Stargell’s home run, double and RBI totals led the National League that season. But once again, he came up short in a close vote for the Most Valuable Player award, this time finishing second to the Reds’ Rose, who hit .338 with 230 hits, 64 RBIs and 115 runs scored. Rose finished with 274 total points and 12 first-place votes to Stargell’s 250 points and 10 first-place votes. One voter—Bill Conlin of the Philadelphia Daily News—ranked Stargell eighth although he said later he had done so mistakenly and had meant to vote Stargell second behind Rose.19
Stargell said he felt like the ’73 season was his best, but he added, “I knew when the season was over that I wasn’t gonna win it. There’s a lot of things that can be said, but it’s nothing but talk, nothing ever comes out of it. Awards are fine, but if it’s done on a political basis, I don’t want any part of it. I don’t know what goes into it. They should let the fans know just how does one player qualify as most valuable player?20
Willie shows his appreciation to the crowd as he jogs out onto the Three Rivers Stadium turf to take his defensive position (courtesy Pittsburgh Pirates).
Despite his MVP-worthy numbers, Stargell might have done some of his best work off the field that year, filling the leadership void created by Clemente’s death and helping Blass to maintain some semblance of order in a life that had spun out of control—literally. “When I was going through all my crap, all of the players stood tall for me,” Blass said. “But I don’t know if anyone stood taller than Willie.”21
The Pirates’ sub-par season prompted a number of changes for 1974. Brown dealt catcher May to Houston for pitcher Jerry Reuss—who would go on to win a team-leading 16 games and complete 14 of his 35 starts—shuttled second-baseman Cash to Philadelphia for pitcher Ken Brett and swapped Briles to Kansas City for utilitymen Kurt Bevacqua and Ed Kirkpatrick. Stennett, who broke out with 10 homers and 55 RBIs the previous season, was tabbed as Cash’s replacement at second. Alley retired, opening the door for a pair of young shortstops—Frank Taveras and Mario Mendoza. Blass somehow made the club even though in one spring training appearance against the Cardinals he walked or hit seven straight batters of the 11 he faced in the first inning and he walked 25 in his first 14 Grapefruit League innings. But he would not be around for long.
The myriad changes didn’t seem to do much good, at least in the early going. Two months into the season, the Pirates were 14 games under .500 at 18–32 and in last place in the NL East. And things didn’t improve all that quickly; by July 15, the club was still struggling at 39–49. But an eight-game win streak got things moving in the right direction, and in the waning days of August, the club won eight of nine to head into September with a 70–62 mark before winning 18 of its final 29 to finish 88–74 and claim the franchise’s fourth division title in five years. Stargell more then held up his end of the offensive attack, collecting 153 hits in 140 games, scoring 90 runs, bashing 25 homers and driving in 96 runs while hitting .301. He got a major hand from young outfielder Richie Zisk, who ripped 17 homers and drove in 100 runs to go with a .313 batting average. But it was another young outfielder who served notice that he was the one to watch. His numbers were hardly spectacular—he hit .282 in 220 at-bats with four home runs and 29 RBIs, which came on the heels of a .288 effort in 139 at-bats in 1973—but it wouldn’t be long before Dave Parker would become a major force with the Pirates and one of the major leagues’ most talented players.
While Parker was getting comfortable with life in the big leagues, Stargell and his Pirate teammates said goodbye to a onetime mainstay whose sudden and inexplicable slide confounded teammates, fans and virtually everyone connected to baseball. Blass—who won 78 games over a five-year stretch that culminated in a 19–8 mark and a glittering 2.49 ERA in 1972—made his final regular-season appearance in a big-league uniform in 1974. It came on April 17 against the Cubs in Chicago. The loquacious right-hander, whose wit and humor delighted teammates, fans and media members alike, came on to start the fourth inning of a game in which the Pirates trailed 10–4, and he proceeded to give up five runs in the fourth, two in the sixth and one more in the eighth. In addition to the eight runs, five of which were earned, Blass surrendered five hits—two of which left the park—and walked seven while striking out two in five innings of work. Blass wouldn’t quit, though, taking an assignment with the Pirates’ Triple-A franchise in Charleston, West Virginia. But things didn’t get much better there; in 17 starts he fashioned a 2–8 record with a 9.74 ERA, walking 103 batters in 61 innings and nearly hitting as many men (16) as he struck out (26).
