Welcome to the Show

by Nappi, Frank;

  The pageantry of baseball’s ultimate showcase continued to unfold with pride, pomp, and circumstance until, at last, the time to begin play arrived. It was a brilliant fall afternoon in New York, with an October sky that housed a colony of white, fluffy puffs of cotton that appeared to be pressed by hand onto a bright, blue parchment. Crisp jets of air invigorated an already enthusiastic city, slipping though the streets and in between buildings, carrying with them fallen leaves, discarded papers, and a palpable excitement that had everyone bristling over what was about to transpire.

  The pitching matchup for game one, which was touted more as a heavyweight prize fight, lived up to its billing, as Warren Spahn and Vic Raschi exchanged powerful blows inning after inning, treating the sold-out crowd to a pitching duel for the ages. Through six innings the score remained knotted at zero, with each pitcher allowing just two runners to reach base safely. The nail-biter had both managers, especially Murph, laboring over every move he made.

  “Top seven,” he groaned to Keely. “Seven damn innings and we still can’t get anything going. Spahny’s been dealing all game and we can’t get nothing for him. We gotta make something happen here, don’t you think?”

  Keely shrugged. “Raschi’s dealing too Murph. Ain’t sure what else we can do.”

  “Well I’ve got to try something,” Murph insisted, as the game moved into its latter stages. “I can’t let this one get away.”

  With that, he got up on the top step of the dugout and made certain that Connie Ryan, who was due to lead off the inning, received his order to lay one down. Ryan had no difficulty with the sign and proceeded to push out the perfect bunt, steering Raschi’s first pitch up the third base side, where it hugged the line until coming to rest at the feet of third baseman Bobby Brown, who quickly abandoned any hope of fielding the gem and instead just stood dumbfounded, praying for it to roll foul. The ball, however, remained true, giving the Braves the leadoff man on with nobody out. Murph’s wheels were spinning even faster.

  “If I let Marshall swing away, even with a hit-and-run, we run the risk of a double play, or being caught stealing if he fans. But he ain’t the best bunter, which is what my gut is telling me to do. You know, build that run. What do you think Keels?”

  Keely was just shaking his head. “I don’t want to touch that one,” the skittish coach admitted. “That’s way too important a decision for me to carry around if it don’t work out. I don’t know. Could go either way. But it’s your call. You’re the boss, Murph. Just go with your gut.”

  His gut was killing him, filled with bile of uncertainty and potential failure, but it was also pushing him in the direction of station-to-station run building. So, once again, he ordered a bunt.

  Marshall, who had very little experience sacrificing and even less confidence that he could get the job done, sagged a little after receiving the sign from the third base coach’s box. Murph read the body language immediately.

  “Come on now, Marsh!” he shouted. “Nobody better than you. Help us out here. We need you in there!”

  Marshall heard the desperate plea, but it did little to assuage his concern. He stepped in the box, took a few perfunctory practice swings, then readied himself for the pitch. The minute Raschi came set at his belt, Marshall squared around, setting off a frenzy that saw both corner infielders charging while the middle two were busy rotating to cover the necessary bases. Raschi, pleased that the Braves were playing things so conservatively, laid the ball right over the plate, a made-to-order, room-service pitch that could not have been any easier to handle.

  But Marshall was still struggling, thinking about how he would have much preferred to be swinging away. His mind was restless and his body followed suit. So when the ball got in on him, he lunged a bit, catching the ball on its lower half and sending it in the air, where it hovered a second or two before landing in the outstretched glove of Bobby Brown. The botched sacrifice was bad enough, but when Brown took the ball and fired it to first base, doubling off Ryan, the entire Braves’ bench just hung their heads. Murph was far more animated.

  “Damnit!” he boomed, firing his cap to the ground. He paced around, muttering a litany of expletives under his breath. They had squandered the best chance of the game. Gone, just like that. What made it worse was that he could not decide who he was more angry at. He was thinking now that he just should have gone hit-and-run and was torturing himself with second-guessing when Mickey unknowingly made things a little worse.

