Summer of '68: The Season That Changed Baseball--And America--Forever

by Tim Wendel

  Bob Gibson’s Game One performance would become one of the most iconic of that period in sports. Images of him in action that afternoon can be placed alongside the famous photographs of Muhammad Ali yelling for Sonny Liston to get off the canvas in 1965, or the moment when sprinters Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised their gloved fists into the air (which would take place in Mexico City just days after the ’68 World Series concluded). For there is something in the way that Gibson pitched that perhaps wasn’t simply directed at the hitters he faced, but rather at the world in general. It is something that, decades later, still manages to reach out to us through still photographs of him frozen in action—a countenance of determination and perhaps even scorn that crackles with energy and purpose. Gibson unleashed his pitches as if he were a man on fire. He delivered his offerings with such power and conviction that he fell violently off to the first-base side in his followthrough, as if he had difficulty controlling what he conjured up. Seeing images of him captured in this act can be striking, even startling. His frame held motionless at an impossible angle, everything about the action that flung it there screaming in defiance against convention, expectation, what was accepted. Looking at such photos of Gibson, it is at once easy to imagine him springing to life before your eyes and yet nearly impossible to anticipate exactly what will happen next. Which is likely similar to what the Tigers’ lineup must have been feeling that October afternoon in St. Louis.

  “That day Bob Gibson was the toughest pitcher I ever faced in any particular game,” Horton said years later. “That last pitch, the one he struck me out with to end the game, tied me up but good.

  “But in looking back on that day, what I still cannot believe is Tim McCarver trying to tell him that he’d tied that all-time strikeout record, running out to tell him and Gibson wanting no part of any kind of interruption. He just kept yelling to McCarver, ‘Give me the damn ball.’ I never saw a guy so focused. That day nobody in the world could beat him.”

  Almost to a man, the Tigers agreed that Gibson’s performance was among the best they had ever witnessed. “I’ve never seen anybody pitch like that before,” Kaline said. “If he continues to pitch like that, we can’t beat him.”

  “It was impossible to detect what he was throwing,” Detroit pitching coach Johnny Sain added. “He is a wonderful pitcher—a machine.”

  “I would say that with the possible exception of Luis Tiant at his best, this man throws harder than anyone we have in our league,” Jim Northrup said, “and he is certainly the best we have seen in some time.”

  Yet Detroit hitters also wondered if they had unwittingly played into Gibson’s hands. Busch Stadium’s larger confines, at least compared with those of cozy Tiger Stadium, had them swinging from the heels, looking too much for Gibson’s famous fastball, and believing they had to hit the ball that much harder to do any damage.

  “I’d rather pitch to guys who swing for home runs,” said Gibson, who threw 144 pitches in the victory.

  After his dominating performance, the Cardinals pitcher received a phone call in the St. Louis clubhouse. Vice president and Democratic nominee Hubert Humphrey was on the line. “I’m with you all the way,” he told Gibson.

  In the losing clubhouse, some wondered whether manager Mayo Smith would avoid another “Great Confrontation” by moving McLain up to start Game Three back in Detroit. Instead, he confirmed that the rematch would take place. “I’ll put them head to head again,” he said. “I know [Gibson] can’t be any better.”

  That evening McLain was back playing at the Gas House Lounge, entertaining the crowd. “Mr. Gibson was super today,” he told his audience. “I don’t even feel bad about getting beat. He pitched one helluva ballgame.”

  FINAL SCORE: CARDINALS 4, TIGERS

  St. Louis leads Series, 1–0

  October 3, 1968

  Game Two, Busch Stadium, St. Louis, Missouri

  After Bob Gibson’s record-setting performance, Tigers manager Mayo Smith made it official: Mickey Lolich would start Game Two instead of Earl Wilson. His stated rationale? Wilson swung a better bat and Tiger Stadium—where Games Three, Four, and Five were scheduled—was considered a better hitting ballpark. Of course, this was long before the designated hitter rule and its alternating use, depending on whether the game was in an American League or National League venue. Back in ’68, pitchers had to hit, or at least give it a try. “[Wilson] gives us another bat,” said Smith, “and we need it.”

