After Roger had completed his trot and stepped into the dugout, the fans were yelling loudly for him. Two or three of the guys near Roger pushed him back up the dugout steps to acknowledge the fans with a tip of his cap. We all congratulated Roger with handshakes and pats on the shoulders. Then Roger sat on the bench, leaned back against the dugout wall, and released a big sigh.
There was a strange silence in the dugout, I think for two reasons: First, as baseball players, we realized the enormity of what he had just accomplished. And second, seeing Roger’s posture on the bench afterward, we realized just how much the pursuit of sixty-one had taken out of him.
Mickey was not in the dugout that day. He was back in the hospital after his infection had flared up again. I wish Mickey could have been there, though. Knowing how he always looked out for his teammates, especially younger ones, I believe Mickey would have been the one person who would have gone over, sat next to Roger on the bench, and said something simple like, “Well, you did it.” Then, because Mickey always had to crack a joke, he would have added, “At 296 feet to right field, it shouldn’t have taken this long!”
I know there have been individuals since who have hit more home runs than Roger’s sixty-one in a season. But sadly, each of those has either admitted to using some type of performance-enhancing drug or has been strongly tied to PEDs. And I know the argument that hitters on steroids were facing pitchers on steroids. It still saddens me that Roger’s record has been broken, because I know he made his mark on natural ability alone. I need to add, though, that I was very impressed with the way Mark McGwire treated the Maris family and honored them at the game the night he broke Roger’s record.
I have learned not to get too heavily involved in debates about what the single-season home run record should be. I still recall the time when I was speaking at the Babe Ruth World Series in Jamestown, New York, and began talking about how Roger hit sixty-one home runs and broke Ruth’s record. A woman in the audience jumped up and added, “But it took him 162 games.”
I was told she was Babe Ruth’s daughter.
But I’ll never back down from saying Roger Maris’s sixty-one homer season truly was an amazing accomplishment, and I appreciated the opportunity as his teammate to be a front-row witness to his sixty-one in ’61.
Strong to the Finish
In the year of the “M&M boys,” we played the ’61 World Series with about an M and a half. It’s an indication of the depth our team enjoyed that we were still able to defeat the Cincinnati Reds in five games.
Mickey missed the first two games at Yankee Stadium while still battling the aftereffects of his infection. Roger slid over from right field to center to take Mickey’s place, while Héctor López or Johnny Blanchard started in right.
This was Ralph’s first World Series as a manager, and he didn’t repeat Casey’s mistake of the year before: He started Whitey Ford in Game 1. Whitey was in his full Chairman of the Board mode in the opener. He allowed only three base runners—two on singles and one on a walk—in pitching his third consecutive World Series shutout going back to the previous year. We won 2–0, with Ellie Howard and Moose Skowron hitting solo home runs.
The Reds evened the series by taking Game 2 by a score of 6–2. Joey Jay pitched very well against us in that one. That wasn’t surprising considering that Jay had tied Milwaukee’s Warren Spahn for the most National League wins that season, with twenty-one.
After a day off for traveling to Cincinnati, Mickey wanted to give it a go for Game 3. He still wasn’t in good shape, and he went 0 for 4 with two strikeouts and didn’t do anything noteworthy in center field. But just having him in the lineup provided a huge boost for us. I know for me, just turning around on the field during the game and seeing our leader in center made everything feel normal. We all knew how bad Mickey’s hip was, and it’s an emotional inspiration when a teammate who you know shouldn’t be playing is out there anyway, trying to help any way he can.
The Reds took an early lead with a run off Bill Stafford in the third inning. The score stayed 1–0 until the seventh, when we scored an unearned run on Yogi Berra’s single that brought Tony Kubek home from second. Cincinnati regained the lead, at 2–1, in the bottom of the inning. But in the eighth, Johnny Blanchard’s pinch-hit home run retied the score at 2.
