by Diane Moody
Danny set his coffee cup back down. “I didn’t either. Wonder why he keeps them since he’s working the gates?”
Joey took a seat across from him. “I asked him that this morning. He said he’s had those same seats for twenty years. He and his son never missed a game when the Cubs were in town.”
“Same son he lost at Pearl?”
“Yes, and he said after that happened, he couldn’t handle it emotionally. Too hard to sit there beside his son’s empty seat. So he got a job taking tickets, but held onto his seats. Just couldn’t part with them. Instead, he always finds someone to give the tickets to. Usually veterans like us, but sometimes fathers and sons, or school kids. Sometimes for just one game; sometimes a whole season. He said he can almost feel his son smiling down on him when he hands over the tickets.”
“What a wonderful gesture,” Betty said. “He must be a very kind man.”
“He is. After we got acquainted at the theater, he’d stop by my office to chat. He said I was the only one he felt he could talk to about his son. I guess because I was there at Pearl. I think maybe it’s helped him heal, you know?”
“I would imagine so, honey.”
“I hope so, but I never imagined all those long talks would land us in premium seats for a World Series game!” Joey shook his head and laughed. Jimmy held up his tiny fists and sputtered a happy squeal.
“That’s right, Jimmy. Your daddy’s going to see the Cubs play in the World Series today! Wish you were older so you could come along. It’s never too early to catch Cubs fever, little buddy.”
Jimmy giggled again, his bright eyes riveted on his father.
Danny smiled at his nephew’s antics. “Lucky for me you’re not old enough, or I wouldn’t get to go.” He turned to his father. “You’re still welcome to go with Joey, Dad. It’s been seven long years since the Cubs hosted a World Series at Wrigley. You’d be welcome to go in my place.”
The newspaper went back up. “They didn’t win in ’38, and I’m not holding my breath this time either. You boys go ahead. I’ll listen to the game here at home.”
“I thought you were opening the theater for Joey today?”
Joey fielded the question instead. “Dad and I decided to keep the theater closed today. No sense opening with everyone glued to their radios or at the game. Besides, our concession sales during the away games were fantastic, so we can afford a day off.”
“I still can’t believe we’ve got such great seats for this game.” Danny stood and took his dishes to the sink. “All this time, I was thinking we’d be lucky to get some bleacher tickets or standing room only spots. Instead we’re smack-dab in two of the best box seats in the stadium.”
“I doubt we would’ve been able to get tickets,” Joey said. “Marv was at Wrigley when he called this morning. He said the crowds started gathering yesterday afternoon shortly after the game ended in Detroit, and kept coming all night long. He figured there were maybe 5,000 or more waiting for the box office to open this morning. They kept a vigil all night. Talk about Cubs fever.”
“Sounds like a bunch of crazies, if you ask me,” Dad grumbled.
“No, they’re just anxious like we are to be a part of history,” Danny said. “I just wish Anya could be here for it.”
“I thought you said she hated baseball,” Betty said.
“Well, sure, but that’s only because she’s never been to a game. Imagine what a thrill it would be if her first game was the winning game of the 1945 World Series? She’d love it.”
“Sure she would,” Dad uttered with a hint of sarcasm. “You just keep telling yourself that, son.”
“You’ll see.” Danny dried his hands on a dishtowel. “So when do you want to leave, Joey?”
“Let’s head downtown around ten. I figure the El will be jammed today, so we want to allow plenty of extra time.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be upstairs studying until then.”
“How can you study on a day like this?” Joey teased. “Take a break, Einstein. It’s not every day you get to go to the World Series!”
Danny had never experienced anything quite like it. The minute he and Joey arrived at the corner of Clark and Addison, they could feel the excitement crackling through the crowds as they moved en masse into Wrigley.
Danny and Joey had just settled into their seats when a ruckus erupted just a few rows behind them.
“I can’t believe it.” Joey laughed. “Look, Danny. Old man Sianis brought his goat. How the heck did he get Murphy through the gates on a day like today?”
Everyone in Chicago knew the story of the Greek bartender who’d rescued the billy goat years ago after it fell off a passing truck. He took quite a liking to the goat he named Murphy who soon became a fixture at his tavern. Sianis even grew a goatee and started calling himself “Billy Goat Sianis” to drum up business for his bar which he’d renamed the Billy Goat Tavern.