Blass’s struggles were not the only odd development of the ’74 season. In August, word leaked about the pending release of a book ostensibly about Stargell titled Out of Left Field, which was written by Bob Adelman and Susan Hall and was scheduled for publication by Little, Brown and Co. later that month. In a letter written in March, 1973, to David Litman—Stargell’s agent—Hall said she and Adelman were interested in Stargell “as a successful black man who has worked to earn distinction, and who, in turn, contributes to the success of his team and to aid those people who’ve helped him on the way up—he pays his dues.”22
But the book—researched during the challenging 1973 season—was reputed to contain intimate conversations and details of activities that did not put Stargell or some of his teammates in a favorable light. “This book is not the kind I expected,” he said. Jerry McCauley, a New York literary agent who represented Adelman and Hall at the time they were writing the book, called it “a gossip tale, an outrageous breach of confidence, a lousy way to sell a book.” Adelman defended the work, saying he was surprised at Stargell’s reaction. “I thought Willie would love the book. It was understood that the book would be candid, spontaneous and controversial. It was to be an unvarnished account. But I don’t think it hurts Willie at all. We tried to be fair and sensitive.”23 The Pirates did not want the book published. Hall’s attorney, David Blasband, sent a telegram to the Pirate offices that said the club had “intentionally and maliciously interfered with Susan Hall’s contractual relations with her publisher and have caused substantial damage to her and her reputation.”24 Blasband threatened legal action unless arrangements were made to correct the situation. Ultimately, at the end of August, Hall did file a federal lawsuit. In the wake of the controversy, Little, Brown and Co. canceled the book’s publication. But it did not go away—it would resurface two years later with a different publisher.
The Bucs, who clinched the ’74 NL East crown on the same day that the Cleveland Indians made history by naming Frank Robinson as the major leagues’ first black manager, edged the second-place Cardinals by a game and a half. That put the Pirates on a collision course with the Los Angeles Dodgers in the NLCS. The Dodgers put together a 102–60 mark, besting the second-place Reds by four games. And they kept rolling in the playoffs, polishing off the Pirates in four games. Right-hander Don Sutton did the bulk of the damage, shutting out the Pirates on four hits in the opener and then limiting the Bucs to three hits in a 12–1 series clincher in Game 4. Pittsburgh’s only win came on a solid outing from Kison in a 7–0 victory in Game 3. Unlike his previous two playoff series, Stargell performed well, collecting at least one hit in each game and going 6-for-15 overall. He also ended a streak of 73 at-bats in the playoffs without a home run, crushing a three-run shot in Game 3 that gave him and his teammates hope, at least for a while. “Willie can inspire a team without opening his mouth,” Zisk said after the game. “When he hit that home run it showed me what a little aggressiveness can do. If we’re going to go down, let’s go down swinging.”25The hope was short-lived, however; while Stargell homered again off Sutton in Game 4, that was the only run the Pirates could muster.
