Of course there is a solution. Read while you watch (or listen -- I know many prefer radio ball). So that's where this issue's title comes from -- the suggestion to read between innings, during pitching changes, or while opponents walk Barry Bonds.
Thanks to David Marasco for contributing his description of the last game at the "old" San Diego ballpark. For newcomers to Notes, David has been to a few of these farewells in recent years, so his credentials as funereal critic are solid. For more of David's best stuff, explore The Diamond Angle's web site (I believe it's thediamondangle.com; if not, do a search.)
Also here is a little piece on St Louis sportswriter Ed Wray. What did he know about the Fix of October 1919? That's the question I'm raising here. Sometimes I feel like I was born 80 years too late.
I was struck by how history seemed to be recycling itself: specifically, how the fate or fortune of the Pirates from 1957-1960 seemed to be reflected in their seasons of 1987-90. Just as 1958 saw the Pirates climb out of the basement into contention for a pennant, so did 1988. I believe there was a brief moment of time when I imagined my book calling attention to this phenomenon, being published in 1990, just in time for baseball fans to read -- between innings of the 1990 World Series, maybe -- how my prediction came true. The Pirates did make the playoffs in 1990, but my book did not make it into print. Anyway, there is not much to go now, just one more chapter and an epilogue.
The following is from David Marasco, whose fine work appears regularly on the site of THE DIAMOND ANGLE, and David says pictures from the last game played at the San Diego ballpark that I call "the Murph" will be there soon.
LAST GAME AT THE MURPH ... by David Marasco
The scenario for the last at bat at Qualcomm (Jack Murphy) Stadium could have come out of Hollywood. The home team Padres, down by two runs, had lit up the visiting Colorado Rockies for a pair of hits to start the home half of the ninth. Colorado brought in Justin Speier (whose father Chris Speier played plenty of baseball there himself), who proceeded to strike out the next two Padres. Gary Bennett strode to the plate. A home run would win the game, failure would mean the 1401st and final Padres loss in the stadium they had called home for the past 35 years. Bennett was in the hole early, the first two offerings from Speier were strikes. The Padres catcher battled back, but on the ninth pitch he struck out swinging.
It was the end of the game, but not quite the end of an era. The Padres did their homework for the final game in the Q. San Diego did a good job of picking the best from other final ceremonies and wove a memorable event. When fans entered the gates, 60,988 strong, they were given small models of the Q, which serve as ticket holders for their embossed final passes. This was a neat improvement over Houston, where the aluminum Astrodome tins made nice candy trays, but aren't really display cases. As it was Sunday, local tradition dictated that the starting lineups were announced in Spanish.
The Q was one of the first American stadiums to put sushi on the menu, the Padres have always been inclusive. As things got rolling, a huge American flag was unfurled in the outfield, and Anisha Gwynn, daughter of Tony, sang the national anthem. Throwing out the first pitch was Ed Spiezio, father of Scott Spiezio, and owner of the first hit and homer in the ballpark. The game itself quickly degenerated into a slugfest. Brian Giles notched the final triple and later came in to score in the first inning. Juan Uribe answered in the next frame with a monster three-run jack that traveled over 400 feet. The Padres held a 5-3 lead when the Rockies came to bat in the seventh. Their bullpen collapsed, allowing five runs on three dingers. Padres fans insisted on throwing back potential final home run balls because they were hit by the visiting team.
Adam Bernero trotted out to the mound with an 8-5 lead. He walked the first batter, and then took a nasty Mark Kotsay liner to the body. He recovered and threw to first, drawing Helton off the bag. The umpire ruled that Helton had come off after the catch, the runner was out. Bruce Bochy strongly disagreed, and this led to the final ejection in stadium history. Xavier Nady put one in the seats, the ump's call cost the Padres the tying run. The eighth saw a controversial decision. With two runs in, two out and a man on second, Rod Beck had run the count to 3-0 on Todd Helton. Albert Pujols had finished his day, a hit by Helton would give the Rocky the batting title. But the bat was taken out of his hands, ball four floated in as an intentional walk. Helton lost the closest batting race in National League history.
