by Mark Frost
Lee started Perez with a fastball, outside, and then, ill-advisedly, came back at him with his third “Leephus” pitch of the game. Perez, who had clocked a slight hitch in Lee’s windup when he tossed him that melon in the second inning, spotted the same hesitation now, again, knew it was coming, watched it, timed it perfectly, and this time absolutely nuked the ball, powering it way up over the Green Monster, over the netting above it, over everything, a majestic mortar shot that landed all the way on Lansdowne Street outside the ballpark. Bench slowed down to greet Tony at home plate, having crossed just ahead of him, then bear-hugged Perez on the way back to the dugout.
Red Sox 3, Reds 2. The Big Dog had called his shot, and his teammates swarmed him as he and Bench came down the steps; Perez winked at Sparky. As he’d been doing steadily for more than a decade, whenever they needed it most, Tony Perez had just applied jumper cables to the Big Red Machine.
Reds’ GM and team president Bob Howsam, seated just to the right of the Cincinnati dugout beside Commissioner Bowie Kuhn in the first row, knew it right then as he settled comfortably back into his seat: “We’re going to win this one now.”
The Boston bullpen went to work for the first time in the game, with southpaw Roger Moret and right-hander Jim Willoughby up and throwing. Bill Lee watched the next batter, George Foster, step back out of the box and ask for time twice after Lee had already started his windup, trying to deliberately upset his timing. Lee, visibly angry, overthrew two fastballs off the plate to fall behind 2–0. Foster tried to step out yet again during his next delivery, but home umpire Art Frantz, equally tired of Foster’s antics, called a strike on the fastball Lee fired down the middle. When the count reached 3–1, Lee finally retired Foster on an easy fly ball to right to end the inning.
Jack Billingham, working quickly and steadily, set the top of the Red Sox lineup down in order in the bottom of the sixth. Just as they had during Cincinnati’s comeback in the middle innings of Game Six, the Red Sox offense turned suddenly toothless, and as the Reds’ confidence grew, the mood in Fenway darkened.
Bill Lee marched back out to start the seventh, and recorded an easy first out when Dave Concepcion grounded to short. But as he then walked Ken Griffey on four straight pitches—the first free pass he’d given up in the game—Lee noticed that a blister that had quickly risen on the thumb of his throwing hand had just broken. Lee gestured Fisk out to the mound, and manager Darrell Johnson quickly joined them. Lee showed Johnson the bleeding wound, and when asked if he thought he could still go, Lee had to admit that he could no longer grip the ball; Johnson’s unwillingness to use Lee for the weeks before the Series had allowed the customary calluses built up by regular throwing to recede. Johnson immediately signaled to the bullpen, calling for the left-hander Moret, and a dejected Bill Lee walked off the field at Fenway to another standing ovation. For the second time in the Series, the gallant Lee had pitched into the closing innings and departed while holding the lead; his ERA would be the lowest for any pitcher on either team who’d started more than one game in this World Series.
Roger Moret had pitched so effectively in Game Six that he was not only out of Darrell Johnson’s doghouse, but a second such performance might give him a chance to redeem himself with the entire organization. Moret faced Cesar Geronimo with Griffey on first, and jammed him with a heavy fastball that Geronimo popped up to Burleson at short for the second out of the inning. Sparky then sent up pinch hitter Ed Armbrister to bat for Billingham, and the appearance of the bit player who had stirred such controversy in this Series—most in Boston believed a Game Seven wouldn’t and shouldn’t have been necessary, had it not been for his notorious interference in Game Three—carried at such a perilous moment something like a foreshadowing of doom. The crowd booed Armbrister; umpire Larry Barnett, stationed at second base tonight, pulled down his cap and tried to disappear. When Moret fell behind 2–1 to Armbrister, Griffey lit out for second and reached easily ahead of Carlton Fisk’s off-line throw, the ninth straight base the Reds had stolen on Fisk and the Red Sox pitching staff. Looking rattled, Moret then walked Armbrister with his next two pitches, and up came the switch-hitting Pete Rose. Johnson, with his entire bullpen available, decided to stay with Moret.
