory to reconstruct that 1960 line-up, only two names escaped me: outfielder Bob Skinner and utility infielder Gino Cimoli.

In 1958, Murtaugh's first year, the Pirates won 84 games and lost 70, finishing second to the Milwaukee Braves, if not a traditional rival, certainly one in my mind, since they were the favorite of my across-the-street neighbor, Randy E., who gloried in the exploits of that star-studded team's high-octane performers: Warren Spahn, Lew Burdette, Hank Aaron, Eddie Matthews, and Joe Adcock.

After reverting to form the next year and slipping to fourth place, in 1960 the Pirates shocked the baseball world, winning 12 of their first 15 games, ninety-five in all, and cruising to the National League pennant, seven games ahead of those despicable Braves. "Groat hit .325 to win the NL batting title. Law won 20 games, Friend 18, and Face saved 24. Mazeroski led major league second basemen in putouts, assists, double plays, and fielding average."

It's best for those who religiously follow the fortunes of perennial losers never to elevate their hopes too high and calmly to anticipate the worst so as not to be crushingly disappointed when inevitable disaster strikes. Thus, in spite of their wire-to-wire run, could it have been anything but a total surprise when the Pirates clinched the pennant, their first in thirty-three years?

Their World Series opponent, however, was no surprise: the mighty New York Yankees. If the Braves had stars, the Yankees had Hall-of-Famers, up and down the line-up, and you didn't have to be a Yankee fan, even much of a baseball fan, to regurgitate those names: Yogi Berra, Bill Skowron, Bobby Richardson, Tony Kubek, Elston Howard, Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, and the manager, Casey Stengel. The Yankees had claimed eight pennants and six World Series in the fifties. They finished the 1960 season by winning their last fifteen games and hitting 193 home runs, a new American League record.

No one gave the Pirates much of a chance against that powerhouse, and after humiliating 16-3 and 10-0 defeats in Games Two and Three, such prognostications seemed well-founded -- except for the surprising outcome of Games One, Four, and Five, in which the over-matched upstarts triumphed by the slim margins of 6-4, 3-2, and 5-2, prompting manager Murtaugh to observe between expectorations: "The Series will be decided on games won, not on total runs scored."

If the Buccaneers' bumptiousness wasn't exhilarating enough, imagine my reaction when sometime that week sitting at the dinner table, my father, in the ceremonious and portentous manner he was prone to exhibit in such situations, announced that he had in hand two tickets to Games Six and Seven of the World Series. My eyes widened in disbelief; surely I must have assumed he was playing the kind of subtle practical joke he was fond of, like reading from the newspaper bogus stories featuring a friend or family member. But, no; it was all true. Apparently, some connection or friendship involving my mother's spate of relatives from the Pittsburgh area had delivered the goods, a magic carpet ride to Forbes Field, my second Major League destination, the first having been Yankee Stadium during a family sightseeing tour of New York a few years earlier.

Back then baseball was still America's pastime, and the World Series was its preeminent sporting event. There were only three television networks; sports broadcasts were few and far between; the Super Bowl had yet to be invented; and the widespread popularity and continuous exposure of football and basketball were futuristic phenomena. The World Series was, refreshingly, a daytime event, and scores were snatched like lightning bugs from transistor radios smuggled into school bathrooms and hallways those autumn afternoons. Some teachers were accommodating or interested enough themselves to allow students to listen to the games in class -- but not my eighth-grade history teacher, Mr. Eddie H., who, in spite of a boundless adoration of the Yankees and a boisterous jealousy of my good fortune, was too strict a disciplinarian to interrupt his lesson plans.

To attend the World Series -- at the expense of missing a couple of days of school -- was quite a coup.

I suppose this adventure can also be depicted as a father and son bonding experience, one of the few we ever had -- that is, until we went into business together, after which we were permanently in bondage, so to speak. I do not mean to be derogatory; if there is blame to be cast, an equal amount must be borne by me.