Danny craned his neck to see. “What’s it say on Murphy’s blanket?”
“It says, ‘We got Detroit’s goat.’ I never understood why they let him bring that dumb goat during the regular season, but I sure didn’t expect to see him at a World Series game. Wait ‘til Mr. Wrigley hears about this.”
“Oh look—” Danny pointed toward the nearest stairs. “Here comes Andy Frain. This ought to be good.”
They watched as the owner of the company that provided ushers and security at the ballpark, pushed his way through the crowd, his face tight and pinched.
“Now, see here, Mr. Sianis. You take your billy goat back outside. I don’t know who let you in here today, but there’s no way I’m letting you—”
“But he’s got a ticket!” Billy yelled, waving two stubs at Frain. “We both have tickets for these reserved box seats. Besides, Murphy here always brings good luck! They let us in at the gate, so if you’ll stand aside, Murphy and I would like to take our seats.”
Frain’s face reddened as he muttered, “If he eats the ticket—that would solve everything.”
“No way he’d eat his ticket,” Sianis crooned. “Murphy knows how historic this game is. He’ll save his ticket stub just like me, and we’ll pin them both on the wall at the tavern.”
A mix of laughter and boos accompanied the scene, as Billy played to his audience. “Murphy’s a die-hard fan of the Cubs just like the rest of us!”
More laughter, more cheers.
“Mr. Sianis! I will not allow you to keep your goat here in the park today. You must leave at once, or I shall call the authorities!”
“That suits me just fine, Mr. Frain. Why don’t you ask Mr. Wrigley?”
“Oh, that’s exactly what I’ll do!”
Frain pulled a hand-held gadget from his jacket and spoke into it.
“What the heck is that?” Joey asked. “Looks like the HTs we had in the navy.”
“We had those, too,” Danny said. “Didn’t know they were available for civilians.”
A fan behind them joined in. “They call them Handy-Talkies. Bert Wilson was talking about them on his radio show this morning. Supposedly, Galvin Manufacturing outfitted all the Andy Frain ushers with them. First time ever. If you ask me, it’s just a big publicity stunt.”
The crowd grew more vocal as they waited while Frain chatted with others on his device. A brusque breeze fluttered through the stadium, and with it, a definite smell that was anything but pleasing.
Joey covered his nose. “Oh man, that’s disgusting.”
Others downwind of Murphy echoed similar comments.
“Hey, get that goat outta here! He stinks!”
“Frain, make him leave!”
“Sianis, take your smelly goat and go back to your tavern where you belong!”
Finally, as Frain finished the conversation on his device, he raised his voice toward Sianis loud enough for all to hear. “Mr. Wrigley says the goat goes! He’s already heard complaints from fans about the smell, so he is to leave at once. You can either tie the goat up outside an
d return to watch the game, or you and your goat can go home.”
Sianis left kicking and shouting as they escorted him and his bewildered goat toward the exit. “Well, that’s a fine way to treat two of your most loyal fans! You haven’t heard the last of this! I HOPE THE CUBS LOSE!”
The crowd booed, shouting for him to get out of the ballpark, amid a litany of colorful language, then cheered when the two disappeared down one of the tunnels.
“Well, that’s something you don’t see every day,” Danny mused. “I sure wish Anya could’ve seen that. She would’ve loved it.”
“Yeah? Well, let’s just hope the Cubs get the deed done and walk out of here as champions.”
A few minutes later, the crowd came alive as Roy Nelson’s familiar organ tunes filled the ballpark. And as the clock moved in on 1:30, announcer Pat Pieper started the game the usual way.
“PLAAAAAAAAY BAAAAALLLL!”
The crowd cheered as pitcher Ray Prim took the mound for the Cubs. Nicknamed “Pop” by his teammates for his gray hair and upcoming thirty-ninth birthday, Prim was the oldest player on the roster. Recently acquired by the Cubs after playing a stellar 1944 season for Los Angeles, the southpaw started Game 4 strong, shutting out the first ten Tigers’ batters in order. But Grimm didn’t hesitate to pull him when the hits started flying in the top of the fourth.