In the bottom of the eighth Mark Loretta launched the final home run in the Q. It was also his 185th hit of the year, a new mark for Padres second basemen. Trevor Hoffman pitched the ninth, an honor well deserved, save situation or no save situation. Although they put up a valiant effort in the bottom of the ninth, it was not to be. The teams cleared the field to the sounds of "There Used To Be A Ballpark Here." The music that played on the final day came from the closing day canon -- Green Day's Good Riddance, Field of Dreams, and The Natural... A short video covering the early history of baseball in San Diego was screened on the JumboTron. The flags that represent the 1984 and 1998 National League pennants were brought down to the playing field.
A gate opened in the outfield wall and a bright red Hummer rumbled to the infield. Fears that they were delivering the frozen head of Ted Williams were dispelled quickly when the grounds crew went to work on the removal of home plate. This was the only part of the festivities that did not go smoothly (and although the Chicken made an appearance on Friday, he was missing Sunday). Home plate was anchored by a large plug of cement, and after the plate and the cement were removed from the ground a sledgehammer had to be used to separate the plate from its now disinterred foundation. The plate had an honor guard of four Marines (to make sure that Al-Qaeda did not strike a blow against America by stealing home), surely they could have handled the extra bit of weight even if the owner of the Padres and the Mayor could not. Later, when home plate arrived at PETCO Park, it was simply presented to representatives of the construction crew. In Detroit there had been an elaborate planting ceremony, the work performed by hand-picked minor league prospects -- the future of the Tigers inaugurating their new home. Simply handing the artifact to Joe Hardhat fell a little short.
Once home plate was removed, the Padres shifted gears and brought back their old players. The night before they had introduced their all-time team, with video clips and a public address announcer welcoming back the returning heroes. Sunday they went the Tiger Stadium route, they dropped the PA voice and simply let the on-field camera do its job. The fans saw faces, some aged more than others, and as the players ran by the names on the back of the uniforms confirmed their identities. The Prodigal, Ken Caminiti, exiled due to crack cocaine and steroid revelations, was welcomed home with a huge ovation. It was obvious even from the upper deck how emotional the moment was for him. Dave Dravecky, who came back from surgery to pitch before cancer eventually took his arm, also got a big reception. But warm greetings were not just reserved for longtime stalwarts like Gary Templeton and Steve Garvey; players like Archi Cianfrocco also got loud cheers. Everyone knew the big names would be there, it was the small surprises that brought unexpected joy. After the alumni had all ambled to their former positions, the current team took the field. Phil Nevin and Gary Matthews Jr took a small child to right field with them. When the camera zoomed in on the trio the fans were able to read the name on the kid's uniform -- Darr. Mike Darr Jr, the son of the Padres player killed in Spring Training a few years ago.
Closing celebrations range somewhere between parties and wakes, but all of them have a moment when your heart jumps into your throat. Mike Darr Jr on the shoulders of his friends was that moment in the Q. Once everyone was in their place, the sound system cued up "Hell's Bells" one last time. Through a fountain of fireworks Trevor Hoffman came in from the bullpen one last time. He handed the ball to Tony Gwynn, who threw the last pitch in stadium history. Two comments. First, while nobody can dispute Gwynn's standing as Mr. Padre, it seemed more fitting that the ultimate closer should throw out the final pitch, perhaps to Gwynn as catcher. Second, after an afternoon of archived film footage of a younger Gwynn, some fans were surprised at how large Gwynn had become. This stood in stark contrast to the situation in Pittsburgh a few years ago. There fans were shocked at how thin the ailing Willie Stargell looked as he threw the final pitch at Three Rivers Stadium. It was his last public appearance before his death the following spring.
The JumboTron then played video detailing the history of the stadium. There was a touching moment when Mets announcer Bob Murphy described his feelings about the stadium named after his late brother. In an awkward turn, the voiceover noted the Qualcomm bought the naming rights in 1997. The scoreboard then counted down from 35, representing each year the Padres played in the stadium. The crowd joined in for the last ten, and then the fireworks went off. The current and former Padres on the field then exited through a gate in right field, evoking images of the players disappearing into the corn of the Field of Dreams. In Milwaukee they had their beloved radio announcer Bob Uecker say the final words. In San Diego generations of fans have listened to Jerry Coleman call Padre games. He said some nice words and then closed with his trademark "You can hang a star on that one!" Hang a star indeed.