My father and I had little in common. He was a gregarious, garrulous, extroverted, magnetic individual who never met a stranger; I was cerebral, reserved, introverted, and, in spite of my academic prowess, rife with insecurities. He was also intensely preoccupied with his growing business and with various community organizations, working six, sometimes seven days a week and traveling frequently -- a pattern I was fated to replicate years later. Looking back, I'm not sure if he really held any enthusiasm for baseball or the Pittsburgh Pirates or if he could name any of the players; I have to believe this trip was a genuine, heartfelt attempt to reach out to me, a shared activity he knew I would enjoy.

This is not to say he didn't take advantage of an opportunity to indulge himself along the way. I don't recall any details: what car we took (it wasn't his infamous Ford Galaxie convertible, a 1962 model) -- most likely my mother's Country Squire wood-paneled station wagon -- or where we stayed -- probably we economized and lodged with one of my mother's relatives -- but undoubtedly we detoured to Harrisonburg, Luray, and Winchester to pay business calls on Schewel managers Wilburn, Moore, and Lucas.

The question arises: What did we talk about, joined at the hip, just the two of us, for at least sixteen hours, eight on the drive up, eight on the drive home? Who remembers conversations half a century old? I can with confidence attest to the subjects we avoided: hunting and fishing, about which we were, and forever would be, blithely ignorant, and sex, about which he only spoke to me once, advising me to consult him if I ever found myself in a troublesome situation, in itself a depressingly unlikely prospect. I suspect that mostly he talked, I listened, and we stopped a few times to eat and for him to make telephone calls.

Not having attended a college or professional football game in many years, I can only make an educated guess as to what draws zealots to brave the elements week after week: a slavish devotion to their team; the communal energy flowing through the stadium like an electric charge; the violence seen and heard from a ringside seat; a submersion of one's identity in the synergistic clamor of the crowd; or maybe it's just the tailgating. I experience a similar thrill at a Major League baseball game, but would propose a slightly nuanced and largely ignored distinction.

I believe one reason baseball has suffered as a spectator sport over the last twenty years is that it does not translate to the television screen as facilely as football and basketball. To appreciate the subtleties and intricacies of a baseball game, one must be able to survey the whole field, all its components -- pitcher, batter, fielders -- and observe their reactions to the pitch and the ball in play. You can't see that on television, even in replays, whereas football (and basketball) broadcasts show almost all players in movement when action commences, afterwards isolating coverage in the critical areas. The camera actually diminishes the game of baseball while enhancing our viewing of those other sports.

I couldn't articulate that thought in 1960, but, perhaps, subconsciously, I felt it after passing through the concrete portico into the open stadium, for surely I paused, smiled, looked around in awe and excitement, and absorbed the breathtaking expanse of diamond and outfield, which would be frozen in time while the game ran its course.

Like a rocketing home-run ball disappearing over the fence, Forbes Field and that first game have faded into oblivion. Was there a fearsome conflict roiling in my brain, between the loyal fan's prayer for victory and the anxious twelve-year old's yearning for another contest? If so, it was quickly resolved by another Bronx blowout, 12-0, in which lightweight Bobby Richardson continued his uncharacteristic power surge, hitting two triples and driving in three runs, including a record-setting twelfth.

The next day, Thursday, October 13, would be the last of the season, no matter the outcome. My father and I had hardly settled in our seats -- somewhere on the first base side -- when the fireworks started. I remember three moments; for the rest, I refer again to William Nack's Sports Illustrated article, published on the fortieth anniversary of what he called "the Wackiest World Series of Them All."

The Pirates raced to a 4-0 lead on the strength of a first-inning two-run home run by Rocky Nelson and a second-inning two-run single by Bill Virdon. Casey Stengel replaced starter Bob Turley with 5'6" lefty-sinkerballer Bobby Shantz, who silenced the Pirate bats for the next five innings, allowing only a single by Smokey Burgess. In a move with significant implications, Burgess was lifted for a pinch runner, and his catching position was filled by Hal Smith.