Stargell returned for yet another go in 1975 and most of his teammates did likewise as the Pirates made few changes prior to the season. One note of finality sounded, as in late March the club requested waivers on Blass, who had spent most of the previous year in the minors trying to regain the form tha
t had made him one of baseball’s top right-handed starters earlier in the decade. One other transaction—the acquisition of outfielder Bill Robinson from the Phillies—certainly helped the club but would pay even bigger dividends a few years down the road. But perhaps the most noteworthy development that occurred in 1975 was the full-scale arrival of Parker, who surpassed Stargell in both batting average and power numbers as the Pirates rolled to their fifth NL East title in six seasons, putting together a 92–69 record to outdistance the second-place Phillies by 6½ games. Off the field and inside the clubhouse, things remained pretty much the same as they had been throughout the ’70s—a rollicking conglomeration of all-inclusive, equal-opportunity cut-ups. With Clemente gone three years now, Stargell—now entrenched at first base, where he had played for the second half of 1972 before being moved back to left field at the start of the ’73 season—was the undeniable team leader. Not because he chose to be, but because the role simply came to him. “Leadership is something that just evolves when you get a group of players together in a clubhouse,” said Reuss, who in his second year with the Pirates in ’75 again led the team with 18 wins and had a stellar 2.54 ERA. “Willie didn’t try to hide any problems—instead what he did was accent them. When I was there, all the white players were on one side of the clubhouse and then there was the door. And then there was what Willie called the Ghetto, and then Spanish Harlem. He had fun with it. If you’d come over to talk to him, he’d say, ‘What are you doing over here—you know better than to come over here.’ Or if he came over, he’d say, ‘I just want to smell the air there. It’s so much cleaner than in the Ghetto.’ He knew it was this way in society. So rather than try to hide it, he’d call it what it was and try to have some fun with it. In some cases, for the guys who were uptight, it loosened them up. You could pretty much say whatever you wanted. If you said those things today, it would be on YouTube and you’d sound as if you were the most incredible racist or bigot. But in the clubhouse, in those days, it was OK—it was accepted. And guys just laughed about it. What it did was allow guys from different cultures and ages and parts of the country a chance to come together and say, ‘This is common ground—bring these things up and talk about them; whether you want to be serious or laugh about it, we’ll get past it. Willie was the one who invited everyone to be that way. It allowed everyone to go out and play the kind of game they were capable of playing. I was there for five years and every year I was there, we were in the hunt. And Willie played a big part in that.”26
Reuss played for eight clubs during a 22-year career and said it wasn’t that way in every clubhouse. “Each club has its own distinctive personality and is driven by the strongest personality in the clubhouse,” Reuss said. “Murtaugh refused to be bigger than the players. He had certain players and he’d say, ‘I want you to take care of it. And you do it your own way.’ And Willie did. Those clubs I played on had Willie’s stamp. He made the clubhouse his own and not because of his ego, but to bring people together first, to allow people to be comfortable in a situation where you have 25 different people of different ages, different backgrounds and different places. As a person, rather than a player, he wanted everyone to be comfortable. This was everyone’s home to share and he wanted everyone to be as comfortable as if it was someone’s home. And he knew that would help them be comfortable and produce. That’s one reason why the Pirates had so much success. I don’t think it was a coincidence at all. That’s how he made the Pirates his own, just like Clemente made the Pirates his while he was there.”
Reuss remembers the prankster side of Stargell as well. In 1977, when Reuss notched his 1,000th career strikeout in a game against the Cubs, the victim was Clines, the former Pirate who grew up watching Stargell in the Bay Area. The next day, Clines received a baseball with a note that read, “Gene, this was my 1,000th strikeout. Would you please sign it?” A little while later, Reuss received a baseball that was signed, “____ you, Gene Clines.” Reuss had no idea what was going on, so he went over to find Clines and ask him about it. “You didn’t send me the ball?” Clines asked Reuss, who told him he had done no such thing. “Then the same thought came to both of us simultaneously—Stargell,” Reuss told Mike Littwin of the Los Angeles Times.27
In 1975, Stargell remained a formidable offensive force, pounding out 22 home runs, driving in 90 and hitting .295 despite missing 18 games with a broken rib. He said later that although he felt he should have been considered for the MVP award, he knew he wasn’t the favorite—that tag belonged to Stargell’s old East Bay buddy Morgan, who hit .327 with 17 home runs, 67 stolen bases and 94 RBIs. Before the MVP voting that year, Stargell—disgruntled over failing to win the award in 1971 and 1973—said he would not accept it even if the voters chose him.
Even on his own team, Stargell was surpassed—at least statistically—by the brash young Parker, who belted 25 homers, collected 101 RBIs and batted .308, second on the team only to Sanguillen, who finished at .328. Parker and Stargell had crossed paths years before, in ’71, when Parker had made his first visit to spring training with the Pittsburgh organization, just a year removed from high school. “He was impressed with my ability—he told me that,” Parker recalled. “My first year in the majors was ’73, but I should have been in the big leagues in ’71. But look at what I had in front of me—Clemente, Oliver, Stargell and then you had Dave Arrington, Zisk, Gene Clines.”28 Stargell told Parker about the importance of keeping an even keel, and he didn’t just talk the talk. He lived it. “I’d watch him go to the plate and strike out nine out of 10 at-bats and he’d never change his demeanor,” Parker said. “He never threw his helmet, never threw a bat.”