FROM THE NOTES ARCHIVE: #22, A Visit to San Diego, June 1993
It was my first time farther west than St Louis, and first times often defy description. I need new words. Five jet hours away is a land of unfamiliar trees and birds, of sand and surf and sun, a tan land of contrasts.
... There's a thesis waiting to be written, that would study the cities' ball parks, fans, team logos, and stadium menus. Yes, I tried the fish tacos and fish burritos at Jack Murphy -- and they were excellent. I was surprised to see Ben & Jerry's there as well!
ANOTHER WRAY OF LIGHT
Little note was taken of it at the time, but in his historic December 15, 1919, article, Fullerton gave baseball a plan for uncovering the conspiracy that he was certain had ruined the Series. He suggested that Judge Landis [who was not yet Commish] interrogate gamblers named Zork, Levi (two brothers), Eddie of Boston, Tim of Des Moines, Abe Attell, Bill Burns, Pesch, and Redmon. Then, question Monte Tennes of Chicago, and Arnold Rothstein. Then, Comiskey's detectives, manager Kid Gleason, writers Jimmy Crusinberry and Ed Wray of St Louis, as well as Fullerton himself; and finally, ballplayers Ray Schalk and Eddie Collins. Years later, Fullerton said that even if Landis had just met with Bill Burns, "all of the facts" would have come out, months before the 1920 season started, instead of in its final days.
The above is a little sliver from my book, and one I have returned to often. Two months after the Series is over, Hugh Fullerton presented baseball with a plan to investigate the dark blizzard of rumors that had soiled the country of baseball. And look at the line-up of witnesses! I believe all of the gamblers he named were later indicted, except Arnold "Said It Couldn't Be Done" Rothstein, Boston Eddie and Tim of Des Moines.
Everyone else Fullerton names have become familiar to me by now. Everyone, that is, except Ed Wray, a St Louis sportswriter. I guess Fullerton believed Wray could make or confirm the connection with the St Louis gamblers, something Commy's crack team of detectives was unable to do. Or did Ed Wray know more?
I asked Bob Broeg (as in "plague" or, at least, "egg," Bob tells me) about Ed Wray recently, and here is what he said.
You touched a "nerve" in your note about the 1919 World Series. John Edward (Ed) Wray was one of the most distinguished men ever to write on the sports pages -- now, then, past and present. "Mr Wray" as everyone called him was an impeccable person, physically and as one who had high ideals. As I was hired in '45 by Mr Wray, his last acquisition ... I had only one year [with him] before he retired. However he continued to write for the Post until 1955 and died at 88 in 1961. ... He was a graduate of M.I.T., was extremely literate and principled. I'm sure Hugh Fullerton turned to him for help.
And I'm sure that Ed Wray, a prolific writer, must have penned a few columns on the 1919 Series Fix, and the cover-up. Yet I do not recall seeing anything by Ed Wray in any of the books, magazines or newspapers that I've read. If you have come across anything by Ed Wray on the B-Sox, please let me know.
[In issue #294, I began running DEAR PATRICK: HOT STOVE DELIVERIES FROM A FATHER TO A SON, a book I started writing in 1989 and continued for a few years, till I set it aside. Some of DEAR PATRICK has found its way into NOTES before, but never the whole thing, beginning to end -- until now. Here is Chapter 16. For the record, I had a beard from 1976-89, and had it when I wrote this chapter. I also disliked the Designated Hitter back then; I changed my mind on the DH in 1993 or '94.]
CHAPTER 16
A NEW SCOREBOOK
March 25, 1990
Dear Patrick:
Not long to go now, until "time begins" -- as Thomas Boswell wrote of Opening Day. The unofficial first day of spring, anyway.
Not really of time.
Because, as I have said before, baseball is a game with a history. For Pittsburghers, the Pirates' successful seasons of 1958 and 1960 were sweeter, precisely because they followed three decades of coming up empty, and few of even coming close. I wasn't there for all those years, but I grew up in touch with the collective memory.
Something happened to the Pirates in 1987. To me, it was an echo of thirty years earlier, the season when Danny Murtaugh took over and spoke the unspeakable promise of .500 ball.
This time, the team personality change was the result of a transplant of two new relieving arms from the Giants, Jim Gott and Jeff Robinson; and two new bats and Gold Gloves from the Cardinals, Andy Van Slyke and a fireplug catcher Mike LaValliere.
