Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126) (42 page)

The writers who were at the World Series—Roger Angell, Jim Murray, Steve Jacobson, Phil Pepe, Dick Young, Dave Anderson, all great writers—were talking about the classic duel in the sun I’d just had with Welch. Most of them had been around longer than I had. It was easy to respect them. I enjoyed listening to what they had to say. They treated it as a great moment. They were calling it one of the all-time great at-bats in a World Series. Everybody in the park standing for it, cheering on every pitch.

It was pretty cool, even though I struck out. I felt
grateful
to be part of that, just as I did for all the opportunities I had in my career.

I just wanted to square up that ball and hit it, and if I’d done that, it would’ve gone a long way. I wasn’t trying to hit the ball out of the ballpark. I wasn’t at home playing, saying, “Home run or nothing, here on Home Run Derby.” I was not doing that. I was just trying to catch up to a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball.

At the end of it all, when I looked back and saw the video, I said, “Boy, if I would have just cut my swing down a little bit, I could have squared that ball.” Because I did have a couple balls to hit. It’s one thing to lose because the other team is better or the other guy is better. It’s another to lose because you didn’t do what you should have done.

But hindsight’s twenty-twenty. I was on my game, and there would be another day. I have to tip my cap to Bob Welch.

I think the Dodgers were pretty sure they had us then, up 2–0 on the Series. We were battered again, too. Chambliss aggravated a hammy, he was hurting, he’d miss a couple games for us. Mickey Rivers was hurting; Thomasson and Blair had to fill in for him some. But it didn’t matter. We were headed back to Yankee Stadium and all our crazy fans, and we had Ron Guidry going in Game 3.

Guidry said later he left his fastball in the pen that night. Left his slider there, too. He wasn’t sharp, couldn’t hit his spots. He walked seven guys, and the Dodgers hit him harder than almost anybody had all year, got eight hits off him.

But that was the night Graig Nettles became a human vacuum cleaner. He put on a tremendous fielding clinic at third base. Maybe
the best single fielding game anyone’s ever had in the World Series. He was unbelievable. Ended four separate innings throwing guys out, all on spectacular plays. They figured he probably saved something like seven runs for us. I’ve never seen anything quite that good, not even Brooks Robinson with the amazing Series he had back in 1970 against the Reds.

The Dodgers kept pulling the ball on Guidry all night long. The right-handed power lineup they had was turning on him like nobody had all year.

Nettles saved that game for us. But it wasn’t only him. Munson threw somebody out stealing. Guidry didn’t have his good stuff, but he pitched a complete game. Rivers had three hits. We scored five runs, and five separate guys drove them in, including myself. We were really clicking as a team now. We had a dozen ways to beat you.

Figgy had a much better start for us in Game 4, but Reggie Smith touched him for a three-run homer in the fifth inning. Didn’t matter. Tommy John was going very strong for them; he was just a groundout machine, the way he always was when he was on. Didn’t matter. We found a way, just like we always seemed to.

It was our old pros again. In the sixth, with one out, Roy White managed to get a single through the infield, then Thurman got a walk. I hit a single into right field to cut their lead to 3–1, send Munson over to second.

That was when Lou Piniella came up and hit a liner to their shortstop, Bill Russell. He dropped the ball at his feet. I thought that he let it drop out of his glove deliberately. If he did, it was a smart play, because Thurman and I were frozen. We had no choice. If we’d run and he caught the ball, he could’ve just thrown to either first or second for an easy double play.

We had to wait, and when the ball hit the ground, it was too late. Russell picked the ball up right away and stepped on second. Munson was still running to third, but that retired me. I was still only a few yards off first. All Russell had to do was throw down to first and get Piniella, and the side would’ve been out.

Only trouble was his throw never got there. Instead, it hit me in the hip and bounced off into right field. Piniella was safe. Munson scored. Lasorda and the rest of the Dodgers went crazy. They wanted
an interference call on me, which would’ve retired the side and kept the run from counting. But the umps put their heads together and ruled against them. Thurman’s run stood, and we’d cut the lead to just one, 3–2.

It was the controversy of the Series. Afterward in the clubhouse, everybody wanted to know about the play. I just told them, “It was in my road, and it hit me.”

