Welcome to the Show

by Nappi, Frank;

  It took another two innings, but in the bottom of the home half of the fifth, the Yankees finally answered with a base runner of their own. Then another, and another. A single and back-to-back walks had loaded the bases with nobody out and put the home team in an excellent position to draw first blood.

  The only thing working in Spahn and the Braves’ favor was that the Yankees were at the bottom of their order. So with the bases drunk with the boys in pinstripes, Spahn went to work on Jerry Coleman.

  Coleman wasn’t in DiMaggio’s or Berra’s league, but he was no easy out. Spahn and Lester knew that he’d be looking for something to drive into the outfield, so their approach would have to be cautious and calculated—as much as it could be with no place to put him.

  What Spahn really needed was a strikeout, or at least a pop up or force out at home. Then a tidy 6-4-3 double play and he’d be out of the jam and back on the bench warming his arm. Lester was thinking the same thing. As such, he began the sequence to Coleman with a curveball away. Coleman, certain that Spahn was going to try and get ahead with a fastball given the dire nature of the situation, waved at the pitch helplessly. Spahn had fooled him so badly that he decided to double up with another hook, this time dropping it in the zone for a called strike two.

  Coleman’s head was reeling and he began muttering to himself. Spahn smelled blood in the water and went right after him. A brush back fastball that pushed Coleman off the plate came next, setting up yet another breaking ball on the outer half. It was the perfect plan, until Coleman leaned out over the dish and tagged the ball just as it was about to dart out of the hitting zone. The ball zipped across the ground like a heat-seeking missile, burning up the grass and dirt as it streaked toward the hole between short and third. The well-struck blow seemed destined for left field until Buddy Kerr scampered to his right, snaring the ball in his web with a quick flash of his backhand. Then, in one motion, Kerr spun, fired a perfect strike to Elliot at second who caught the throw and pivoted seamlessly before firing it to first in order to nip Coleman and put an exclamation point on a stellar twin killing. It was truly a magnificent play all around and would have had everyone buzzing about the acrobatic exploits of both middle infielders—but the bottom line was sharp and sobering: while Kerr and Elliot were busy performing their magic, a run crossed the plate, giving the Yankees a 1–0 lead.

  Raschi and the Bronx Bombers made that one run lead stand up until the top of the eighth, when Lester got a flat slider that he deposited over the center field wall to tie the game. It was only the Braves’ third hit of the game, but the timely blast reinvigorated the visiting team and had them back in business.

  The sudden surge carried over to the top half of the ninth. With the score still knotted at 1–1, Sam Jethroe led off the inning by topping a soft roller up the first base side that he beat out for an infield single. After Willard Marshall fouled out to Berra, Bob Elliot ripped a 0-1 changeup into right field for a clean single, placing runners on first and second with just one out.

  Ozmore was next. He sent Raschi’s first two pitches soaring high and far but a good ten feet to the wrong side of the foul pole in left field. Ozmore was all over Raschi. He was locked in and seeing the ball about as well as anyone could. The only thing off was his timing. Raschi knew it. He was getting tired and had lost something off his fastball. He wasn’t beating anyone anymore. He knew he’d have to employ a stratagem, pull a string or something, just to get Ozmore out of his rhythm. Berra had the same thought, so when Ozmore got back in the box to take his next hack, Berra put down two fingers, then wiggled them in a tight circle. Raschi nodded. Slow curve. Yes, that was it. The perfect time to show it. If nothing else, it would give Ozmore something to think about. And maybe, just maybe, he would induce a ground ball and escape the mess unscathed.