Before it was over, Grimm would call in three more relief pitchers—Derringer, Vandenberg, and Erickson—but to no avail. They’d been no match for Dizzy Trout, Detroit’s ace right-hander, who had come to the mound with a long list of accomplishments during the war years. A hearing impairment classified him as 4-F, but it clearly had no effect on his pitching ability. He’d broken a long string of league records in 1944, and never was his talent more evident than today’s five-hitter against the Cubs. Second baseman Don Johnson scored the only Cubs run, but the team lost the game to the Tigers 4-1.
The subdued crowd slowly made their way out of the stadium. Hard to believe this was the same excited folks who had filed in these same gates only a few hours earlier, optimistic that they would leave as World Champions. Instead, the series was tied with two games each.
On the ride home, some rambunctious fans ranted over manager Charley Grimm’s decision to pull pitcher Ray Prim after giving up those four runs in the fourth. But like most of the other passengers on the train, Danny and Joey sat in stunned silence.
On Sunday, Danny and Joey joined the hopeful throngs of fans once again heading back to Wrigley for Game 5. Cubs’ pitcher Hank Borowy would be back on the mound pitted against the Tigers’ Hal Newhouser, just like Game 1. The Cubs needed a win to stay in it.
After five innings, Chicago and Detroit were tied, 1-1. But when Borowy threw four straight hits at the top of the sixth, giving up four runs, Grimm yanked him. This time, he would call upon four relievers—Vandenberg, Chipman, Derringer, and Erickson—but the damage was already done. Detroit’s slugger Hammerin’ Hank Greenberg hit his third double of the day off Erickson to give the Tigers the victory, 8-4.
Detroit had taken the lead, winning three games to Chicago’s two.
28
8 October 1945
By Monday, the brisk breeze blowing in off Lake Michigan did little to calm the nerves or counter the disappointment of Cubs fans as they returned to Wrigley Field for Game 6. The forecast predicting a cloudy, windy, and colder day with a high of only fifty-six degrees, didn’t help much to lift their spirits. Their one ray of hope was the pitching arm of Claude Passeau.
“Good morning, fellas!” Marv slipped their tickets out of his pocket and tore off the stubs. “Today’s gonna be a great day for the Cubs!”
“I sure hope so,” Joey said. “An awful lot of jitters in this crowd if you ask me.”
“Ah, Joey, what’s a few jitters here and there when we’ve got Passeau back on the mound again? How can we lose?”
“Here’s hoping, Marv.” Danny patted his shoulder then moved along with the flow of fans. “Thanks again for the tickets.”
“You’re welcome. Have fun!”
“Sure wish I shared his optimism,” Joey muttered.
As the game got underway, pitchers Virgil Trucks and Claude Passeau were neck and neck for the first four innings, with only one run scored by the Tigers in the second. But the Cubs exploded in the fifth, scoring four runs to the deafening roar of the hometown crowd. Doing his part, champion batter Phil Cavarretta slammed a solid single to center field, allowing Passeau and Hack to score with Lowery advancing to second. The Cubs now led 4-1. Detroit manager Steve O’Neill yanked Trucks and sent in right-hander George Caster, who put a quick stop to the bleeding.
In the top of the sixth, Tigers’ third baseman Jimmy Outlaw smacked the ball right back to the mound where it deflected off Passeau’s bare hand. Passeau picked it up, throwing the runner out at first, then immediately calling a time-out when he realized the nail on his middle finger had been partially torn off by the renegade ball. After an extended time-out to have his hand treated, Passeau insisted he could finish the inning.
Bad mistake. The next Detroit batter, pinch-hitter Bob Maier, smashed another hit right back at the mound. Once again, the ball deflected off Passeau’s hand, but this time his throw to first was too late. Passeau insisted on staying in, though in tremendous pain. To everyone’s amazement, he struck out the last batter.
In their half of the sixth, the Cubs stretched ahead 5-1. Then, to everyone’s shock, Passeau took the mound again at the top of the seventh. But when the first three batters got on base, he knew he was done. The crowd cheered with appreciation as Passeau trotted to Chicago’s dugout.