But Stargell’s even-keeled philosophy didn’t resonate so much with the huge left-handed hitter, who had picked up the nickname “Cobra” from Bartirome, the Pirates’ trainer. “He wouldn’t get too high or too low and that worked for him,” Parker said. “But I needed to verbalize. I was a hard-nosed, very physical player and I would express my feelings right away. Willie was one who held his in. What worked for me was putting myself on the line. I would tell people before the season started that I would win the batting title. I’d say, ‘When the leaves turn brown, I’ll be wearing the batting crown.’ By putting myself on the line, I had to live up to it. Being aggressive and carrying that aggression out onto the field helped me as a player. It’s whatever works for you.”
Parker’s aggression helped the Bucs enjoy a solid regular season, particularly in the first half when they put together a 55–33 mark. The club took possession of first place for good on June 7, but went just 37–36 after the All-Star break and by mid–August the Phillies had clawed their way into a tie for first base. But by September 8, the Bucs had rebuilt their lead to 6½ games and they were never truly challenged down the stretch. However, the same couldn’t be said for the post-season, as the NLCS proved a rocky road once again. This time, the Pirates met their old nemesis, Cincinnati, and the results were eerily similar to their first NLCS battle, back in 1970. Again, the Reds swept the series in three games, winning 8–3, 6–1 and 5–3. Stargell reverted back to his earlier form, going just 2-for-11 and failing to drive in a single run.
He was not alone; the club hit just .194 in the three games, going a collective 25-for-129. “We knew about their hitting and speed and defense,” Murtaugh said of the Reds after the clincher. “But we didn’t think their pitching would be strong enough to hold us. They just stopped our bats.” Stargell remained dignified in defeat, despite yet another post-season cold spell. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he told the media later. “I’ll take my chances with these 25 guys again next year.”29
But a few of those 25 would be somewhere other than Bradenton, Florida, when the Pirates gathered for spring training in 1976. During the off-season, Brown sent Brett, Ellis and highly regarded minor-league second baseman Willie Randoph to the Yankees for pitcher George “Doc” Medich, who was expected to become the ace of the staff. He also shipped reserve infielder Art Howe—like
Randolph, a future major league manager—to Houston for infielder Tommy Helms. Even those calling the action on the Pirates flagship radio station KDKA would be different, as the venerable Prince and his sidekick King were fired. Prince’s outrageous wardrobe and colorful use of the language had endeared him to generations of Pirate fans since his arrival in Pittsburgh in 1948. Hundreds of distraught callers supported Prince, who had offered to step down voluntarily if given the chance to work one more season. “It’s the first time I ever begged for anything,” he said later.30 Stargell was taken aback by the firings of Prince and King, even participating in a parade in their honor. “That was an example of Willie’s caring attitude,” King said. “It didn’t surprise me, coming from him, and I certainly appreciated it.”31 The outpouring of support from players and fans had no bearing on KDKA’s decision to dismiss the two broadcasters. Prince moved on to a network position and then the Houston Astros and King landed a sports information position at Duquesne University. Meanwhile, new broadcasters came on board.
And on the field, the ’76 Bucs—sporting new black pillbox-type caps with gold stripes, in honor of the nation’s bicentennial celebration—continued to do what they had done most of the ’70s: hit and win. Parker’s power numbers dipped a bit, as he managed just 10 home runs, but he still knocked in 90 and hit a robust .313. Oliver hit for an even higher average—.323—while finishing with 12 homers and 61 RBIs, and Zisk tied Robinson for the club lead in homers with 21 while driving home 89 with a .289 average. Robinson, who managed to pile up 416 at-bats despite not having a regular starting position, also contributed 64 RBIs to go with his .303 average. On the mound, four of the five starters enjoyed outstanding seasons—young John Candelaria led the staff with 16 wins while fellow lefty Jim Rooker chalked up 15 and Kison and Reuss each won 14. None lost more than nine, and Reuss’ 3.53 ERA was the highest among the quartet. Only the newcomer Medich, who came from New York with great expectations, failed to deliver, as he went just 8–11.
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