Hairs vs. Squares

by Gruver , Ed;

  Some umpires found it difficult to call a game pitched by Lolich because of the late movement on his pitches. Bill Kinnamon, who umpired American League games from 1960 to 1969, thought that just as soon as he’d made up his mind on the call, the Lolich slider would bust in there. Lolich could also make his pitches ride a bit. Kinnamon knew no one could throw a pitch hard enough to make it jump up—though some hitters swore Sandy Koufax could—but Kinnamon knew there were a few who threw hard enough to make their pitches ride. When a ball is thrown, gravity takes over, and the pitch follows a certain plane. But Lolich’s pitches broke from the plane and rode up. The ball looked like it was going down, but it wasn’t. If a hitter made up his mind on a Lolich pitch 8–10 feet from home plate, he would probably miss it. The same was true of umpires. Kinnamon eventually could call a Lolich game very well. It was, he thought, a matter of timing.

  Emmett Ashford was one umpire who timed Lolich well. An AL ump from 1966 to 1970, Ashford was behind home plate on one occasion when Lolich had a no-hitter heading into the middle innings. Mickey was throwing his roundhouse curve, and Ashford would watch the ball come around sharp and catch the plate right at the outside front corner. Lolich knew the pitch was a strike, and he also knew most umpires didn’t call it as such. Emmett, he said at the time, was the first one who did.

  By contrast, most umps found it very easy to call a Catfish Hunter–pitched game. Prior to Game Two of the 1977 World Series, home plate umpire Ed Sudol of the National League was worried because it would be the first time he umpired a game the Cat pitched. AL ump Nestor Chylak, a Hall of Fame umpire and veteran of bigger wars than those found on the baseball field—he had been in the Battle of the Bulge and had won the Silver Star and Purple Heart—calmed Sudol’s fears. “Ed, you can sit in a rocking chair and call his pitches,” said Chylak, who worked the 1972 ALCS. “He has beautiful control.”

  Lolich and Hunter were aided in Game One by dazzling defense: Reggie’s running catch in the outfield; Cash’s nifty scoop in the dirt at first base of Aurelio Rodriguez’s low throw from third; Ted Kubiak’s roaming far to his right to make a diving stop and then throwing from his knees to rob Cash of a hit.

  The game was still tied at one in the ninth when Sims, playing for Bill Freehan, doubled to right. With the left-handed Cash coming up, Williams made the move. Vida Blue strode in from the bullpen to relieve Hunter, who had pitched four-hit ball.

  Martin ordered Cash to lay down a sacrifice bunt to advance the runner to third. Cash did, and Bando fielded the perfect bunt and fired to first, but the ball was dropped by Kubiak, who was covering the bag. Williams waved in Rollie Fingers to face the right-handed Horton. Martin, his managerial wheels grinding, immediately brought in left-handed hitter Gates Brown. Brown fouled out to Sal Bando, and Martin signaled Northrup to execute a suicide squeeze. Northrup fouled it off, then bounced to Kubiak.

  A’s announcer Monte Moore called the critical play: “Count of three-and-one, Fingers throwing. . . . Northrup bounces toward Kubiak, he’s got it. . . . Over to Campaneris at second. . . . One. . . . Over to first, double play!”

  Through the ninth and tenth Fingers didn’t allow a ball to leave the infield. With one out in the Tigers’ eleventh, Kaline stepped to the plate, and Kell provided the call: “Long fly ball to deep left field. Joe Rudi going back. . . . It’s gone! The old pro, Al Kaline, has staked the Tigers to a 2–1 lead!”

  Kaline’s homer—his fourth in five games—landed almost directly in front of a banner reading, “Beware the Tigers.” Kubek thought Kaline had homered despite a good pitch from Fingers. “One ball, two strikes, [Fingers] threw a perfect pitch, low and outside, a breaking ball, and [Kaline] hit it for a home run,” Kubek said.

  Lolich headed to the hill in the eleventh to lock it down. He had retired seven straight before Bando, choking up on the bat, pulled a ground single to left and Odom came in to pinch-run for him. Epstein smacked an opposite-field single to left, and Williams sent Mike Hegan in to pinch-run for Epstein. With the right-handed Gene Tenace up, Martin emerged from the Detroit dugout and lifted Lolich for right-handed reliever Chuck Seelbach.

  Tenace squared and neatly executed a bunt that was fielded by Rodriguez, who threw to shortstop Ed Brinkman, covering the bag at third, for the force out on Odom. Brinkman’s rapid-fire throw to first for the double play pulled Dick McAuliffe—covering for Cash on the play—off the bag. Replays showed McAuliffe tagging Tenace on the back of the right thigh as he crossed the bag. When Chylak, the umpire at first base, signaled Tenace safe, McAuliffe raised his arms in disbelief, and the Tigers roared in protest.

