Game Six: Cincinnati, Boston, and the 1975 World Series: The Triumph of America's Pastime

by Mark Frost

  Out in the bullpen, Red Sox closer Dick Drago, watching from the mound, where he was warming up to pitch what he thought would be a meaningless top of the ninth to close out a losing World Series, along with the rest of Boston’s relief corps went berserk when they saw Carbo’s ball land in the stands near them. “Then it hit me, the giant butterflies started,” said Drago. “I’d be coming into a tie game in the ninth, instead of mop-up duty. That’s what any closer wants, the game to be on the line; I pitched better. But I had some work to do now to get my game face on.”

  Darrell Johnson, the first man in a Red Sox uniform to get his head back in the game as the jubilation around him continued, calmly told Bernie to grab his glove; he was going in to play left field in the top of the ninth. Yaz would move to first base and the new Red Sox pitcher, Dick Drago, would hit in the next man’s slot. The cheering had abated only slightly as Cecil Cooper stepped into the box—with an impossible act to follow—for his final at bat of Game Six.

  Eastwick, cold and furious at himself, came right after him with high heat. Cooper fouled the pitch back. Working quickly, Eastwick went high fastball again, another late foul ball. Then came the slider, Cooper swung, missed badly, and that was that; three pitches, three strikes, and the third out, one man too late. Bench tossed the ball, now an object of contempt, back toward the mound. Young Eastwick looked stunned as he walked in; a negative thought, it appeared, had finally occurred to him.

  In the improbably resuscitated, celebratory air of Fenway Park, only one man blamed himself: in the Cincinnati dugout, Sparky, nearly doubled over in pain and despair and disbelief that he hadn’t listened to the voice. Why? Why? Why?

  Here came the top of the ninth, and, for the second time that night, it was a whole new ball game.

  SEVENTEEN

  No one goes anywhere in life without talent.

  No one becomes a champion without confidence.

  SPARKY ANDERSON

  THREE WEEKS BEFORE GAME SIX THE ENTIRE SPORTING world had been enthralled by an extraordinary heavyweight championship fight, the third between reigning champ Muhammad Ali and his dogged nemesis Joe Frazier. This was the rubber match of their bitter rivalry, and the brutal showdown, contested in the hundred-degree heat and high humidity of the Philippines, ended when Frazier, his eyes swollen blind from a fearful beating, wasn’t allowed by his loyal trainer, Eddie Futch, to answer the bell for the fifteenth and final round. Ali fainted in the ring when it was over, and both men ended up in the hospital that night; Ali claimed he’d never been so close to death. They had billed their fight as “The Thrilla in Manila,” and it more than lived up to the hype, the last time a heavyweight match could be considered a global cultural event, and if there had been any doubt remaining, this victory cemented the legitimacy of Ali’s repeated claims for himself as the “greatest of all time.” His universal fame, and social influence in America, had reached its apex. Many of the same top sportswriters who’d covered that fight were in attendance for Game Six, and the dramatic ebb and flow of what was unfolding this night at Fenway began to remind more than a few of the battle they’d witnessed earlier in the month halfway across the world.

  It was after eleven-thirty Eastern time now, but as phones rang off the hook across America relaying news of Bernie Carbo’s unlikely heroics, the number of sets switched to NBC’s coverage of Game Six spiked to the highest level the network had ever recorded for a World Series game; more than 76 million people were now tuned in to watch, riveted as the Reds came to bat in the top of the ninth. Joe Garagiola announced that Johnny Carson and The Tonight Show would not be seen on NBC that night, as the game continued toward the witching hour.

  Sparky still felt sick inside, physically anguished: All my fault. All my fault. He had never ignored the voice before, and look at the devastating result. He glanced over at his batting coach on the bench, Ted Kluszewski—Klu had been through all the team’s recent disappointments as a coach—and for the briefest moment Sparky let his feelings show, convinced that he had just cost his team another World Series.

  This is like being in an axe fight, and coming in second.