You don’t want to ever show the umpires up. But nobody was buying it. They could see on TV what the umpires couldn’t see on the field. That was that my hip moved—just a little—and nudged that ball into the outfield.

Did I mean to do it? Let’s just say it was what Roger Angell called it, “an almost unconscious reaction.” I had started to second, but I had no chance to get there before Russell did. I saw the ball coming toward me, and I thought, “I’m going to get hit in … a highly sensitive area.” So I just moved a little.

Now of course, if I didn’t want to get nicked, I could’ve just hit the dirt. I could’ve jumped all the way to one side or another. But I thought, “I’m in my right-of-way. I’m in the baseline. I’m going to be out anyway, so why not just stand there and play stupid?” I thought, “I’m out anyway, so it’s not so bad if I stay here and let it hit me.”

It makes you think about the rule. I’ve made perfect throws before from right field and hit a runner while he was in the baseline running to third. A runner going from second to third is in the line of a throw from right field. If you hit the runner as he slides into third base on a perfect throw … it’s called an error on the right fielder. The runner is safe.

The worst that could’ve happened was that they would’ve called Lou out for my interference. It would’ve been a double play, and the inning would’ve been over. In other words—no worse than what would’ve happened if I’d let Russell throw that ball on down to first.

Roger Angell called it something like “finding a prize in the weeds.” He said the play had “street smarts,” that it was just like the sort of thing we used to do on the A’s when we were champions. Most others were making out that I wasn’t that smart: “He couldn’t think that quick.” Well, they didn’t know me. Roger knew what some of these Yankees were capable of.

The Dodgers were still ahead, 3–2. But in the eighth, Tommy John finally wore down a little, gave up a hit to Paul Blair, and then White bunted him over. They had brought in their closer, Terry Forster, but Thurman was such a great clutch hitter he doubled off him to left and tied the game. I was up next, fifty-six thousand people chanting, “Reg-gie! Reg-gie!” Forster hit me—which I guess was my payback for that little hip check.

They brought in Bob Welch again, who got them out of the inning. He got Lou to pop up and struck out Nettles, to keep the game tied. After that we brought in Gossage, and for the rest of the game it was two men throwing seeds. Just enjoyable baseball. Elemental baseball. Pure power.

It was a Saturday, so the game had started in the afternoon, but there was a long rain delay, and by now it was night and cold. Each of them went on through the ninth. Nobody going home, the crowd getting tenser. Welch struck out Chambliss and Spencer, who was hitting for Stanley. Goose fanned Reggie Smith and Garvey in the top of the tenth.

Bottom of the tenth, Welch got Mickey to foul out, but then Roy White—who had a great Series, was almost the MVP—worked a walk on a full count. Welch popped up Thurman, and then I was up. I stayed a little calmer this time, kept within myself a little more. Worked the count to 2–1. Welch threw me another fastball, and this time I pounded a single into right field. It wasn’t a soft line drive, it was a bullet, and I said to myself, “Dang, if I had gotten that ball up, it would still be going.”

The nice thing about facing Bob Welch was that he had enough pride in his stuff—fastball, curveball—that he was gonna give you something to hit. He had enough stuff to bury you, in the true sense of a power pitcher—a Gibson, a Koufax, a Seaver, a Palmer, a Jack Morris, a Guidry. Those guys had “I-dare-you stuff.” Bringing it right up to today, a Kershaw, a Sabathia. Rivera.

You’d love to face a guy who had pride in his fastball. Nolan Ryan, the standard in the game for a long time, he would tell you at times, “I want to see if you can hit this.” He did it to me: “I want to see if you can hit this.”

Welch was in that category.

Piniella came up next, and the entire, sold-out Yankee Stadium was going crazy yelling his name this time: “Lou! Lou!” He swung at the first pitch and missed. His helmet came off; he hopped around a little and looked funny like only Lou could. Then Welch threw another fastball, and he hit it into right-center. Ball game.

You know, Lou said it best after the game. He said Welch reminded him of Jim Palmer. Which was a pretty apt comparison, as it turned out. Welch went on to have a great career; he won more than two hundred games. Won the Cy Young with Oakland in 1990, when he was 27–6, with a 2.95 ERA.