In the ninth inning, Roger Maris won the game for us when he homered off Cincinnati starter Bob Purkey. That was one of only two hits Roger would have in that World Series, but it was a key one. After losing the second game at Yankee Stadium, we had gone to Crosley Field in Cincinnati and taken the first of the three games scheduled there. We now held a 2–1 advantage in the Series.
Whitey was back on the mound for Game 4, and we won easily, 7–0. Whitey retired the first seven batters before Darrell Johnson singled in the third. The inning ended when leadoff hitter Elio Chacón grounded out to me. That out gave Whitey a streak of twenty-nine and two-thirds consecutive scoreless innings pitched in the World Series, breaking the record Babe Ruth set during the 1916 and 1918 World Series. In 1961, two of my teammates broke a big hitting record and a big pitching record, both set by Ruth.
Whitey’s streak would reach thirty-two innings by the sixth inning, when he left with an ankle injury. Jim Coates would replace Whitey and keep the shutout intact.
Even before that, in the fourth inning, Mickey had to leave the game. Roger walked, leading off the inning, and Mickey followed with a hit to left center. Roger ran around to third, but Mickey pulled up at first. His abscess had opened and begun to pour out blood. The blood seeped through the gauze and bandages wrapped around his leg and stained his uniform pants from the hip down to his knee.
Mickey immediately left the game and didn’t play again in the Series. But Roger scored to give us a 1–0 lead.
In the bottom of that inning, the Reds mounted the best chance they would have to score against Whitey. Eddie Kasko led off with a single to left field. One out later, Frank Robinson was hit by a pitch, putting runners at first and second. Then Wally Post hit a double play grounder to Tony at short. Tony’s throw was a little lower than usual. I caught the toss, made my pivot, and threw to first. But because of the low throw, I wasn’t able to make my usual jump over the runner sliding into second.
The throw to first was in time to complete the double play and end the inning. But Frank Robinson’s spikes caught me right on the ankle. By the time I had hobbled to the dugout, my sock was stained red, and I could feel blood that had run to the bottom of my shoe. I thought of Mickey limping past me in the dugout, his pants coated in blood. If he played with a hip that bad, there is no way I’m coming out of this game over a spike.
After the game I needed stitches to close the gash. That was one of only two times in my entire career that I got spiked at second base. Both came on slides by Frank Robinson.
We scored a second run in the fifth inning. I had a single in the middle of that rally, right after Whitey had walked with two outs. Whitey scored the run on a single by Tony. We scored twice more the next inning for a 4–0 lead, then put the game away in the seventh with three runs. I led off that inning with my third hit of the game. It was my second three-hit game of the Series, to go with my 3 for 4 in the opener.
Even though we had a 3–1 Series lead, with Games 6 and 7 back home if we needed them, I thought the fifth game was important going into it because of injuries on our side. Mickey hadn’t been ruled out from playing, but it certainly appeared doubtful that he would. Whitey had hurt his ankle, and it was too early to know if he would be able to come back if the Series went to seven games. Also, Yogi Berra would miss the fifth game with a stiff shoulder.
As the leadoff hitter, I wanted to get us off to a good start and set the early tone in our favor. I singled off Joey Jay to start the game. That was my one hit in six at bats that day, but if someone had told me before the game that I would get only one hit, that’s the spot I would have picked for it to come. Tony and Roger followed with fly outs, then Jay had me
dead to rights at first on a pickoff. First baseman Gordy Coleman misplayed the ball, though, and I wound up safe at second. That turned out to be huge because Johnny Blanchard, starting for Mickey, immediately homered to right field for the game’s first two runs. After that error at first that should have ended the inning, we wound up scoring five runs and knocking Jay out of the game.
We won that game 13–5 to wrap up the world championship. Whitey was named Most Valuable Player, as well he should have been, although Blanchard had a fine Series filling in for Mickey.
Whitey’s MVP award was a fitting cap to a year in which he led the American League during the regular season with a 25–4 record. Ralph had decided to go with a four-man pitching rotation instead of five during the regular season—a shrewd move that gave Whitey about ten extra starts over the course of the season. Consider that we won the pennant by eight games over an outstanding Detroit club, and the easy math tells the importance of Whitey’s ten extra starts.