  Sparky choked back his pain and remorse, clapped his hands, and tried gamely to rally his men as they clattered back into the dugout; they had the heart of their lineup due now, time to forget what just happened, as the Big Red Machine had been able to do time and again during its run, and go back to work.

  The new Red Sox pitcher Dick Drago made his final warm-up tosses on the mound. Since being traded to the Red Sox from the Royals two years earlier, the thirty-year-old Drago had split his time between the starting rotation and the bullpen. After they’d selected him out of the Tigers system in the 1969 expansion draft, he’d spent five years as a starter for the fledgling Kansas City franchise. He’d become the lead sled dog on their staff, and pitched well—going 17–11 in his best year—but perpetually suffered from a lack of offensive support on a new team trying to build itself from scratch. So Drago had welcomed the move to the contending Red Sox, and Darrell Johnson put his strong arm to immediate good use. In this era before the extreme specialization of pitchers—which Sparky was just now instituting with the Reds as the wave of baseball’s future—it was far more common to see pitchers move freely between the bullpen and the starter’s role, but it often put them in an awkward limbo that made their contributions harder to value. Drago had pitched effectively as a starter for Johnson in 1974, but the numbers he posted and the kind of pitcher he was—a pure power fastball pitcher—suggested he might have more to offer in shorter stints closing out games; his ERA in relief that season was a dominating 1.37. When Rick Wise returned from injury as a key starter for Boston in ’75, Drago made a full-time move to the bullpen, and by the time of the stretch drive he had established himself as one of the better relievers in the American League, finishing fifth with fifteen saves. He had gone on to pitch brilliantly in the Championship Series against Oakland, earning a save in the last two games of the Red Sox three-game sweep over the A’s.

  A fiery guy, with a big deep voice and personality to match, Drago wore his hair long and sported a piratical black mustache, so he also had the look of the era’s dominant firemen down pat. Almost all favored elaborate facial hair; the nineteenth-century presidential whiskers of Goose Gossage, the lush Cossack foliage worn by Al “The Mad Hungarian” Hrabosky, and the famously fastidious handlebars of Rollie Fingers. Drago also possessed what has since been defined as the ideal psychological makeup for a closer: He thrived in pressure situations, and, limited to a smaller number of pitches per game by definition of his role, he enjoyed going after the game’s best hitters with unadulterated heat.

  One of the best in all of baseball came to the plate as Joe Morgan led off the inning. Drago threw him a fastball that ran just outside for a ball.

  By his own admission, Morgan had been pressing at the plate during the Series games in Boston, but as the leadoff batter in a late-inning tie, his job was to get on base any way he could manage; Drago knew that one of the most disciplined hitters in baseball wouldn’t be swinging at anything outside the zone. He went right after Morgan with a fastball on the inside corner that the second baseman took a big cut at and missed, 1–1.

  With Luis Tiant winning his two complete games, Drago had made only one appearance in a save situation in the Series so far, nine days earlier, way back in Game Two, coming in to replace starter Bill Lee in the ninth inning with a one-run lead, nobody out, and Johnny Bench on second after a leadoff double.

  Drago leaned into his next fastball and hit the low outside corner, a beautiful unhittable strike, to go ahead of Morgan 1–2.

  Prior to his stint in Game Two Drago had warmed up and sat down twice before coming into the game—a frequent bullpen routine resulting from Darrell Johnson’s chronic indecision; his relievers often lost their edge in the process—and after retiring Tony Perez and George Foster, Drago induced Reds’ shortstop Dave Concepcion to hit a ground ball to second base.
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  Drago overthrew his next effort to Morgan, a fastball that soared high to even the count at 2–2.

  But Red Sox second baseman Denny Doyle had been handcuffed by Concepcion’s grounder—although the game’s official scorer ruled the tough chance a single—and Johnny Bench scored the tying run for the Reds. After Concepcion quickly stole second, Ken Griffey doubled him in for the run that would win Game Two to even the Series at one apiece; Dick Drago was tagged with that uncomfortable loss, and the tough competitor had been itching to get another shot at the Reds ever since.