  Raschi got what he had wished for. Ozmore was not looking for a languid, looping bender and ended up rolling over on it, producing a sharp ground ball to third baseman Jerry Coleman. It was a tailor-made double play. Coleman saw it the second it left Ozmore’s bat, watched it the whole way with the vision of scooping up the grounder, stepping on third and firing across the diamond to first to end the inning. But in his eagerness to begin the rally ending twin killing, he lifted his glove off the grass a second too early. The ball, which was just about to settle in the palm of Coleman’s glove, squirted underneath instead and rolled into the outfield, eliciting a collective groan from the stands that could be heard throughout Manhattan. Coleman’s blunder allowed Jethroe to race around from second base with a go-ahead run and set off a carnival of celebration on the Braves’ side. The unrestrained jumping, backslaps, and clamorous laughter spilled out of the dugout and into the on-deck area, setting up a spirited welcoming committee for Jethroe, who crossed the plate full tilt before running right into the arms of several delirious teammates.

  Spahn took the mound in the last half of the ninth with Jethroe’s run in his back pocket; he also took with him a slightly burdensome reality that they were just three outs away from glory. All he had to do was retire Gene Woodling, Phil Rizzuto, and Yogi Berra, and the Braves would be crowned world champions. It was right there for the taking.

  The partisan crowd, which was not about to abandon hope, was on its feet cheering as Woodling stepped to the plate. He adjusted his helmet, dug his right foot deep into the back portion of the batter’s box, set his chin on his front shoulder, and prepared for Spahn’s delivery.

  The pitch sequence began with a fastball that missed up and in. Spahn shook his head and pounded his fist in his glove. The frustration continued to grow after the next pitch missed its mark as well. Spahn wasn’t the only one feeling the pinch.

  “Shit, Bobby,” Murph complained to Keely. “He’s struggling out there. Looks like he’s spent. I don’t know if he can finish this.”

  Keely shrugged. “Just watch him, Murph. But in the meantime, you’d better get someone up and ready. Just in case.”

  Murph sighed loudly. He did not plan on having to make a decision like this, and for a short time continued to balk at Keely’s suggestion. He found himself, however, tapping a couple of his pitchers on the shoulder after Spahn missed two more times and lost Woodling.

  The crowd was roaring now—evenly and deeply. Everyone sensed that opportunity was knocking, and they became even more unhinged when Rizzuto also reached safely on a base on balls. Spahn was out of gas.

  “Time!” Murph called before emerging from the dugout to take that dreaded walk to the pitcher’s mound. It was one of the worst parts of the job. He loathed the walk, but this one seemed longer and more arduous than any other he had taken before. His heart was beating feverishly and he was sweating through his uniform top.

  “Okay, Spahny,” he said when he arrived, extending his open hand. “You pitched your ass off. You did a great job. Really great.”

  Spahn’s eyes hardened in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” he growled. “Really? You’re pulling me, now? In the damn last inning of game seven?”

  “You’re tired, Spahny,” he said with discomfort, “and they got their big bats coming up. Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be. I need the ball.”

  Spahn stood, hands on his hips, staring at Murph. “You want the ball, Murph?” he finally asked through clenched teeth.

  Murph’s eyes moved from Spahn’s face to his open hand and back to Spahn. The irate pitcher looked to the heavens and shook his head.

  “Here’s your damned ball,” he finally said, slamming it in Murph’s palm. “Good luck.”

  Murph winced. All his blood rushed to his head and beat wildly behind his eyes as he motioned to the bullpen for Spahn’s replacement. Here he was, for better or worse, the engineer of a decision that would define the rest of his baseball life. Lester, who had joined him on the mound and had noticed the angst plastered on his manager’s face, felt compelled to say something to soften the uncomfortable silence.

  “It’s the right move, Murph,” he offered.
“Ain’t nobody worth a lick can question it. Spahny was fried. No doubt.”

  All Murph could do was shake his head.“Yeah, well somebody always has something to say. You can bet on that. And if my decision to use—

  “Mickey is the right choice, Murph,” Lester interrupted. “He’s rested, and he’s our best chance. Makes perfect sense. I got him, don’t you worry. I got him.”

  The two watched as Mickey made his way from the outfield to the pitcher’s mound. He was jogging at a steady pace, and his hat was pulled down over his brow. His gait was calculated and deliberate, as if he were counting his steps, and his eyes were set dead ahead.