  Before anybody took the mound in Game Two, however, Eugene McCarthy had free rein of the field. Life magazine had commissioned the former Democratic presidential candidate to write a series of stories about the Fall Classic, and now a flock of photographers followed him, recording his every move. As a college student, McCarthy had played first base at St. John’s College in Minnesota, and on the Watkins semipro team in the Sioux League. “My grandfather and my uncle played,” McCarthy explained, “so I did.... I wasn’t a bad hitter, but I didn’t like certain pitches. You could say I ran for Congress so that I could outlaw the inside curve.”

  When Tigers’ coach Tony Cuccinello asked about his ability, McCarthy said there were times he “could have been mistaken for Gil Hodges. I hit a lot of long fouls.”

  With all the great players assembled in St. Louis that afternoon, McCarthy curiously targeted Cardinals’ reliever Joe Hoerner for an interview. Besides saving seventeen games in 1968, Hoerner was known for wielding a mean fungo bat. His towering blasts during pregame infield practice had once glanced off the underside of Houston’s famed Astrodome. McCarthy wanted a firsthand demonstration and Hoerner indulged him by lofting several high fly balls toward the outfield.

  In bypassing seven future Hall of Famers who were participating in the 1968 World Series (Al Kaline, Bob Gibson, Eddie Mathews, Lou Brock, Orlando Cepeda, Tim McCarver, and Steve Carlton) for a relief pitcher swinging a fungo bat, McCarthy perhaps underscored, in some way, why he had lost the nomination to Hubert Humphrey

  “That was the problem and the attraction of McCarthy,” Tom Hayden said. “He was . . . odd.

  “Imagine this was September, just before the election in perhaps the worst of all years since 1865 or 1918. Hundreds of thousands of young people gave up a year of their lives for him. Then he got interested in fungo bats? Sounds like a common reaction to the traumas of the year, but he was supposed to lead.”

  After summerlike conditions for Game One, a cold front moved through St. Louis, dropping temperatures into the fifties by the first pitch. Overnight, Lolich had developed a groin infection and required medication in order to make his surprise start. “I never did get nervous before the game,” he later explained. “I was a little groggy because (team physician Dr. Clarence Livengood) gave me a couple of capsules and I just never tightened up.”

  If anything, Lolich appeared a little too groggy for his own good early on. The Cardinals’ Julian Javier singled and Curt Flood walked in the first inning. That left it up to Kaline, back in right field, to single-handedly keep the game scoreless. First the Tiger known simply as “Six” (for his jersey number) made a running grab of Orlando Cepeda’s foul fly ball, and moments later he tracked down Mike Shannon’s liner to right-center field. No report as to whether McCarthy was impressed.

  St. Louis starter Nellie Briles, meanwhile, set down the first four Tigers he faced before Willie Horton turned on a fastball, launching it deep into the left-center field bleachers. With the home run the Tigers held their first lead of the Series.

  The following inning the sports gods once again demonstrated their penchant for irony. Even though Smith had started Lolich ahead of Wilson in order to have a better bat in the lineup for Game Three back in Detroit, it was actually Lolich who helped supply the long ball there in St. Louis. In the top of the third inning, he pulled a ball deep down the left-field line. To everyone’s amazement, the ball stayed fair, falling softly into the left-field seats for a home run. The dinger would in fact be the very first and very last of Lolich’s si
xteen-year professional career.

  As he began his home-run trot, Lolich missed first base, prompting coach Wally Moses to call him back to make sure he touched them all. “I’m not used to this sort of thing,” Lolich told him.

  “I still won’t believe he hit a home run,” McLain later said, “until I see a replay.”

  From then on, the Tigers were in control. Norm Cash, who had been Gibson’s record-setting strikeout victim the day before, clubbed a solo home run. Briles departed after two batters in the sixth, and prompting a string of Cardinals’ relievers that included twenty-three-year-old Steve Carlton.

  “It wasn’t my day,” Briles said. “And often when it isn’t the pitcher’s day, it often isn’t the team’s day, either.”