  Drago’s next fastball seemed to fool Morgan, and he just caught a piece of the ball, popping it up softly down the first base line, where Carl Yastrzemski—now wearing his infielder’s mitt—drifted over to make the easy catch for the first out.

  Johnny Bench came to the plate, the first time Drago had ever faced the best-hitting catcher in the game. This was the kind of confrontation both men thrived on: dead-red fastball against dead-red fastball hitter. The crowd stirred to life in anticipation.

  But instead of straight heat, Fisk signaled for the slider, a perfect call and a great delivery that appeared to be headed for the outside corner then broke sharply away from the plate. Bench appeared to break his wrists at it before holding off, but when both Fisk and Satch Davidson deferred to first base umpire Art Frantz, he signaled that Bench had resisted: ball one. The crowd booed its disapproval.

  Drago came back with the fastball now, inside, and Bench turned on it, driving the ball hard on the ground toward the hole at short. Guarding the line, Rico Petrocelli showed why he’d always been one of the best infielders in Boston club history, racing three steps to his left, scooping it deftly with the glove hand, and beating Bench to first by three steps with his strong arm. Two outs. The crowd jumped to its feet.

  Tony Perez dug in, the last of three future Hall of Famers in a row to step to the plate. Dick Drago had been a four-pitch pitcher as a starter, but he predominantly used only two as a closer: fastball and hard slider. Drago started Perez with the fastball, which tailed inside for ball one.

  Sparky continued to pace in the Cincinnati dugout. The bad feelings just wouldn’t go away. His two best men quickly down, only the Big Dog left; with all the momentum on their side and the crowd back in the game, he dreaded what the Red Sox might do now in the bottom of the ninth.

  Drago threw a slider low that just missed the zone for ball two, but Fisk didn’t complain: That’s it, just keep the fastball away from the outside of the plate on this guy, don’t let him extend his arms. Drago came back inside with the fastball, running in on the handle, and Perez couldn’t lay off it; he sliced a looping pop fly foul down the first base line and Yaz put it away for out number three.

  Three up, three down. Dick Drago had retired the heart of the Big Red Machine, momentum had shifted with the force of gravity; the fired-up Red Sox now had a chance to steal Game Six in the bottom of the ninth.

  BETWEEN INNINGS Tony Kubek had left the booth and made his way down toward the clubhouses on ground level. NBC executive Chet Simmons, producer Roy Hammerman, and broadcast director Harry Coyle wanted Kubek in place to conduct interviews immediately after the game was over, and both felt certain it was going to end soon, probably now in Boston’s favor. Coyle instructed Joe Garagiola that he should now use Dick Stockton as his color man for the remainder of the game, without referencing Kubek’s sudden absence on the air.

  Inside Fenway, as the clock neared midnight, the crowd was on its feet, chanting in support as Red Sox second baseman Denny Doyle came to the plate. Doyle took a couple of deep breaths to compose himself before stepping in, but the Reds’ pitcher Rawly Eastwick appeared to be the one in need of composure. Sparky paced the dugout restlessly, his early, profligate use of his bullpen haunting him now.

  Eastwick’s first pitch to Doyle came in high for a ball.

  Sparky hadn’t wanted to send his young reliever back out there after Carbo’s crushing blow, but he was nearly out of options; left-hander Will McEnaney was his last bona fide reliever in the bullpen, and his only left-hander, so he didn’t want to bring him in until it was absolutely necessary. Beyond that he had right-hander Pat Darcy, a young, occasional starter who had made only one relief appearance in Game Three of the Series, and right-hander Clay Kirby, who hadn’t pitched at all in the postseason and was suffering from arm trouble. Starter Don Gullett, being held in reserve in case of a Game Seven, wasn’t even in the bullpen.

  Doyle fouled back Eastwick’s next inside fastball to even the count.

  Doyle knew his job as the leadoff man here; get on base any way he could manage. He was a contact hitter who didn’t walk that often—only fourteen times during his three months with the Sox—but Darrell Johnson had told him to make the rattled Eastwick throw strikes.

  Eastwick missed high again with the fastball for ball two.