As much as he professed his joy during the wonders of Game Six, this was the moment Pete Rose had waited all his life for; with the World Series on the line, Rose belted Moret’s second pitch into center field and scored Griffey from second base ahead of Fred Lynn’s throw to tie the game at three runs apiece. Armbrister raced over to third, and when no Red Sox infielder moved to the mound to cut off Lynn’s throw, Pete Rose advanced to second. Moret then walked Joe Morgan on six careful pitches, bringing up Johnny Bench with the bases loaded. Darrell Johnson came out to take the ball; Roger Moret didn’t know it yet, but he had just thrown his last pitch as a member of the Boston Red Sox.
Johnson called in right-handed sidewinder Jim Willoughby, a twenty-six-year-old mid-season acquisition from the Cardinals. Willoughby, another unconventional California native and an exceptional chess player, had reinvigorated the Red Sox bullpen down the stretch of the pennant drive, saving eight games. He had pitched three strong innings in Game Three but was on the mound for the Armbrister incident, and ended up taking the loss without giving up an earned run. After another strong two-inning stint in Game Five, this was his third appearance in the Series, and Willoughby came through for Boston again, getting Bench to pop up behind the plate, where Fisk leaned deep into the stands to make the final out of the seventh.
Reds 3, Boston 3. But almost nowhere, not in shell-shocked Fenway Park or throughout fatalistic New England—and certainly not to the revived fans back home in Cincinnati—did Game Seven any longer feel like a contest set on equal footing.
Sparky now turned to his oldest warhorse, Clay “Hawk” Carroll, to pitch the bottom of the seventh, and he promptly retired the Red Sox in order for the second inning in a row. Jim Willoughby continued his strong work in the top of the eighth, quickly setting down Perez, Foster, and Concepcion. When Dwight Evans worked Carroll for a hard-earned walk to open the home half of the eighth, reviving hopes in Fenway, Don Zimmer signaled Rick Burleson to sacrifice him to second; after two failed attempts, Burleson grounded to Pete Rose, a tailor-made, morale-busting third-to-second-to-first double play. Now, with two outs and nobody on, Johnson went for broke; he decided to send up Cecil Cooper to bat for the effective Willoughby, a pretty fair hitter in his own right. On the first pitch, Cooper popped out meekly to third, ending his unfortunate World Series at 1–19.
Red Sox closer Dick Drago was in the Boston bullpen, pumped and ready to pitch the top of the ninth, but Darrell Johnson, whose brief managerial career had been clouded by head-scratching decisions, now made perhaps his most baffling move of all; with left-handers Ken Griffey and Cesar Geronimo due up to lead off the inning, Johnson played percentages instead of common sense and sent his last remaining left-hander, rookie Jim Burton, to the mound. A former collegiate star at Michigan State, Burton had faced only two batters in the World Series, more than a week before in Game Three back in Cincinnati, walking one and giving up a run-scoring sacrifice fly to the other. Since joining the Red Sox in mid-season, he had appeared in only twenty-nine games, the full extent of his major-league résumé, and nothing about his performance to date suggested that he was up to the task Johnson now sent him in to face. Young Burton was shocked numb even to find himself in this situation, and had been so nervous in the bullpen just thinking about what lay in store on the mound that he’d been unable to get loose. He later admitted he was scared to death, so there’s little surprise that he had trouble locating the strike zone against the first man he faced, when he walked Ken Griffey on five pitches.
What then followed played out with a stubborn air of inevitability. Sparky asked for the textbook sacrifice and Cesar Geronimo laid down a beautiful bunt just inside the third base line, moving Griffey to second; Rico Petrocelli charged in, slipped on a wet patch
of grass, and made a tremendous throw from the seat of his pants to retire the swift Geronimo at first. Reds reserve infielder Doug Flynn had gone out to the on-deck circle to pinch-hit for Clay Carroll—this was as close as Flynn would come to making an appearance in this World Series; he recalled that the experience of standing just off stage at such a critical moment seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the open air in Fenway—but Sparky then called him back to the dugout and sent up the left-handed Dan Driessen in his place. Driessen, showing not much more comfort than Flynn had just been feeling, flailed at Burton’s first pitch and grounded out weakly to Denny Doyle at second, but Griffey moved over to third on the play.
Darrell Johnson went out with Fisk to talk to their young pitcher, who now had to face the indomitable, switch-hitting Pete Rose for the first time in his life, reminding him that the team’s book on Pete was to feed him a steady diet of breaking balls. Burton did his best to follow their advice, taking the count full while Rose never took the bat off his shoulder, making the rookie work; Burton then lost him on a wild curve, and Rose trotted down to first with the walk.