Of the seven World Series that I played in, 1961 is my favorite because it was a world championship I felt I contributed to. We had won in ’58, but I played only an inning or two in most of my appearances. I had an MVP Series in ’60, but we didn’t win that one. In ’61 we won the Series, and I hit the ball as well as, if not better than, during the ’60 Series. My batting average was .391, and my nine hits set a World Series record for a five-game series that has been tied but not broken.
The funny thing is, after driving in a record twelve runs in the ’60 Series, I had absolutely zero in ’61 despite having a higher batting average. I was batting leadoff that year instead of in the lower third of the order, so there were fewer runners on base when I was batting. That shows how much a player’s records are impacted by his teammates.
I’ve talked with Yogi and Tony many times about how we thought our 1960 team was just as good as the one in 1961. We probably had even more depth off the bench in ’60. The biggest difference between how those teams are viewed is Bill Mazeroski’s home run.
Chapter 11
The Truth about the Catch
Before the final game of the 1961 World Series, Tony Kubek was greeted in the locker room by a man in a military uniform. The man handed over an envelope that contained a letter informing Tony, a member of the United States Army Reserve, that he was being called into active duty.
As a result, we played the first four months of the 1962 season without my double play partner. Tom Tresh, a rookie whose father had been a catcher in the majors, stepped into Tony’s spot and played well enough to earn American League Rookie of the Year.
By the time Tony returned from military duty in early August, we were in first place, five games up on the Minnesota Twins and five and a half games ahead of the Los Angeles Angels. After playing for about a week in left field, a position he had played at times under Casey, Tony took over again at shortstop, and Tresh moved to left field to keep his bat in the lineup. With Moose Skowron still at first and Clete Boyer still at third, our infield was back together for the pennant stretch.
We spent the rest of the summer looking into the rearview mirror as the Twins and Angels tagged closely behind us. With two weeks to go in the season, we led the Twins by three and the Angels by six and a half. The Angels slipped back slightly from there, but the Twins wouldn’t go away. Minnesota never managed to get closer than three games back, but they kept battling. We captured the American League flag by five games, winning five of our final six games to once again head into the postseason with momentum.
Wally Moses was our batting coach in 1961–62, and he had really taken a special interest in me as a hitter. Wally had produced a 200-hit season in his playing days and was widely respected around baseball for his hitting knowledge. Wally worked with my swing and stance, but for the most part he fine-tuned those skills. The biggest impact he made was in another area: my confidence. He instilled in me that I should go to the plate each time expecting to get a hit—and not just expecting, but confidently expecting.
The fruit of our one-on-one sessions came during the ’62 season, when I had the best offensive year of my career. I hit a career-high .302 for the second of my two .300 seasons. Batting first or second almost exclusively, I led the American League in at bats, with 692. I also had a league- and career-high 209 hits—the eighth player in Yankees history to reach the coveted 200-hit mark. The last had been Phil Rizzuto in 1950.
Sacrifice hits aren’t a much-touted statistic, but my twenty sacrifice bunts that season was the highest in both leagues. From my days as a young player in Sumter, I took great pride in being able to lay down a bunt when called upon by the manager. It’s rare to find a player who looks forward to seeing the bunt signal, and I certainly would have preferred to drive in a run with a hit or to advance a runner from first to third with a single rather than bunt him over. There’s little glory in a sacrifice bunt. But in a one-run game—and we seemed to find ourselves involved in many of those that season—a good bunt can help a team win.
Bunting is not difficult. In fact, I consider bunting to be more about attitude than ability. Every big leaguer lays down at least a couple of bunts during batting practice before games. But the good bunters are the ones who are actually willing to bunt. They’re the ones who put effort and concentration into their bunting practice instead of having the approach, I’ll lay down a couple of bunts real quick so I can start hitting the ball out of the park and impress people.