  His arrival, which seemed to take forever, raised more than a few eyebrows. There was also a discernible buzzing coming from the stands, as thousands of mouths were simultaneously wrestling with what was unfolding before them. Nobody had expected this. Mickey’s appearance also signaled the end of Murph’s visit. It was time to return to the dugout and await the outcome of the bold move he had just made. But before the beleaguered manager took his leave, he placed his hand on Mickey’s shoulder and shared one final thought.

  “You’re the best, Mick,” he said. “Apples in a barrel. That’s all it is.”

  Then he walked off, leaving his young hurler to navigate a jam of epic proportions with only Lester for guidance.

  “Hey, it’s you and me, Mick,” Lester said, pulling down his mask. “We will get this done. Just listen to me.”

  Mickey’s first test was Berra. The Yankee catcher had faired pretty well against Mickey in previous at bats. The matchup just worked for him. He was a tough one for sure, and in the present circumstance, with no margin for error, his waving of the bat assumed a far more menacing aura.

  Lester’s approach was taught by that aura. Berra was a free swinger, and there was no doubt he’d be looking to strike early. Lester could sense it, so he put down two fingers and set up on the outer half of the plate, glove hovering just above the dirt. Mickey took the sign, came set, and broke off a tightly wrapped hammer that started at Berra’s shoulders before taking a nosedive into Lester’s glove. All the Yankee slugger could do was waive feebly at the pitch.

  Mickey’s next pitch was a four-seam fastball on the inner half of the plate that flat out beat Berra. He swung mightily, but all he got was air. Down 0–2 now, Berra decided to take a more defensive posture, shortening up on the bat in such a way as to allow him to serve the ball somewhere in play. It was the prudent thing to do, and under normal circumstances it would have resulted in the intended results, but on this night, at that moment, Mickey’s fastball was just too much for Berra. It was as if the ball were no longer just a ball but a fiery orb that had just blistered its way through the earth’s atmosphere en route to the batter, who had only just begun his swing when he heard the loud thump behind him and the umpire’s call of “strike three, you’re out.” The crowd, which had been previously embroiled in frenzied cheering that threatened to bring down the house, fell silent for the moment. Berra just shook his head incredulously and walked back to the dugout.

  The stadium stupor lasted for a beat or two, then lifted when Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio strode to the plate. With the Yankees down by only a run and their best hitter stepping in, thoughts of a game-tying hit or perhaps even a game-winning blow danced through the heads of everyone who was standing and screaming DiMaggio’s name.

  Mickey was unmoved by the commotion. Amid the swirling mass of faces in the crowd he found Molly and Jolene, seated with some of the other members of the Braves’ family. He didn’t smile, but seeing them made him feel safe enough to continue.

  The spirits of the Yankee faithful were buoyed by what they felt was a most favorable matchup, but the showdown with DiMaggio did not last long enough to allow for anything more than bitter disappointment when the baseball idol drove Mickey’s first pitch high and far, only to see Tommy Holmes track it down and record the put out in front of the wall in right center field.

  The second out of the inning was a devastating blow to the Yankee effort, although both runners did manage to move up ninety feet after tagging up. Now the home team stood on the precipice of victory, just one hit away from bringing home the crown in dramatic, walk-off fashion. And they had one of their best hitters, Johnny Mize, ready to play the role of hero.

  Murph, however, had other ideas. The savvy base running of Woodling and Rizzuto had placed the Yankees in a position to win, but at the same time left first base open and provided Murph with the ability to bypass Mize and take his chances with Billy Johnson, who had just appeared in the on-deck circle to bat for Coleman. It didn’t take long for the decision to be made.

  “We’re putting him on, right, Murph?” Keely asked.

  “Not even a question,” Murph replied, holding up four fingers to Lester. “That’s an easy one.”

  The intentional pass to Mize did not sit well with the crowd, who booed loudly as they watched one of their best hitters stand helplessly while Mickey issued four straight balls. The calculated move loaded the bases for the Yankees, but gave Mickey and the Braves a far more favorable matchup; Johnson was not the hitter that Mize was and had several weaknesses that could be exploited.