In his place, Grimm sent Hank Wyse to the mound.
“What in the world is Grimm doing?” Joey cried. “If Wyse plays now, who’ll start Game 7 if there is one?”
“But it won’t matter if we don’t win today’s game,” Danny said.
Wyse allowed another run before retiring the Tigers. The game stood at 5-3.
By the end of the seventh inning, Chicago still led at 7-3.
When the Tigers scored two more runs early in the eighth, Grimm took Wyse out and called up southpaw starter Ray Prim. But it didn’t seem to matter which Cubs pitcher was on the mound when Tigers’ powerhouse Hammerin’ Hank Greenberg stepped into the batter’s box. He promptly drove in two more runs, making it a tie ballgame. Detroit’s dugout exploded as the Tigers began to taste blood.
Joey slid his cap down over his face. “I can’t watch.”
Danny elbowed him. “Where’s your faith?”
“In the pit of my stomach.”
Tigers manager Steve “Skip” O’Neill pulled out all the stops and called his fifth pitcher to the mound, starter Dizzy Trout. His gamble paid off as the seasoned veteran again shut down the Cubs. With his back against the proverbial wall, Cubs manager Charlie Grimm called up his ace Hank Borowy to pitch.
“You have GOT to be kidding me!” Joey yelled jumping out of his seat. “Borowy?!”
“He pitched six innings yesterday!” Danny added. “There’s no way he’s got anything left to pull this one out!”
The crowd echoed similar thoughts, much of it using more colorful adjectives. Still, the anxious fans held a collective breath as Borowy threw several warm-up pitches to catcher Mickey Livingston. In short order, Borowy alleviated their fears and closed the inning with no more damage. Chicago’s batters tried hard in the bottom of the ninth but failed to add any runs.
With the score still tied 7-7, Game 6 of the World Series went into extra innings.
For the first time all day, the sun finally broke through the clouds and drew its signature rays on the field; the pitching mound bathed in sunlight with the batter’s box deeply shaded, giving pitchers the worst possible visual. The tenth and eleventh innings crawled by with no runs by either team; the crowd quiet and tense.
But the twelfth and final inning would more than make up for their malaise.
Borowy quic
kly put away Tigers’ catcher Bob Swift and pitcher Dizzy Trout, but allowed shortstop Jim Hoover to get to first on a single to left field. Anxious to stoke the Tigers’ fire, Hoover tried to steal second. But when he saw Chicago’s shortstop Lennie Merullo catch the ball for the tag, Hoover slid into second, spikes up, intentionally slicing Merullo’s forearm. The crowd booed and hissed as the Cubs on the field protested.
When the Cubs came to bat, they wasted no time. Williams grounded out to second. Grimm sent in Frank Secory to pinch-hit for the injured Merullo. Secory hit a line drive to center field, and was immediately replaced by pinch runner Billy Schuster. Then pitcher Hank Borowy struck out. With two outs and Schuster on first, crowd favorite Stan Hack strode to the plate. He waited for Trout’s fastball and swung, sending the ball sailing over Hoover’s head. Greenberg raced in from left field, but the ball took a wild bounce over his head. Schuster rounded second, streaked past third, and headed home for the winning run.
The final score: Cubs beat the Tigers 8-7.
The wild roar of the crowd filled the chilly night air as the team raced out of the dugout to pile on Hack and Schuster.
“WE WON!” Danny shouted. “WE WON!”
Joey shook his head with a laugh. “I don’t believe it! I saw it, but I don’t believe it!”
“What did I tell you?” Danny yelled. “We’re only one game away from winning the championship! We can do this! Nothing can stop us now!”
At three hours and twenty-eight minutes, the game set a new record for the longest World Series game ever played. They’d gone twelve innings, with twenty-eight hits, and a total of nine different pitchers between the two teams. As the sun began to set, the stands still rocked with jubilant fans, thrilled to have another chance. Joey and Danny eventually joined the others filing out of Wrigley. Already, a long queue of eager fans snaked through the corridor, lined up for tickets to Wednesday’s Game 7.
But the million-dollar question remained. Who would pitch the final game of the series for the Cubs?