But Lou said, too, “We’re all professional hitters here. You get nothing but fastballs, sooner or later you’re going to hit one.” That’s true for even the fastest major-league pitcher. Even if you can keep it up over a hundred miles an hour. Sooner or later, major-league hitters will time it.

Bob would learn that. He would become an outstanding pitcher for many years. But now we were even on the Series. And the Dodgers just couldn’t get it together to stop us.

The next day, they got up early, 2–0, but we came back on them again. Those two years, 1977 and 1978, we beat them eight times in twelve games, and in four of those eight wins they had the lead on us. Didn’t matter. We just found a way to beat them.

That Sunday, we just pecked them to death. We had eighteen hits—two doubles, sixteen singles. Every starter in the lineup had at least one hit. Thurman, Mickey Rivers, Brian Doyle, and Bucky Dent all had three hits apiece. Thurman drove in five runs—he could just flat hit. We thought we had such a handicap losing Willie Randolph the last week of the season, but Doyle hit .438 on the Series and played a terrific second base. Bucky hit .417 with seven ribbies and was the Series MVP. Doyle could just as well have been the MVP in the Series.

Meanwhile, the Dodgers played a miserable game, especially once they got behind. They had three errors and too many wild pitches and passed balls. Jim Beattie did a great job, pitched his first complete game in the majors for us. Beat them 12–2 in the end, with eight strikeouts.

The Dodgers let themselves be distracted by the fans. By their frustration. Sometimes you just get your butts beat. You have to acknowledge that and move on. Instead, they started talking about how they hated the fans. How they hated New York. They bad-mouthed the whole area. Bill Russell, who had a bad Series in the field, was saying how New York was the worst. Rick Monday was criticizing the fans and New Yorkers’ whole way of life.

They had the wrong attitude. They were a great team, with great pitching. But we were a great team, too. We were ornery. We had a meanness and a toughness to us. We were what they had to look out for—not the fans or the lifestyle. We were connected to our fans. Fans and players, we were one.

Those Dodgers were a well-bred, private-school group. And we were a group from Harlem. We were a group from Harlem, the Bronx, and Queens, all put together. With a Manhattan owner. You know what I mean? We had a top-hat owner. And we had guys who had come out of reform school, metaphorically.

With us you got your last chance to be on the Dirty Dozen. And this was your way out. We banded together as a group. Maybe this guy didn’t like that guy, and that guy didn’t like this guy, and that guy was jealous of that guy. You can have all those dislikes inside the family, but if anyone tried to come into our house, it was like, “No, no, no, we’re not getting along
that
bad.”

We could live together, and we could deal with it. We may not like each other, but you’re not coming in here and kicking us around. We’ll kick each other around, but you’re not doing it to us. Be careful, because we’re family, and together we will kick your butt.

One time, I might have sounded like the Dodgers did. But by then, I think I had learned to adjust to the city. I had come to understand it. I knew I fit here as an ethnically mixed guy. I had come to like the fast pace, the quickness, and the intelligence. There were ugly parts. It was a city not as free from anti-Semitism as it thought it was. It was not a city as free from racism as it thought it was. It could be a tough place to play. But that toughness made you tough.

We’d all gone through that. It made us the toughest team at the time. Probably because we were playing in and representing New
York City. We couldn’t wait to show you we were different. We were the toughest team from the toughest town.

We still had another game to win, we had to go back there to Dodger Stadium, and that was all right by me. I’d always enjoyed playing there. They got out to an early lead again; Davey Lopes hit a home run. But the “Killer Ds,” Dent and Doyle, got all over Don Sutton. They drove in our first five runs.

Top of the seventh, I came up with Roy White on first and us leading, 5–2. They had Bob Welch in again, trying to stop the bleeding, give them a chance to come back and stay alive.

That was the third time I faced him. He threw hard every time he came in, but the first time I saw him he was fresh as a daisy. The last time, you know the coffee had been on the stove a little bit. And I had smelled the aroma enough to be able to understand the taste.

I was waiting for my turn at bat, and Catfish, who was pitching for us, said to me, “Go get him, Buck.”

I went up to home plate looking to hit the ball out of the ballpark—and did. Finally got my man back.

We won the game, 7–2. Won the Series, four games to two. Our second World Series championship in a row. Catfish Hunter was the winning pitcher in the last game, which was a fitting end to the tremendous comeback year he had.