  Williams sent lefty Gonzalo Marquez to pinch-hit for second baseman Dal Maxvill. An inning before, Marquez had told Campaneris in Spanish, “I win the game if I get to pinch hit.” Marquez’s presence in the lineup was ironic since he was with the A’s only because Jackson’s injury in August had required a left-handed hitting replacement. The twenty-six-year-old native of Venezuela had made his major league debut on August 11 and thus had been in an Oakland uniform just a month and a half. In that time he had hit .381 (8 for 21).

  Since Maxvill wasn’t much of a hitter—he batted .250 that season—and was a right-handed bat, Williams figured he’d give Gonzo a chance. With the count 1-1, Marquez fouled off the next five pitches.

  Moore: Seelbach ready. . . . Ground to right field, base hit! Here comes Mike Hegan rounding third, he’s heading home! Tenace going to third, it’s gonna be close. . . . The ball gets away! He’s coming in, he scores! The A’s win!

  Kaline fielded the ball in right and seeing he had no chance for a play at the plate on Hegan, threw to third to get Tenace. Holding down his bright green batting helmet with his right hand like a commuter holding his hat while trying to catch a train, Tenace tore around the base paths and belly flopped into third. Kaline’s peg arrived at the same time, skipped past Rodriguez, and rolled into the seemingly endless environs of foul territory that is one of the Coliseum’s trademarks.

  Gowdy told viewers Kaline had uncorked a great throw, but it was “one of those tough plays when the ball and the man arrive at third base at the same time.”

  Tenace took off for home plate, where a waiting Hegan leapt four feet in the air in celebration of the A’s dramatic 3–2 win. Kaline was charged with an error on the throw, but as bad as he felt in the aftermath, Eddie Brinkman felt worse. Choking up on his wide-handled bat, he had doubled off Hunter in the eighth. But the Detroit shortstop’s feet and legs were numb. He had ruptured a lumbar disk that would require surgery, and he would not play again in ’72.

  Williams thought it funny in the aftermath that people were looking at his pinch-hitting Marquez and saying, “Oh, that Williams, what a genius!” But Williams knew his decision had nothing to do with genius. He needed a guy who could put the bat on the ball, and Gonzo could do that.

  Oakland had seized the series lead with a come-from-behind rally, but the Reds needed no such drama to tie the NLCS the following afternoon in Pittsburgh. Franco Harris, Joe Greene, Terry Bradshaw, and the rest of the Steel Curtain Steelers were in Dallas that Sunday to take on the defending Super Bowl champion Cowboys, and because of a conflict with its NFL schedule, NBC did not televise Game Two of the NLCS. Steel Town fans filled Three Rivers Stadium for a second straight afternoon as a crowd of 50,584 filed into the big ballpark on a splendid sun-lit afternoon.

  At 1 p.m. Pirates’ 13-game winner Bob Moose fired the first pitch to Rose. The Bucs’ right-hander was 0-2 against Cincinnati in the ’72 regular season and was roughed up by the Reds in Game Two, failing to record an out while surrendering four runs in the first.

  Michaels made the series of calls that all but decided the game in the opening inning:

  Three-two [pitch] to Rose is lined into right field for a base hit, that’s his third hit in two games. Roberto Clemente gets it back in and the Reds have the leadoff man aboard.

  Three-one pitch to Morgan is batted in the hole, right side and through for
a base hit. Rose around second, on his way to third, the throw is not in time.

  Tolan lines it down the left-field line. . . . It is a fair ball, all the way to the corner! Rose scores, Morgan scores, Tolan has at least a double.

  Full count on Bench. . . . The 3-2 pitch is lined into right-center field, Clemente on the run, can’t get it. It’s up the gap and Roberto cuts it off at the warning track.

  Moose with the sign and the 1-2 pitch to Perez is swung on and grounded fair, inside first and down the right field line for extra bases! Tolan scores, Bench scores, Perez has a double and [it’s] four-nothing Reds with nobody out in the first inning.

  The Bucs battled back and chased Jack Billingham with single runs in the fourth and fifth innings. Continuing his hot hitting, Oliver ignited the comeback when he doubled and scored in the fourth. Clemente followed with an RBI groundout to Morgan in the fifth, and the Pirates cut their deficit to 4–3 when they reached reliever Tom Hall for a run in the sixth on Sanguillen’s double and Cash’s single.

  Pittsburgh would have done more damage had it not been for Hall’s superlative performance. Nicknamed “the Blade” because of his 6-foot-1, 150-pound physique, the lanky lefty was a hard thrower who could also break off a good curve. He had playoff experience, having been used as a starter and reliever for Twins’ teams that won divisional titles in 1969–70.