  The tall, cool Eastwick looked the same on the mound, but Johnny Bench saw a young pitcher suddenly struggling with his release point, his lower body lagging, a confidence issue manifesting as a mechanical fault. When Eastwick missed high again to fall behind 3–1 in the count, Bench shouted out to him—Keep it down now!

  The crowd revved up. At third base, Red Sox coach Don Zimmer had to shout to get Doyle’s attention, wagging the index finger of his left hand at him: the take sign.

  Listening to his catcher, Eastwick used his legs more and brought the next pitch down a notch—Bench thought he’d thrown a strike—but there was no way Doyle was swinging now, and Satch Davidson remained unconvinced: ball four. The crowd erupted and, confused by the noise, Doyle thought for a moment that Davidson had called a strike; the ump, looking irritated, pointed him toward first. Eastwick had lost the least dangerous hitter in the Red Sox lineup on five pitches, and now he had to face their most dangerous one.

  Fenway rose to its feet as Carl Yastrzemski came to the plate. His job in this situation under normal circumstances would have been to advance the runner to second and into scoring position, particularly with Fisk and Lynn coming up after him, but Yaz hadn’t been asked to lay down a sacrifice bunt once all season. Sparky decided to play the percentages anyway; he relayed the sign through Alex Grammas, and Rose and Perez crept in on the corners, protecting against the bunt.

  On Eastwick’s first fastball—I’ll be damned—Yaz squared to bunt; the ball was right over the plate, but he tipped it foul down third.

  The crowd quieted and seemed puzzled: What was their manager thinking? Yaz bunting? Now? He could end this freakin’ thing with one swing. Ever the good soldier, even Yaz seemed slightly perplexed, looking down to Zimmer to see if the sacrifice was still on.

  Sparky quickly chewed it over: He had to keep Rose and Perez on the grass to get the sure out, but would Yaz be swinging away now? Or was this just a sucker play to draw his infield in?

  That’s exactly what it was: On Eastwick’s next pitch Doyle broke for second, and Yaz, choking up on the bat, tried to chop the high fastball past Rose down the third base line, but it bounced foul wide of the line by about four feet.

  Sparky popped another piece of gum. Two strikes on Yaz, so the bunt wouldn’t be coming back; Rose and Perez returned to their normal depth, guarding the line against extra bases.

  Yaz, at thirty-six, wasn’t the same hitter he’d been in his absolute prime, but he still had more sheer guts and gritty work ethic than any man who’d ever played the game. He’d come to the majors as a kid with extraordinary talent, been tutored in the art of hitting by the man he replaced, the franchise’s irascible genius Ted Williams, and even after becoming a star kept grinding relentlessly to refine his skills. Standing tall in the box, holding the bat straight up and high—one of the most imitated stances in the game; ask any kid in New England—he’d gradually lowered his hands to compensate for whatever fraction of reaction time he’d lost over the last few years, and could still lash out like a cobra at a pitcher’s slightest mistake.

  And Eastwick made one now. Anothe
r high fastball—the third in a row he’d thrown him—out of the zone but on the plate and fat. After a violent, churning swing, the ball screamed out to right field; Ken Griffey raced to his left to cut it off and nearly overran the ball, reaching back to nab it just before it snaked past him—if he’d been right-handed it surely would have run by and sent Doyle home to end the game. By the time Griffey fired it back in and Concepcion cut it off at second, Denny Doyle was standing on third with the winning run. First base coach Johnny Pesky slapped Yaz on the back repeatedly as the fans leapt to their feet and went wild; just as he’d been doing for the last fifteen seasons, Yaz had come through again when they needed him.

  Bottom of the ninth, first and third, nobody out.

  Sparky had seen, and lived with his error of judgment, enough. As Carlton Fisk moved to the plate, the Reds’ manager, looking tired beyond his years, stepped over the line and took the long walk to the mound, signaling for the young left-hander McEnaney, his seventh pitcher of the night. This immediately clarified two issues: Carlton Fisk would be walked intentionally to load the bases with nobody out, and Sparky didn’t want to see Rawly Eastwick throw another pitch, not even one that was out of the strike zone on purpose.