  “It’s okay, Murph,” he said, putting his arm around the raging manager. “That was a good bunt, if it weren’t popped in the air. And if Brown didn’t catch it. He almost didn’t catch it. Did you see how the ball just stuck in the top of his glove? Like a snow cone. Only snow cones aren’t white like that, and they taste good. Like cherry or orange. Bunting’s hard sometimes. Mickey tried it once or twice, but every time—”

  Murph freed himself from the young man’s hold and just walked away, leaving him to his scattered thoughts and ramblings.

  The next two innings offered nothing for either side in way of offensive chances. Spahn and Raschi were still sharp and neither was showing any sign of faltering. This made the botched opportunity in the seventh even harder for Murph to swallow. He sat up against the dugout wall, shoulders slightly rounded and cap pulled down over his brow, watching as the hometown Yankees played the bottom of the ninth to a frenzied crowd just waiting for a walk-off celebration.

  The partisan stands were particularly energized as their beloved Yanks were sending the heart of their order to the plate. Yogi Berra led things off. The Yankee backstop had been held in check all afternoon—no small task given Berra’s legendary plate coverage and ability to handle balls out of the strike zone. Spahn and Lester had worked him over pretty well nonetheless, feeding him a steady diet of fastballs up and in and breaking pitches off the plate. They followed the same formula this time around, and while Berra managed to golf a curveball off his shoe tops and send it screaming on a line to the outfield, Tommy Holmes had him played perfectly and corralled the well-struck ball for the first out of the inning.

  Murph breathed a little easier, but the next hurdle, which came in the form of Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio, was even more daunting. The Yankee Clipper had hit the ball hard each of the first three times at bat with nothing to show for it. Spahn had been getting away with murder all afternoon; it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out. Everyone in the park knew it. It was the reason why the fans were now on their feet and why Murph could barely pick up his head to watch. It was also the cause for DiMaggio’s cool demeanor and the flurry of signs that Lester was flashing to Spahn in a desperate attempt to retire the Yankee icon one more time.

  The at bat began innocently enough, with Spahn getting a called strike one on a first-pitch slider. The second pitch, a two-seam fastball, missed away, as did the next fastball. The third consecutive heater caught more of the plate, and DiMaggio, who was a little out in front, offered at it, slashing a blistering foul ball into the seats behind third base. Both Spahn and Lester, realizing they had gotten away with a mistake, altered their plan once again. The 2-2 delivery was a slow, roundhouse curveball that had DiMaggio out on his front foot just enough so that all he could do with the pitch was pop it straight up. The second contact was made, Lester threw off his mask, turned around, looked up to the sky, and waited for the ball to fall harmlessly into his open glove. And when it did just that, the Braves were two-thirds of the way toward escaping the most ruthless middle of the order in the entire league. The only challenge left to conquer was Johnny Mize.

  Mize wasn’t the most prolific of the Yankee sluggers, but his twenty-five-round trippers during the season certainly made him a formidable threat. He was a dead fastball hitter who could handle breaking stuff as well. He didn’t command the same gravitas as Berra and DiMaggio, but everyone knew that he was dangerous and approached him accordingly.

  Spahn started Mize off with a fastball that just nicked the outside
edge of the plate.

  “Strike one!” the umpire called.

  The crowd, which had grown somewhat frustrated and impatient, booed loudly over what they felt was a clear injustice. Mize was unhappy as well, and demonstrated his displeasure by stepping out of the batter’s box and taking an inordinately long time stretching and swinging before getting back in. Spahn, seeing that Mize was perturbed, took the opportunity to quick pitch the slugger. He pumped another fastball, a four-seam dart that seared the other half of the plate. Mize was not ready.

  “Strike two!”

  The umpire’s call was true, but the crowd booed some more. Frustration had also gotten the best of Yankee manager Casey Stengel, who began screaming wildly something about glasses and Seeing Eye dogs. Mize, who was still angry about the first call, mumbled something under his breath as well. The only people in the ballpark who did not share in the Yankee protest were wearing red and navy. Some, like Murph, were even reveling a little in what certainly seemed to be a clear shift in karma.

