Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126) (40 page)

We all wanted it this way. I mean, sure, we wanted to beat Cleveland the day before and just win, but at least we had the chance now to do it for ourselves. Before the game, our team at least was pretty loose. It was amazing how loose we were, really, everybody laughing and joking in batting practice.

Going to Boston, Lou Piniella was teasing Steinbrenner about losing the coin toss. Saying, “You didn’t do your job, now we got to do ours.” He was telling him, “You’re the luckiest guy in the world. We’re not only going to win it for you, but you’ll get an extra gate out of it.”

George tried to smile, but he looked a little airsick. “Lou, man, this is no time for humor,” he said.

I wouldn’t say it was just another ball game, but we were eager to go, we wanted to be out there. When you’re trying to be a great champion, you don’t get anything out of beating a bad team. If you’re a champion, you
want
to play another great team.

The Red Sox looked and sounded very loose, too. They were ready to go. “He saith among the trumpets, ‘Aha!’ ” We were ready for the battle.

The only regret you could have was that neither team would be at its very best. But then, you never really are at the end of a season. We were still both a little beat-up, but at least for once it was a pretty even match. Butch Hobson finally took himself off third because Zimmer wouldn’t do it. He was the DH, and they put Jack Brohamer in the field instead. They finally had to sit Dwight Evans with that concussion, so they put Jim Rice in right field. Fisk was playing hurt, so were some other guys. But they were still a great team.

We had Thurman catching even after he’d got seven stitches in his right hand, when he’d accidentally put it through a window in the clubhouse sauna. But he was still playing. We’d lost Willie Randolph a couple days earlier when he pulled a hamstring. He was out for the season, which was a big loss for us. It would prove to be a huge factor, both in that playoff game and in the postseason—though not in the way anyone thought it would.

A game that big, everybody understood it. You knew the fans understood it, from how quiet they were most of the time, how quickly they reacted to things. How focused they were on the action. It was like 32,925 people were all holding their breath together.

In a game like that, I wanted to be part of the victory in any way I could. A hit, an RBI, a run scored, a stolen base. A great defensive play. A home run.

I came up in the first inning. Mickey Rivers on second, two outs. Torrez looked as tough as he had all year. I knew he would be. He had everything working for him. He had an extra few miles an hour on the fastball; his breaking stuff was good. First pitch was a fastball he put right by me, must’ve been ninety-five miles an hour plus. I swung through it, swung hard. Next he put a very nice slider on the inside corner. Missed that, too.

His third pitch to me, he tried to put one a little off the plate, threw me a fastball high and outside. Not outside enough.

I got hold of that ball, drove it to the opposite field. I knew I’d hit it good. I thought I hit it good enough to go out, but the wind was blowing in and knocked it down. I thought it still might go off the Green Monster and score Mickey, but instead Yaz caught it right at the foot of the wall, in left.

Just missed. Mike and I kind of smiled at each other after we watched that thing. We both knew what almost happened.

After that, Torrez settled in. He was giving us nothing, pitching very efficiently. Pitching better than we’d seen him all season. I had another good at-bat, came up in the fourth with Piniella on first. By now the wind was blowing out to left, but this time I hit his curve solidly and drove it to right. A hard line drive—but it was almost right at Jim Rice. Two good at-bats, nothing to show for it. That’s baseball.

Nobody was doing much for us except Mickey Rivers, who had a walk and a double, stole a base. He almost got another hit in the shortstop hole in the fifth, but Rick Burleson grabbed it and threw to third, where he just got Roy White coming from second—knowing he would never have time to get Mick at first.

It was a terrific, heads-up play. It was a good, tight game all around. The sort of game we should have been playing against each other all year, if we both hadn’t had so many injuries, hadn’t played so many games in the rain.

Guidry was pitching well for us. I think if he’d had all his days he might’ve pitched another two-hit shutout. But going in his third straight start on short rest, he wasn’t quite as fast, wasn’t quite as sharp. In the second inning, Yaz pulled a pitch just inside the Pesky Pole in right field for a home run: 1–0. It was a great piece of hitting, but I don’t know if he or anyone else could’ve done that against a fully rested Guidry that year. Next couple batters, Fisk and Lynn, gave the ball a ride, long fly outs.

You could see he didn’t have his best stuff, but he still wouldn’t give in. Sixth inning, Burleson hit a double off him, and then Jim Ed Rice just muscled a ball through the middle for another run, 2–0. He had a great year that year, Rice. Led the league in home runs, RBIs, even triples. Hit .315, was the MVP. But with all due respect, he couldn’t touch Guidry when he was at his best.

Rice went to third when Yaz grounded out, and then we walked Fisk intentionally to pitch to Lynn with two outs. Set up the lefty-on-lefty matchup with Freddie Lynn. Ronnie was just missing; Lynn ran the count up to 3–2. Then Guidry got his slider up a little, and Lynn pulled it down the right-field line, just like Yaz did. It wasn’t hit as hard as Yaz’s ball, but it was higher, up in that tough afternoon sun out there, drifting into the corner.

You could tell right away it was trouble. Even from the dugout, it looked like it could go out for a three-run homer, or at least fall in for a double that would’ve scored two runs. That would’ve put us down 4–0, 5–0. It would’ve been tough even for us to climb out of a hole that big in the sixth inning.

But Lou Piniella was right there. Normally, he would never be over that far; he would never have had a chance to get there, not with Ron Guidry pitching to a left-handed batter. No way Guidry gets pulled like that. But Lou had been talking with Thurman the whole game about how Guidry’s pitches were missing spots and he wasn’t throwing as hard as he had all that year. Just before Lynn got in the box to hit,
Lou motioned to Mickey in center to move with him toward the right-field line, six or seven feet from where they’d normally play against a left-handed hitter, adjusting to the missing speed on Guidry’s pitches.