When the Pirates peaked in 1960, credit for the success was showered beyond the players and coaches, to the farm system built up by Branch Rickey, and to the General Manager who traded so well to create the roster, Joe Brown. Now it was a Rickey student, Syd Thrift, in the GM role of surgeon and shaper, who was helping to turn things around off the field.
At first I liked that trade with St. Louis (Mike Dunne was also acquired, for the popular catcher Tony Pena) mainly because Van Slyke was from New Hartford, and the local Utica newspaper would therefore give the Pirates a little more coverage. Andy would have his own reserved box on the sports page, of course, informing everyone "back home" of his daily accomplishments.
As the season wore on, however, the trade started to look like the famous Hoak-Haddix-and-Burgess-for-Thomas deal that led to the pennant in 1960. Because in the last month or two of that 1987 season, the Bucs were able to play respectably against anyone. A team had grown in Pittsburgh.
So just as 1958 built on '57, '88 grew out of '87, with hopes growing higher and higher for one more charge to the top, one more shot at a World Series.
How could I feel an echo from thirty years before, you might wonder. So much had changed.
I had changed: I'd been through college, become married with kids, and was working on my third career. My grasp of baseball had been deepened by Roger Angell and Tom Boswell and Tim McCarver and by countless TV and radio commentators and writers. I'd grown a beard.
The Pirates had changed: three World Championship pennants had been captured. Willie Stargell had come up, flashed like a comet crossing the horizon, and was now retired. Roberto and Don Hoak had left us. Bob Prince's raspy voice no longer stood out from the radio static when I sifted the airwaves for KDKA.
Baseball itself had changed: A dozen mini-dynasties had come and gone, from New York to Oakland. Dynasties didn't last very long any more, with free-agency (permitting the hometown hero to auction himself off to the highest bidder) and the where-will-it-all-end escalation of player salaries. The players' union was finally successful in fighting for a share of the rising profits, but the public confrontations with the owners were not entertaining.
Players wore beards! Every team, I think, had a new style of uniforms. The designated hitter rule now seemed entrenched in the AL (still a National Leaguer at heart, I never much liked the rule.) Computers had mined baseball's underground treasure of statistics, producing both marvelous revelations and a lot of nonsense.
TV had been colored and cabled, and VCRs enabled any fan to slow-mo and instant replay at will. Electronic scoreboards, domes, the new stadiums all gave baseball a different look, in '88 -- but the game was the same, and generated the same emotions.
Everyone, everything had changed. Yet it felt like 1958, at least to this Pittsburgher. Something was coming.
In life and in baseball, most of the time, "this season" is a lot more like "last season", than like something brand-new. And next season will likely be a lot like this season, even when drastic changes are made, say, a six-player trade, or going on a diet for real. Yet, some seasons turn out to be very different than the ones they follow. And we remember them a long time.
1958 and 1988 were like that, for Pirate fans. By mid-June, it was clear that the Pirates would be in the race, all right. But they had a problem: Mets, a four-letter word. The pennant path went squarely through the core of the Big Apple.
The Mets had once been baseball's darlings because they invented new ways to lose -- or rather, introduced into the majors, ways that were previously restricted to the low minors and the sandlots. The original 1962 Mets made losing fun. They stood for how not to play the game. But that was long before the Miracle of '69 (a season all the more astonishing because of the depths from which the team had climbed.) And long before more flags and half-flags in the seventies and eighties. In recent seasons, the Mets had owned the Pirates (except for a stretch in '85 when the Bucs played spoiler in the Mets' pennant charge), winning most of the close games and more than a few humiliating laughers. These were the Mets to be met now.
In New York, the New Yorkers took two of three in the first half of a home-and-away confrontation, in consecutive weeks. In between halves, the Bucs swept four from the Expos, and trailed by four and a half games.
I was on vacation in the Burg when the Mets came in for the Three Rivers half, and showed up for the rubber game of the series along with forty-some thousand others. The Bucs took the opener, then dropped game two. Over 127,000 turned out for this series -- this could only signal the return of Buc fever, and at high pitch.
Game Three turned out to be a microcosm of the season, not just a pulse-check. Going into the game, momentum was up for grabs. Not so, afterwards.