  Carlton replaced Briles with a man on before Jim Northrup’s single and Don Wert’s walk loaded the bases. Dick McAuliffe then hit a sinking line drive to center field that glanced off Curt Flood’s glove. Two runs came around on the rare miscue by the game’s best center fielder, and with that Detroit had a 5–0 lead. McAuliffe’s liner was certainly a difficult play, but one that Flood had often made throughout the ’68 season.

  A day after being baffled by Bob Gibson’s dazzling repertoire, the Tigers were beginning to resemble their old selves. Soon they were once again playing with swagger and plenty of trash talk in the dugout.

  “Oh, we had some fun,” Gates Brown recalled. “I mean we had fun most of the time anyway. The guys on that ballclub recognized that you were much more prone to win when you were loose and happy with yourself.”

  In the seventh inning, with Detroit comfortably ahead 6–1, manager Mayo Smith moved Stanley back to center field. Northrup shifted to left and Ray Oyler came in to play shortstop. The odd man out was Horton, who stewed in the Tigers’ dugout after leaving the field. “I want my three best arms out there when we’re ahead,” Smith had told the press. The Tigers’ manager didn’t fully communicate his game plan to Horton, however.

  “I sure wasn’t happy,” Horton later said. “I had played out there the whole year, with Al Kaline hurt. I wasn’t that bad an outfielder. I’d worked hard on my game. I felt the least Mayo could have done was tell me before he started pulling people out.”

  Regardless, the way Lolich was pitching that afternoon, he could have had the Three Stooges in the outfield and won. The only concern remained Lou Brock, who stole another two bases after having stolen one in the first game. In fact, the only time Lolich lost his composure occurred when Brock stole second base despite Detroit holding a 6–1 lead in the eighth inning.

  “It was definitely for his own self-glory,” Lolich said, a comment he later claimed was taken out of context. “He wants to set a record for stolen bases or something, There can’t be any other reason.... Sure, I could disregard him. But when he takes a big lead like that, it’s almost an insult.”

  Out in the Detroit bullpen, rookie Jon Warden, Pat Dobson, and John Hiller kept a keen eye on Lolich. Due to the medication he was on nobody really expected the left-hander to go the distance. Yet in a methodical, almost understated way, that’s exactly what he did, securing the victory after allowing just six hits. While his nine strikeouts paled in comparison to Gibson’s seventeen the day before, Lolich had been in control throughout. “None of the Cardinals’ six hits off Lolich was stroked with much authority,” the Sporting News reported.

  Through it all, Gates Brown, who would have pinch-hit for Lolich if the pitcher had come out of the game, took a more relaxed approach to it all. “I enjoy days like this,” he said, “just sitting back and watching my guys run around the bases.”

  With the Series heading to Detroit for the first time in twenty-three years, the Tigers’ hitters had regained their mojo. “We’re in good shape now,” Smith declared, “all even and going back to our own park for three games.”

  But what the Detroit manager left unsaid was that the Tigers would have to face Bob Gibson twice more if the Series went seven games.

  FINAL SCORE: TIGERS 8, CARDINALS 1

  Series tied at one game apiece

  During the off-day, before Game Three in Detroit, Tigers’ manager Mayo Smith called outfielder Willie Horton into his office for a private meeting. There Smith told Horton that he would continue his defensive strategy: If the Tigers held a lead late in a game, Mickey Stanley would shift back to center field, with Al Kaline staying in right and Jim Northrup taking over for Horton in left. The Tigers had several good-field, no-hit infielders in Ray Oyler and Dick Tracewski. One of them would man shortstop.

  As Smith explained to Horton, the manager knew he could cover as much ground as Northrup, but he didn’t think he could throw as well. “I wasn’t really that mad to hear it,” Horton later said. “He’s the manager and I understand he has to make decisions.”

  Still, the strategy annoyed Horton. After coming up as a catcher, he had significantly improved his throwing mechanics. During spring training and routinely before regular-season games, Stanley had taught him how to deliver a ball with more pace and distance from the far reaches of the outfield.