I was a good bunter because I wanted to be one, and I wanted to be one because I knew that was a way I could contribute to the team. I liked to bunt for hits, too. If I saw a second baseman playing deep, I’d push a bunt past the mound to where the pitcher couldn’t get it, yet not far enough to where the second baseman could field it in time to throw me out at first. If I saw a third baseman playing deep, I’d drop a bunt down the third base line and hustle my way to first for a hit.
Because of my bunting ability and because I wasn’t a power hitter, it was rare to glance over my left shoulder from the box and see the third baseman playing deep. More often than not, the third baseman played me a little closer than he would most hitters to defend a possible bunt. Bringing a third baseman in like that opens a bigger hole between shortstop and third to hit through. So my advice to any young player reading this—and any old one too, if it’s not too late—is to put serious work into your bunting. Bunting is an underrated weapon for a player to possess. Remember, bunting is more about attitude than ability.
Now that I have stepped down from my bunting soapbox, I would like to add that ’62 was a season of power, at least for me. I had career highs in doubles (thirty-eight) and home runs (eight), and my five triples were one shy of my career high. My fifty-nine RBIs also were the most of any season in my career.
That was the year of my other major league grand slam. Up until then, the 1960 Series had been my only home run with the bases loaded, but I hit another at Minnesota in August. I played more than fourteen hundred games during my career, so I have to work my memory pretty hard to call up the details of games, especially from the regular season. I don’t, however, need help recalling that one. When you hit two grand slams in a twelve-year career, those two games tend to stand out.
The Twins were in third place, six and a half games behind us. We had won two of the three games in the series, and it was the last time we would face Minnesota that season. August 16 is probably a little early for a must-win game, but for the Twins, that was about as close to a must-win game as they could have had at that point in the schedule.
It was the top of the ninth, we were trailing 7–4, and the bases were loaded with two outs. Dick Stigman was pitching for the Twins, and manager Sam Mele went out to the mound to talk with Stigman before he pitched to me.
I can imagine what Mele likely told his pitcher: “Whatever you do, don’t walk him. Look over there at who’s on deck: Maris.” I didn’t walk much anyway, hitting ahead of Maris and Mantle. But I knew that in that situation, of the next three
batters Stigman could face, I would be his first choice. He was not going to pitch around me.
During their conference, I walked back over near the dugout to the on-deck circle, where Maris was loosening up in case I kept the game going. Mickey, who was next after Roger in the lineup, came out of the dugout to me.
“I don’t feel very good,” Mickey told me. “See if you can hit one out of the park.”
Of course, I wouldn’t be telling this story if I had struck out. After taking the first two pitches for balls, I knew Stigman would have to throw me a fat strike. He could not afford to fall behind 3–0 to me. I deposited that fat strike into the seats for a grand slam and an 8–7 lead.
After I rounded the bases, touched home plate with the go-ahead run, and jogged toward the dugout, I heard Mantle laughing.
“Why are you laughing?” I asked when I met him on his way to the on-deck circle.
His reply: “I didn’t think you could do it!”
The joking was short-lived, though, because the Twins tied the game at 8 in the bottom of the ninth on Rich Rollins’s single—a broken-bat single, at that. They went on to win it in the tenth when Bob Allison scored on a hit by Bernie Allen. We lost our chance to put the Twins in an even deeper hole, and they wound up being the team that pushed at us all the way into the final week of the season.
Once we did clinch the title during the final week, Ralph Houk shuffled the lineup for Mickey’s benefit. Mickey had missed a month of the season with a leg injury. Because of that time off, his numbers were down. Mickey had struck at least thirty homers in seven consecutive seasons, but he was in danger of falling short in ’62.
Mickey had homered twice on September 18 to reach twenty-nine, but that had been his last homer as we entered the final week of the season at the end of September. For our final four games, Ralph moved Mickey from cleanup into the leadoff spot to give him more at bats. That way Mickey could have as many chances as possible to belt homer number thirty and keep his streak of thirty-homer seasons going.
Impact Player Page 12