Bobby Bonilla's homer in the second inning gave the Bucs a thin lead over Cone, but the Mets' number eight hitter, Kevin Elster (who seemed to tee off on Pirate pitching in '88, and hardly anyone else's) hit a two-run job in the third, then doubled home another with two outs in the fourth. Another Met marker across in the fifth, but the Bucs rallied for four in their half-frame, Andy Van Slyke's two-run shot capping it. Pittsburgh 5, New York 4, after five.
But back came the Mets, chasing Barry Jones with a single, a trio of walks (ouch!), and two sac flies. Mets up, 6-5.
Now it was the Pirates' turn. Lavalliere's double, two free passes (their turn to wince), then Jose Lind's second two-run single in two innings. Bucs on top, 7-6. The game was starting to resemble the finale in the '60 Series. And it was getting to be time for Jim Gott, the Pirate stopper, to put it away.
Jeff Robinson held the Mets in the sixth, seventh and eighth, and was tiring. So on came fire-balling Gott, to face the Mets' best in the top of the ninth. Kevin McReynolds flies to center, a sparkling snag by Van Slyke rates a star in my scorebook.
Strawberry lofts an easy one to left; two outs. Gott had been ahead on both batters by 1-2 counts. He was on. Here he is, ahead again, 1-2 on Howard Johnson. A strike away. The Three Rivers crowd is standing, calling for the final K, ready to erupt with enough force to carry the Pirates through to October.
Then -- bingo! -- HoJo gets his fastball and drills it out in right, and gasping, we all sit down in disbelief. Gott later said that he was confused on the sign, and (obviously) served up the wrong pitch. No kidding. Tie game.
In the Buc ninth, a rally against Roger McDowell: two walks, then a fielder's choice, McDowell nailing Van Slyke at third. It saved the game: Sid Bream lines a shallow single. Bonilla rounds third, starts home, then whoa! He changes his mind, or is coached back, diving for the bag. He wouldn't get another chance. McDowell coaxes two grounders, and the opportunity passes.
With the best of the bullpen used up earlier, McDowell bats for himself in the eleventh, with one down -- and doubles! McReynold's single to left follows, and it's over. More than the game has been lost. The tide has turned.
The Pirates moved on to face the Giants, and dropped two of three, falling to seven and a half games back. But then, magically, a streak -- to me, one of the most inexplicable and unpredictable of all baseball phenomena. The Bucs won their last five games before the All-Star Game break, shaving off four games from the Mets' lead. After the break, seven of eight wins, and the Mets are a mere half-game on top on July 21. Pittsburgh eyes are clearly focused now on two more four-game series with the Mets, on the horizon. The race had just two runners now -- no other team is within sight of a challenge.
Baseball teaches early about the infamous Law of Averages. What goes up, eventually comes down. No one bats .500 for very long, no team streaks forever. So after the hot hand comes the cooling: three losses to the Dodgers. Two games back now. Looking too far ahead is always hazardous, and in baseball, minds not on today are too far ahead. The sweeping is followed by a rebound, two of three from St Louis, and come July 29 and The Showdown (Part I), the margin between the Mets and Bucs is still just two games.
I buy a new scorebook. It is definitely 1958 for me now, the season has melted thirty years off me in less than three months. I'm a kid again, filled with foolish expectation and hope.
If my baptism into baseball was that day in '57 when Bragan exited for Murtaugh, then buying this scorebook was my confirmation, my adult affirming of the commitment made years before as a child.
John Smiley and Bob Ojeda draw Game One honors, and both are superb. There are no relievers and no pinch-hitters in this game, it's Our Best Nine against Yours (although the Mets play without the injured Keith Hernandez.) Ojeda yields three harmless singles; three runners make it to second base; none score. Smiley gives up just one single, in a second-inning threat, then nothing more until a one-out eighth-inning homer by Elster. Three games back.
The next night, it's Sid Fernandez in Game Two, tossing a four-hit shutout. Brian Fisher throws a gopher ball to Johnson in the fourth, and Elster's pesky at-bats plate two more, 3-0. Four back.
Game Three pits Bob Walk against Ron Darling. All the scoring is confined to the first inning (never tune in a game late, if you want to be certain to hear the knockout punch; if you're going to the park, get there for batting practice.) The Pirate run is eclipsed by Strawberry's gameshot after a Walk walk, 2-1. Five games back, and it looks like it's over.