First and third, two outs, tied in Game Seven in the top of the ninth, and in stepped the National League’s Most Valuable Player, Joe Morgan. He’d already won Game Three of this World Series in the final inning, and probably would have won Game Six as well if not for Dwight Evans’s miraculous catch. There would be no show of nerves or panicked thoughts now for Morgan; just like his running mate Pete Rose, he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life: He wanted to be the guy at bat with the Series on the line.
But Jim Burton had burned through his initial nervousness by now; no longer thinking about who was up to bat anymore, he was ready. His first pitch missed just outside for a ball, and then Morgan fouled a good hard slider back for strike one.
In the Cincinnati bullpen, left-hander Will McEnaney—who’d dug the Reds out of certain death with the bases loaded and nobody out in the ninth the night before—had just been told he was coming in to pitch the bottom of the inning. He watched anxiously from right field as Morgan slashed Burton’s next pitch foul down the left field line, behind in the count now 1–2. Morgan fouled the next pitch, too, a good slow curve from Burton, down the right side wide of first, staying alive.
Morgan stepped out, took a deep breath, dug back in, twitched his elbow four times, and Burton fired his best pitch of the game—he later called it the best pitch of his life—a slider that tailed toward the low outside corner. Morgan saw it moving, adjusted while the pitch was in the air, kept his weight back, whipped his bat inside out, felt a dull impact as he caught it on the end of the wood, and gently lofted a soft liner toward left center field. Playing Morgan deep with two outs, Fred Lynn raced desperately forward but could only reach the ball after the first hop. Ken Griffey watched the ball touch grass and then made it home with the go-ahead run for the Reds. Rose soared headfirst safely into third, just ahead of Lynn’s throw to Petrocelli, while Morgan alertly advanced to second.
Reds 4, Red Sox 3.
Dead silence in Fenway Park. Darrell Johnson trudged out to remove the devastated Burton, calling in right-handed starter Reggie Cleveland to face Johnny Bench. Giving him nothing to hit, the Canadian-born Cleveland pitched the count full before walking Bench to load the bases. Tony Perez followed, flying out to Dwight Evans to end the inning, but the damage had been done. Trailing for the first time in Game Seven, the Red Sox were down to their final three outs.
Thrusting a player with as little experience as Jim Burton into a moment as fraught with peril as this would never have occurred to Sparky Anderson. Twenty-three-year-old Will McEnaney might have been the youngest player on either roster, but he was no rookie, and because he’d showed he had the brass to rescue them in the ninth the night before, Sparky felt no hesitation in calling on him to now close out Game Seven. The Red Sox also had three left-handers due up to start the inning, making Sparky’s decision even easier.
McEnaney came briefly into the dugout before taking the mound, and Sparky went over to say something to him. McEnaney held up a hand: “It’s okay, Skip, I know what I’m doing.” McEnaney trotted out onto the field, and Sparky retreated into the tunnel for another cigarette.
But the first batter of the Red Sox’s last stand wouldn’t be Bernie Carbo, who might have been able to reach down for another miracle with a single swing; Johnson had replaced Carbo in left field two innings earlier, when Boston still held a one-run lead, with defensive specialist Rick Miller, another decision that now came back to haunt him. Now, in place of the left-handed Miller, Johnson played percentages again, hoping he might elicit a pitching change from Sparky—perhaps to Rawly Eastwick, whose confidence had suffered such a blow the night before—and sent to the plate his last outfielder, right-handed Juan Beniquez, who had played sparingly in the last month and gone only 1–7 in the Series. Sparky, who only played percentages until his trusted gut told him otherwise, didn’t take the bait, and elected to stay with his tough left-hander McEnaney.