  That emotional shift had Spahn feeling good too. He was up 0–2 now and had Mize right where he wanted him. The catbird seat, he used to always say. Four chances to make the batter hit his pitch, not the one he was looking for. He thought at first that he’d play with Mize a little, maybe tempt him into fishing for something low and off the plate. That seemed to be his best bet. But his pitch count was climbing, and he was beginning to tire. As he stood on the mound, staring in at Lester’s signs, he also considered that there was certainly no guarantee that this stalemate would end any time soon. And he definitely wanted to go the whole way. So when Lester put down two fingers, Spahn shook him off. Lester tried three fingers next, but Spahn rejected that too. It would have to be good old number one. He’d conserve whatever it was he had left in the tank and go right after Mize with a fastball.

  Spahn’s reasoning seemed faultless and would have worked out just as he planned had Mize not been thinking the very same thing. He was sitting dead-red all the way. And when Spahn left it out over the plate a hair more than he had intended, Mize took full advantage, crushing the mistake high and far into the lengthening afternoon shadows. The ball sped through the air as if it had been shot from a canon, climbing higher and higher until most who were wedded to its flight could no longer follow its path. It was only when the ball began its return to the earth, a lofty descent that would ultimately result in a crash-landing some fifty-five feet beyond the 399 marker on the left-center field wall, that it became visible once again—igniting a fevered celebration that saw Yankee players and their fans swarm the area around home plate. The reaction from Murph and the Braves was far more stoic. All of them stood around, catatonic, watching in punch-drunk disbelief as game one slipped through their hands.

  Still reeling from the previous contest, the Braves came back the next day with one thing in mind—getting things even. Game two was the antithesis of the opening matchup. Johnny Sain and Whitey Ford hooked up for what most baseball pundits thought would be another pitcher’s duel, but early offensive explosions on both sides that continued throughout the entire game proved otherwise. It was a classic seesaw battle, with plenty of extra base hits and a parade of runners crossing home plate. The result was a 13–9 Braves victory and a trip back to Boston with the series knotted at 1–1.

  Murph and the others were happy to be home again. So was Mickey. There was still a lot of media hoopla surrounding the series, but somehow it all felt a little friendlier. Perhaps it was just being in familiar surroundings and having Molly and Jolene there. Maybe he was just getting used to it.

  “Gee, the reporters sure were interested in you today, Mickey, huh?” Molly said. She smoothed his hair with her palm and smiled. “You were clearly their favorite.”

  “Well, of course he is,” Jolene added, smiling. She grabbed his hand and squeezed gently. “He’s the man of the hour. Tomorrow he takes the mound for an entire city. They love him and wouldn’t want anyone else to have that ball when the game begins.”

  “Yes, this conference went much better than the one in New York,” Murph said. “He did fine.”

  Mickey stood up a little straighter, as if eager for a better view, and joined the conversation. “Mickey don’t have the ball yet, Jolene. Ain’t ’til I’m getting ready that I get that.”

  They all laughed. Amid everything, Mickey was still just Mickey. They marveled at how far he had come since the days of tossing apples on the farm and chatted some more about this and that. Everyone was feeling good and reveling in the splendor of the moment. All except Murph, who was on the hot seat and feeling the flame.

  “Okay, enough of the chitchat,” he finally ordered. “Mickey and I have a game to prepare for.”

  The outpouring of love for Mickey was well represented the next day as well, as many of the sold-out crowd came to the Bee Hive as they had each of Mickey’s previous starts, sporting placards and banners professing the undying affection for good old number eight. The homage took on a variety of looks, from the basic and simply stated LET’S GO, MICKEY! to declarative expressions of reverence like IN MICK WE TRUST, to one whimsically absurd request that read MARRY ME, MICKEY! The sea of praise was as much awe inspiring as it was fodder for some of the guys who just loved to bust chops.

  “Hey, Spahny, how many marriage proposals did you get this year?” Ozmore teased. The Braves’ ace rolled his eyes and snarled a little before offering the one-finger salute.