As surely as hope springs eternal, so does baseball tease, and that was never more plain to me than in the balance of the '88 season. The Bucs took Game Four of Showdown Part I, chasing Doc Gooden in the seventh with their eleventh hit (after managing just thirteen in the first three games), and going on to win 7-2. The stats mislead: runs even in the series, and the Bucs had more hits; but the trophy is twice as far away now.
A week later, the Bucs are still just four games out, when the Mets came into Three Rivers for Part II. The pitching was a little looser, but Game One set the tone again. Darling gave up two solo home runs, but Walk gave up the game to Keith Hernandez, who came off the disabled list to set up a first-inning run with a double (the emotional peak of the game for the Mets, a valley for the Bucs and the fans witnessing) and a game-clinching two-run blast in the seventh. All season long, the Mets suffered from solo homers (so much might, to score just a single point), so Keith's two-run shot felt like a grand-slam. The 3-2 win put the Mets ahead by five.
The next night, the Bucs took a 3-2 lead of their own into the eighth inning, then watched it evaporate in a flurry of balks called on Gott. Mets 5, Pirates 3, and New York was in control.
1988 was the Year of the Balk in both leagues, causing untold writhing and gnashing of teeth by everyone. Balks are supposed to be called to protect baserunners from devious pick-offs and quick-pitches -- that's the spirit of the rule. They were always surprising disruptions, and hardly ever mattered in the games I remember. '88 wasn't the first time that the umpires were told to favor the letter over the spirit of the rule, nor the first time that balks sprung up all over the place, like ugly weeds, destroying the game's rhythm, and bringing in an element of farce that didn't belong. (The lesson could have been learned in 1963.) Common sense prevailed before the season's end, but by then it was too late. Game Two of the Last Stand was history, the Bucs seven back.
The Mets took Game Three 6-2. Momentum was theirs. The Bucs picked off the last game, so the lead was six again, and the teams parted, separated by the schedule from further head-to-head combat for a month.
August was long and hot for both clubs. Pittsburgh pulled to within three and a half games again on August 21. The recollections of all those Showdown losses must have grown more painful by the day, each loss a two-game swing in the standings. The tease was still on.
What ruined the race finally was the Bucs' wilting in the NL West, dropping five series in a row to those teams, so that when the Mets invaded Three Rivers again on September 5, the lead was an impossible ten games, and time was on their side.
The final two series between the Pirates and Mets were split -- that's all the Mets needed. The Bucs had needed sweeps, had taken the first game of each series, then had fallen down, teased to death.
My scorebook had recorded every game in the July and August showdowns, then just the losses in September, so I felt more than a little bit like a jinx.
The Mets clinched their half-pennant on the 22nd; a rookie named Gregg Jefferies had arrived to administer CPR to the sluggish (bogged down with talent) team. A few days later, the Bucs clinched second. You would think that a second-place season would feel great, after finishing much lower in the previous years. And it does -- but not right away. After the chase is lost, it's disappointment that reigns. If only....
Looking back at that 1988 race between the Pirates and Mets, I must admit that it was a lot like the Presidential campaign of that summer -- the first one you'll remember. (My first was 1952 -- my family liked Stevenson, but the country liked Ike.) It seemed to be close, but in the end, George Bush showed that it probably was never very close at all. But Dukakis boosters and those who voted for him will not want to believe that. Fans choose to remember the pursuit.
1988 ended with Orel Hershiser of the LA Dodgers in charge, first of the NL West (a record string of shutout innings), then of the Mets in the playoffs (his Game Seven shutout went into my scorebook), and finally of the Oakland A's, who never recovered from Kirk Gibson's handicapped homer and his triumphal limping home. Keith Hernandez must have known how Gibson felt at that moment.
To Pirate fans, '88 was a revival year. The hopes generated in the closing battles of 1987 were not unfounded after all. Miracles were possible again.
And I do believe that I saw that season, Pat, the first stirrings of interest in baseball in yourself. Card-collecting, a few Blue Sox games. You paused a little longer when you passed by the TV while I was glued to a game.
I had the fever bad in 1988. You were just catching the disease for the first time. There was no way that I could warn you, that it can take a long time to shake it. But who would want to?