  “Personally, I owe a lot to Mickey Stanley,” Horton said. “Playing catcher as a kid—that’s a different throwing motion. Mickey spent a lot of time with me, teaching me how to play the outfield. One of the main things he did was redo my throwing mechanics. He told me to pretend that I was on a bus and pulling down the rope to get off. That motion from top to bottom—a good throwing motion. That was so important to me because until that point I had thrown more like a catcher—everything compact and from the chest. Years later, I had to learn something that basic while at the major league level, and Mickey Stanley was the guy who took the time to teach me.”

  Of course, such discussions didn’t make headlines back in 1968. Instead the front page of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch ran another photo of Bob Gibson from Game One. Along on the front page was a story about George Wallace, who was also running for president, naming retired Air Force general Curtis LeMay as his vice-presidential choice. The architect of the systematic bombing of Japan in World War II, LeMay advocated that more military pressure be brought to bear upon North Vietnam, perhaps even the use of nuclear weapons. “When you get in it, get in it with both feet,” LeMay said, “and get it over with as soon as you can.”

  Other top headlines included student demonstrators clashing with government troops in the Tlateloco section of Mexico City—this just ten days before the Summer Olympics were scheduled to begin. Mexican authorities blamed extremists and Communist agitators within the students’ ranks for initiating the violence. But decades later, in documents released by the National Security Archive, it was revealed that the Mexican Army fired indiscriminately at the demonstrators. After the bloodbath, surviving protesters were dragged away and many were never heard from again. Ironically, the dove of peace was the symbol for Games of the XIX Olympiad, with billboards in Mexico City already proclaiming, “Everything Is Possible with Peace.”

  “We have conferred with Mexican authorities and we have been assured that nothing will interfere with the peaceful entrance of the Olympic flame into the stadium on October 12, nor with the competition which follows,” Avery Brundage, president of the International Olympic Committee, said in a statement. “As guests of Mexico, we have full confidence that the Mexican people, universally known for their sportsmanship and great hospitality, will join the participants and spectators in celebrating the Games, a veritable oasis in a troubled world.”

  October 5, 1968

  Game Three, Tiger Stadium, Detroit, Michigan

  In the Motor City, the riots of a year ago were forgotten for now. In the days before Game Three, Detroit city street workers stenciled orange and black Tiger faces on the downtown streets, and Washington Boulevard was renamed Tiger Drive with orange stripes running down the center of it. By game time, the old ballpark at Michigan and Trumbull was packed with 53,634 boisterous fans, and even though it wasn’t his day to pitch, Denny McLain couldn’t help stealing some of
the limelight. “Whoever wins today will win the World Series,” he told the press.

  Early on in Game Three, Al Kaline proved himself worthy of inclusion in the Tigers’ lineup yet again when he laced Ray Washburn’s pitch into the left-field seats, staking Detroit to an early 2–0 lead. Much to their fans’ delight the hometown team appeared to be in good shape as starter Earl Wilson proceeded to shut out the Cardinals through the first four innings.

  Throughout the regular season, however, Wilson’s luck had often gone south at the most inopportune times. Repeatedly, he had gotten hurt when it mattered most. So it happened again in Game Three.

  In the fifth inning, Lou Brock singled and once again swiped second base. To put his base-stealing in proper perspective, during the regular season Brock had stolen sixty-two bases, while the entire Detroit team recorded just twenty-six. The Tigers had no answer for him, and as a result the stage was set for the Series to run away from them.

  “Speed, running on the base paths, starts rallies,” Brock explained years later. “When a team runs, it forces the other team into mistakes. When a runner takes off from first, the shortstop and the second baseman move to cover him—and that opens a hole in the infield that shouldn’t be there.

  “That gives the batter a break, because most batters like nothing better than fastballs—especially when they are anticipating fastballs.” In other words, an infusion of speed can hotwire any offense.

  A year after dominating the Red Sox in the ’67 World Series—in which he hit .414 and stole seven bases—Brock was back at it against another American League foe. He wasn’t satisfied with merely getting on base, however. He wanted to excel at all facets of the game.

  “Look at Ty Cobb,” Brock said. “He stole 892 bases but people say, ‘Hey, Ty Cobb got 4,000 hits; he must’ve been a great hitter, too.’