Looking calm and collected, and this time paying rapt attention to Johnny Bench’s signs, McEnaney worked Beniquez to fly weakly to Griffey in right on the third pitch he threw him, for the first out. Now events in the Red Sox dugout turned chaotic: Red Sox second baseman Denny Doyle, the only man on either team to hit safely in all seven games of the Series, had been the reliable sparkplug for their offense since the moment he’d arrived in mid-season. After the Reds took the lead in the top of the inning, Darrell Johnson had taken aside his right-handed backup second baseman Doug Griffin, who’d had one at bat in the entire Series, and told him that he’d be hitting for Doyle in the ninth. But Johnson never told Doyle, who was just now leaving the on-deck circle for the batter’s box, and who was shocked and not a little angry to hear his manager call him back to the dugout. But a moment later so was Doug Griffin, because as he walked onto the field to take Doyle’s spot, without telling him, Darrell Johnson now sent up yet another right-handed pinch hitter in his place: backup catcher Bob Montgomery, who had hit .226 with only two home runs on the year, the slowest man on the team, now being asked to make his first appearance in the entire postseason. Griffin returned to the dugout, fuming and humiliated.
Percentages be damned, this was a sequence of events far beyond baffling; in the Cincinnati dugout, Sparky could scarcely believe his eyes. The Reds’ coaches had to quickly consult their scouting book on how to position their fielders for Montgomery. A curious footnote: Montgomery was the last man in the major leagues who still went to the plate without a batting helmet; although a rule mandating their use had been instituted four years earlier, it allowed players who had preferred not to use them prior to 1971 to continue the practice.
None of which mattered: Montgomery swung at McEnaney’s first-pitch fastball and hit a routine grounder to Dave Concepcion.
Two gone in the ninth.
Down one run, and down to his last out in the World Series, Johnson had no more moves to make, because the Red Sox couldn’t have asked for a better man who’d ever worn their uniform to enter the arena.
Carl Yastrzemski.
The crowd rose to its feet one last time, trying to will their aging captain to one last marvel. Yaz stood in, thinking home run; McEnaney knew it, and so did everyone else in Fenway Park. Yaz had been one of McEnaney’s baseball gods ever since he was a kid, and his mouth went dry as he watched him dig in; he suddenly couldn’t swallow. Will knew he couldn’t give Yaz anything to hit, but he couldn’t afford to pitch around him either, not with Fisk and Lynn to follow. McEnaney and Yastrzemski had faced each other twice before in the Series to date so there were no secrets or tricks to fall back on; it would be strength against strength.
Bench called for the slider; McEnaney missed with it outside for a ball. Bench asked for it again, and he missed low, behind in the count 2–0.
Now Yaz looked for the fastball, and Bench called for one inside, and it was perfect, on the black; Yaz laid off it and Art Fr
antz called strike.
Bench signaled fastball again, and again Yaz looked for it, but this time McEnaney let it get away from him, up in the zone and out over the plate, a dangerous pitch, and Yaz took a powerful rip. A high fly ball soared out toward left center field, and Yaz’s first thought was that he’d caught most of it, certainly enough to knock it off the wall, if not over.
But the wind held it up. Swinging for the fences, he realized then that he’d dropped his hands the smallest fraction and gotten just under the ball. He looked on helplessly as Cesar Geronimo glided backward, ten feet in front of the warning track. The clock on the Green Monster behind him read 11:35 on Wednesday night.
Final score: Cincinnati 4, Boston 3.
Will McEnaney watched the ball land in Geronimo’s glove. Johnny Bench ran out toward him on the mound, tearing off his mask, his eyes wide with wonder, overwhelmed by the realization it was over.
“What do we do?” asked Johnny.
McEnaney answered by jumping into his arms and thrusting his fists in the air; a Sports Illustrated photographer immortalized the moment. The rest of the Reds piled out of the dugout toward the mound, as their teammates out in the field and the bullpen sprinted in to join them in a mass embrace.
But Sparky turned the other way, walking quickly up the tunnel toward the clubhouse, and he sat himself down on the ancient steps below Fenway, where it had suddenly gone as silent as a church, alone for a moment to offer up his private gratitude and prayers for this gift, preferring not to let all his young victors see the tears that flowed freely from him now.
Johnny Bench caught Don Zimmer’s eye—instantly seeing his heartbreak—and ran over to shake his old friend’s hand, before they were separated by an unruly pack from the crowd who jumped onto the field and began scavenging for souvenirs. A few tried to tear gloves or warm-up jackets out of the Reds’ hands, so forming a phalanx, the winning team quickly retreated past the line of police that had assembled along the dugout steps and ran up the tunnel. After gathering himself in privacy, Sparky now greeted his men one by one as they came in, handshakes and hugs, and led them into the sanctuary of their clubhouse to celebrate.