Don Zimmer said it best later: “That’s just the knowledge of a guy who knows how to play the game.”

It still didn’t make it an easy catch. Lou had to run over, battling that high sun all the way. He had to go into that tricky little corner they have down in right field in Fenway, with the fans right there screaming in his face. Had to stick his glove out and make what was almost an over-the-shoulder catch. Lou said later he actually did lose that ball in the sun, but he ran to where he knew it would be coming down—something that an experienced, skilled outfielder would know to do, someone who’s played in the majors for ten-plus years.

He caught the ball in the top of the glove, bounced off the fence, and held on. Held it all the way to the dugout, where he sat down on the bench with it still in his glove. He wasn’t letting go. In the park, it was like somebody pulled a plug on all the fan noise—just shut it off right away. Lou said later there was some big fat Sox fan out in right who’d been waving his arms practically in Lou’s face when he was going after the ball, shouting at him, trying to distract him. When he caught it, when he bounced off the fence, then steadied himself, Lou said something to him before he ran back to the dugout.

After the game, the writers asked him what he’d told the fan. Lou told them it was “Take that.”

What people say is that the momentum changed with that play. But in baseball, momentum is all about who’s pitching. Doesn’t matter what you do in the field if you still have to come up and face, say, Bob Gibson or Sandy Koufax. Or even Mike Torrez that afternoon. He was still throwing very well for them, and now we were moving into the tricky part of the afternoon in Fenway, with the shadows growing out of the stands between home plate and the mound and the ball coming at you out of the bright sunlight and into the shadow. It was all going to favor the pitcher now, and going into the top of the seventh, Mike
had still thrown fewer than seventy pitches. We just had two hits off him. I was 0–3; he’d struck out Thurman three times. Our best hitter! We weren’t panicking. That team never panicked. But it was getting late, bro.

With one out, Chambliss hit a single off his curveball, then Roy White hit another one off Mike’s fastball, which was slowing down just a little. Another very professional display of hitting, from the great pros we had on our team—just hang in and take what he’s giving you.

Brian Doyle, the rookie we had up playing second base in place of Willie Randolph, was due up next. Lemon sent Jim Spencer up to hit for him. Spencer was a great pinch hitter for us all year long, good power hitter, but Torrez cranked up that heater again and got him to fly out to Yaz in left.

That brought up Bucky Dent. An interesting decision. If Billy had still been the manager, no doubt he has Spencer hit for Bucky, not for Brian Doyle. Doyle was a lefty, hitting against the right-handed Torrez. Billy never really trusted Bucky; he pinch-hit for him when he could.

We had other bats on the bench. But with Willie out, we didn’t have another infielder available, so you could only hit for one of them, Bucky or Brian Doyle. Fred Stanley was going to go in for Doyle now that he was out of the game. Fred could play anywhere in the infield and do a great job for us, he was a great defender. But there was really nobody else who could play the middle infield for us. Once Lemon decided to hit for Doyle, Bucky would have to hit for himself.

I can honestly say, “So what?” All the ifs and coulda, shoulda, woulda didn’t happen.

Bucky didn’t start out well. He went in there as usual crouched down, choking up on the bat—just trying to keep the line moving. Maybe drive in a run, or work a walk. Torrez started feeding him all fastballs. Missed with the first one, got him to foul the second one off the instep of his left foot. Ouch!

Bucky’s legs had been hurting all year; that’s what he’d been on the DL for. He’d just taken off the shin guard he’d been wearing most of the year, and now he’d hurt himself on the same spot. He was staggering around, trying to rub it off. Gene Monahan, our trainer, came
out to see to him and spray ethyl chloride on the foot, to freeze it and numb it.

It had been like that all year for Bucky. With his hamstring injuries, he’d never really gotten started. He’d had a poor last month, though he’d driven in some big runs for us. He had gone 7–20 in the four games we’d had up in Boston—drove in six of the ten ribbies he had all month, including one with a single off Torrez. Maybe that’s why Lemon decided not to hit for him.

But he’d been struggling again, so he’d tried a couple of lighter bats Roy White had loaned to Mickey Rivers and that Rivers had passed on to Bucky. They were just thirty-two ounces, thirty-four inches long. While Gene was working on Bucky’s shin, Mickey noticed that the bat he was using was cracked. Just a little crack above the tape. He told Bucky, “Homey, homey, that’s the wrong bat,” and had the batboy give him the good one.

That was typical Mickey. He just had a funny way of making good things happen. He was like our carburetor. A great leadoff man. He didn’t get enough walks, didn’t get on base enough. But he hit for a high average, had some power, could steal bases, and covered a lot of ground out in center field. Above all, he would find a way to beat you.

Earlier that season, back in July, I remember he went up to pinch-hit with us losing, 2–0, to Detroit in the seventh. There were two out, Gary Thomasson on first. Rivers hit a ball out to the wall in right field. Mickey Stanley was playing there for the Tigers, and he went up for it but couldn’t get it; the ball went off the wall.

Immediately, Stanley started arguing with the umpires that he’d been interfered with going up for that ball. Probably had been. Back in those days, they’d pull your glove right off your hand out in right field in Yankee Stadium. But you can’t argue about it while the play is still going on. Stanley knew that; he was a good ballplayer, a veteran. He’d been on that world champion Tigers team back in 1968.

But while he stood there arguing, Thomasson scored, and then Rivers went all the way around to score. We tied the game, went on to win it by a run. Without that win, we might never have made it to the playoff. That was Mickey. He’d walk up there, carrying his bat on his shoulder like an old man carrying home a pile of wood. Looked like he could barely lift it. But he made things
happen
.