  The obvious advantage did little, however, to assuage Murph’s concern. He stood in the corner of the dugout, his hands together like a steeple covering his nose. He could barely watch. The rest of the Braves bench did not share Murph’s reservations; they could not take their eyes off the action. They stood together, arm in arm, waiting for the signal to charge the field and join the celebratory dog pile in front of the pitcher’s mound.

  Mickey and Lester started Johnson off with a fastball that just missed the inside corner. The second fastball missed in exactly the same spot. Murph stood now, eyes fully exposed, watching from his perch while hurling invectives at the man calling balls and strikes. The fading sunlight caught his face and revealed a discernible growth of dark stubble on his jaw and two severe lines on either side that danced wildly while he hollered.

  “Those are right there, right there!” he bawled. “Open your damned eyes!”

  The implication of loading the bases loomed larger; Murph was inconsolable and paced back and forth muttering about something Matheson had told him once about fortune being a fickle shrew—until Mickey found the zone with his next pitch. Then Murph was back and flirting again with visions of baseball ecstasy. His caved-in expression of concern softened even more when Mickey threw the next pitch right past Johnson. Now they were one strike away. One strike.

  The air in Yankee stadium grew noticeably still as Mickey leaned forward to get his sign from Lester. The young man’s eyes wandered briefly, moving back and forth between Lester’s flashing fingers and the kaleidoscope of faces behind home plate. He was wondering why so many he saw appeared stricken by fear—blinding, paralyzing fear. He recognized the look; he had seen it so many times before. It was Molly’s—the one she used to wear whenever Clarence would come home. He had come to understand why that was and often sported the same countenance himself for the same reason. But this was a game—just a game. Nobody was going to get hurt. It didn’t matter whether he threw a fastball or a curveball or changeup. It was still just a baseball game. So why all the drama? It was the final thought he had in his head when he released the 2-2 pitch.

  The ball left Mickey’s hand so effortlessly that it appeared as though it were being pulled by some invisible string toward its intended destination. It was the hardest pitch he had thrown all day. It whizzed through the air like a cruise missile, speeding with great purpose and wonderful urgency. Its flight was awe inspiring, and depending on from where it was being viewed and by whom, invoked glorious anticipation or fearful disappointment. But every eye, regardless of personal investment, was fixed on that ball.

  And when it finally came to rest, with a lusty thud that refused to be muffled by the thick padding sealed inside hand-stitched leather, time stood still for a moment. There were no movements, no sounds.
Just the silent processing of life and its equivocal meaning, which was ultimately shattered by the shrill cry that brought everyone back.

  “Strike three!”

  The crowd of spectators was struck dumb and could only watch in suffering silence as their Yankees stood around defeated, while the boys from Boston danced about wildly on the infield grass, celebrating what was undeniably the sweetest of endings to a storybook season. And in the center of it all was Mickey, hoisted above the merriment by Lester, Ozmore, and Gordon. His hands were raised to the heavens and his eyes were affixed to that familiar area behind home plate, where he managed to see through all the craziness two smiles that mirrored the luster of his own. “Champs!” he kept saying.“Champs! Champs! Champs!”

  Molly viewed the whole scene through watery eyes. Her blood was rushing and every part of her body was on fire. Jolene was swept away by the euphoria as well and struggled to corral her surging emotions. She grabbed Molly’s hand, squeezed tightly, and together the two jumped up and down, yelling to Mickey. The boy waved and laughed in the rapture of the moment. It was the first time in his life that he thought of nothing else—not Clarence or the farm or Lefty Rogers. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of ruthless snickering behind his back. Not even the loss of Oscar entered his mind. It was all behind him, at least for the time being, as he continued to swim in the moment. Then, like a rolling wave that had finally reached the shore, Mickey and the entire team was gone, off to continue the celebration in more private fashion.

  After the champagne showers and postgame interviews were complete, Murph sat in the shadows of the dimly lit visitors office with Molly, trying to process what had just occurred. For Murph, the happiness came with an element of fear, like a dream right before waking.