  “Come on, Ozzy,” Holmes said. “You know Spahny ain’t the marrying kind. No, sir. That don’t make a lick of difference to him. He’s pissed off because before tonight he believed in only one god. Now he’s having trouble swallowing the discovery that it ain’t him.”

  Some of the other guys laughed and offered a comment or two of their own, but the matters at hand were pressing, and before long they were working the field in front of a packed house full of rabid Bean Town devotees who had been starving for some postseason home cooking.

  Mickey’s emergence onto the field and subsequent ascension to the mound was steeped in pure enchantment; the entire crowd rose in unison the second they saw him, waving hats and towels and anything else they could grab, all while calling out his name with unconstrained passion as he performed his pregame ritual. Even the sun, which had been fickle all day, seemed complicit in the ardent reverence, emerging in full force to bathe the strapping young man in golden hues. Each warm-up pitch he tossed became reminiscent of some ordained ritual sanctioned by a higher power.

  Mickey appeared relatively unfazed by all the hoopla, delivering his warm-up tosses with little trouble. He was focused and ready to help his team grab the series lead. The only break in his concentration came right before the game’s first pitch when his eye caught not only Molly and Jolene seated behind home plate but some other familiar faces as well. Pee Wee, Jimmy Llamas, and Woody Danvers all gave Mickey the thumbs-up sign as soon as they knew he had discovered them. He had not seen them in quite some time and was excited that they had made the trip from Milwaukee just to see him. Consequently, the first pitch of game three of the 1950 World Series had a little extra zip on it. So did the second and the third. In fact, all of Mickey’s pitches that day possessed a little something extra. He was absolutely brilliant, reducing the potent Yankee attack to nary a whimper while at the same time igniting the hopes and imagination of an entire city that had now officially adopted him as its favorite. And when all the magic and revelry had abated, and the turnstiles at the exits had clicked for the final time that day, the Braves had a 2–1 lead in the best of seven showdown, with game four back at the Bee Hive the following afternoon.

  Spahn and Raschi hooked up in game four for another battle that saw the Yankee righty get the better of things this time, moving the series back to New York all even at 2–2. Game five followed suit, with Johnny Sain outdueling Whitey Ford in a nail-biter that sent the Braves back to Boston with a 3–2 lead and a chance to be crowned champs in front of their fans.

  Mickey
took the ball in game six, and in doing so, had just about made the game’s outcome a foregone conclusion in the minds of every Bostonian. But a series of defensive miscues by the Braves early on had the young phenom snakebitten. Sid Gordon let an easy pop up fall right in front of him, Connie Ryan booted a routine grounder, and Sam Jethroe and Tommy Holmes collided in the outfield while attempting to catch the same fly ball. The result was disastrous. All three defensive lapses handcuffed Mickey, who lasted only three innings. The home team never did recover, much to the roiling disappointment of everyone who had already awarded the World Series trophy to the boys in red and navy. It was a bitter pill to swallow, especially for Murph, who knew he still had one game left, but also knew, better than anyone, that one game could turn on a dime. Anything could happen.

  GAME SEVEN

  The circus-like atmosphere surrounding game seven was like nothing anyone had ever seen. The Big Apple had never hosted an event quite like this before. From the Bowery to the garment district, and Times Square to the tiniest shops in Little Italy and Chinatown, the entire city was electrified by talk of the New York Yankees and the intoxicating anticipation of one game to decide the championship of the world.

  It was Spahn versus Raschi for a third and final time. Both men had pitched extremely well all season, despite the 1–1 record that each of them brought to the deciding contest. Each was on top of his game; all of the baseball pundits were predicting a knock–down, drag-out event that would be the fitting end to one of the most spectacular Fall Classics ever played.

  Play began in uneventful fashion, with both pitchers retiring the first six batters they faced on a combination of routine ground outs and lazy pop ups. It wasn’t until the top of the third inning that something finally happened. Tommy Holmes worked out a 3–2 walk to become the first player to reach base safely. The two out, base on balls gave the Braves something to work with and the Yankees and their fans minor cause for concern. Both feelings were extinguished when Bob Elliot struck out looking, putting an end to the minor threat.