Meanwhile, the Yankees clawed back. Vern Law, unable to push off from the rubber due to an injured foot, was throwing his arm out and courageously lasted until the sixth inning, giving up one run. But when Murtaugh turned to the dependable, indefatigable Roy Face, 68 appearances and 114 innings (this was a time when star relievers pitched one, two, or three innings, whatever was necessary) finally took its toll. Face gave up a run-scoring single to Mickey Mantle, a towering three-run homer to Yogi Berra that just avoided the right foul pole, and two more runs in the eighth. The Forbes Field faithful were restless and distraught; with only six outs left, the Yankees led 7-4 and looked like sure winners.

To quote Nack: "Then came the most bizarre half-inning of this bizarre series." With Gino Cimoli on first after a dink single to right, Bill Virdon hit a hard grounder to shortstop Tony Kubek, a sure double play. The ball hit a rock in the infield, bounced up sharply, and struck Kubek in the throat. I can see him now, lying on the ground, writhing in pain, clutching his throat -- the game turning, the crowd sensing something mystical in the air. Was this truly a team of destiny?

Dick Groat singled, scoring Cimoli, the Pirates' fifth run. Then, Stengel inexplicably pulled Shantz -- "the greatest fielding pitcher in the history of baseball," according to Joe Brown -- for Jim Coates. Bob Skinner sacrificed Virdon to third and Groat to second. Rocky Nelson flied out. Roberto Clemente came to the plate with two outs, and hit a bouncer to first baseman Bill Skowron, who fielded it cleanly and looked to throw to the pitcher Coates covering first, a routine play. But Coates -- no Bobby Shantz -- wasn't there; his mental lapse cost the Yankees the third out. Virdon scored, Groat moved to second, and Clemente was safe. The score was now 7-6, and back-up catcher Hal Smith stepped into the batter's box.

I will never forget Smith's home run, because, like every other frenzied fanatic in the grandstand, I was sure he had won the game and the Series for the Pirates. The prosaic name Hal Smith should have been etched in baseball marble forever; he had put his team ahead 9-7 with three outs to go.

But Bob Friend, a starter who had also pitched too many innings, couldn't hold the lead. The Yankees scored two runs in the top of the ninth, thanks to a miraculous play by Mickey Mantle. Leading off first, he dove back to the base when the batter was forced out on a hard grounder, allowing the tying run to score from third.

Bill Mazeroski was first up for the Pirates in the bottom of the ninth.

He was an unlikely hero, the slick-fielding second baseman, hardly a power hitter, the son of an Ohio coal miner, who grew up in a little wooden house with no electricity or running water, "listening to his battery-operated radio tell stories of his beloved Cleveland Indians," Maz, as he was known. But after the second pitch -- "a high hummer delivered by Ralph Terry at 3:36 PM just where he wanted it" -- he would be legendary.

Nack writes: "He swung and struck the ball flush, sending it in a rising white arc to left center field. He was racing towards first base when he saw what everyone else saw, what Virdon and Skinner and Skowron and Richardson saw, what thousands saw from the stands, what millions who were watching on TV saw" -- and what I saw from my seat behind first base and will never forget seeing -- "Yogi Berra crabbing back to the warning track, turning to face the wall, looking up, and watching the ball sail over his head and clear the wall."

Final score: 10-9.

In 1993, Joe Carter hit a game-ending home run to win the World Series for the Toronto Blue Jays in Game Six. But Bill Mazeroski's walk-off home run remains the only one ever hit to win a seventh game.

The improbable champs had been outscored 55-27 and outhit 91-60; but, in the end, they prevailed.

A few years ago I attended a fund-raiser honoring Lynchburg icon and former Mayor Jimmie Bryan, at which various items of sports memorabilia were being auctioned off. I was casually examining the merchandise when I abruptly stopped, stared in astonishment, and delicately lifted from the table a most valuable object -- an autographed plastic-encased photograph of Bill Mazeroski crossing home plate after hitting his historic home run. In a foolish gesture of braggadocio, I pointed out to a friend that I had been there and seen it all, which only encouraged him to enter the auction -- and bid up the price. Nevertheless, I bought it, took it home, and propped it up on my dresser, where it sits today, a simple but magnificent reminder of the day forty-seven years ago when my father took me to the greatest baseball game ever played.