  Acquired by the Reds for the 1972 season, Hall thrived in Anderson’s “Captain Hook” managing style. He had gone 10-1 with eight saves in the regular season and entered Game Two in an unenviable spot—two on, two out and a 2-0 count on Stargell. Hall froze the Pirate slugger with a called third strike and went on to finish the game.

  Hall had had 134 strikeouts in 124.1 innings pitched that season and in mid-July had owned the best strikeouts-to-innings pitched ratio in the National League. “Any time you strike out more men than innings pitched,” Gowdy remarked, “you’ve got some stuff.”

  On an NBC Game of the Week that summer Hall told a national audience his strategy upon entering a game: “You’re thinking of the situation. You come in and try to get a ground ball, try to get them to hit into a double play if it’s that situation. Then, too, if you’re not having good stuff in the bullpen it’s always going through your mind that you’ll have better stuff when you get out there on the mound.”

  Hall had plenty of good stuff for the Reds in ’72, and his contributions to the club continued through the rest of the postseason. He would hurl three innings of one-hit relief in Cincinnati’s comeback victory in the pennant-clinching Game Five, save Game Six in the World Series, and overall toss eight and a third scoreless innings of relief against the A’s. Anderson always maintained that had he used Hall in late relief in Game Four in Oakland, he was certain the A’s comeback would have been blunted and the Reds would have won the Series in six games.

  Morgan backed Hall’s heroics in Game Two of the NLCS in Pittsburgh by slamming his second homer in as many days. The Pirates were trailing by two in the ninth, and as the Gunner was wont to say, were “a bloop and a blast” from tying the game. Instead Cincinnati won 5–3, Hall working the final four and a third innings to earn the victory. The Reds had accomplished what they wanted: a split in Pittsburgh. Cincinnati took comfort in the fact that the best two out of three for the pennant would take place in Riverfront Stadium.

  While Game Two in Pittsburgh had the look of a rout early on, Game Two in Oakland was nothing less than a rumble. Right-hander Blue Moon Odom and lefty Woody Fryman, both of whom had enjoyed comeback seasons in ’72, were the starters. Fryman had been 4-10 with the Phillies before being dealt to Detroit, where he went 10-3.

  The Tigers, Gowdy said, could not have won their division without Fryman. Fryman had an arthritic left elbow and was pitching with pain. He had been having difficulties early in games and needed time to get in a groove. He had a fastball that rode away from right-handed hitters and a good slider. Fryman and battery mate Duke Sims had opened the season in the National League, Fryman with the Phils and Sims with the Dodgers. When Matty Alou, who had hit .314 with the Cardinals earlier that summer, stepped in as the A’s number two hitter, the trio of National Leaguers prompted Gowdy to remark that teams often went to the opposing league to pick up players for the pennant drive.

  Just as Fryman helped Detroit, Alou did the same for Oakland. The A’s were short one good bat in the outfield to go with Rudi and Jackson, and Alou filled the void in the batting order. Gowdy called Alou a professional hitter. Moore labeled him a magician with the bat.

  On a muggy and humid but sun-soaked day in the Bay Area, Blue Moon set the side down in order in the first. Campaneris, outfitted along with his teammates in the “wedding gown” white pullovers the A’s wore on Sundays, opened the Oakland half with a single off Fryman. Unlike many base stealers, Campaneris preferred running against southpaws as opposed to right-handers because he could see the ball better. As if to prove his point, Campy swiped second and then third and scored on Rudi’s single.

  Kubek compared Campaneris to Dodgers great Maury Wills as base runners whose dash and daring put tremendous pressure on the defense. Kubek spoke from experience. As the Yankees shortstop in the 1963 World Series against Los Angeles, Kubek had experienced firsthand the tension and anxieties Wills inflicted on defenses. Campy had the Tigers infielders moving all the time; Dick McAuliffe, his opposite at short with Brinkman sidelined, was sneaking up behind Campaneris to keep him close. But in doing so, McAuliffe was also out of position for a ball hit toward short. Campy’s steals of second and third brought the edgy Tiger infield in close to cut off the run. But that allowed Rudi to slap his run-scoring single past Aurelio Rodriguez at third. Had the slick-fielding Rodriguez been playing at his normal depth, he would likely have had time to field Rudi’s scorching grounder and throw to first for the out.

  Is there another sport, Kubek wondered aloud, where a little man like Campaneris could inflict such damage? Martin knew it. Tigers pitchers were under orders to keep Campy under control. In the fifth, singles by George Hendrick, Campaneris, and Alou made it 2–0 and finished Fryman. Chris Zachary’s wild pitch allowed Campy to race home with another run. Jackson jockeyed the count, and Kubek made the call on Reggie’s slashing drive to left-center: “Base hit, could be extra bases. . . . Here comes Alou. . . . Rudi roaring into third base, he’s gonna score. . . . Jackson will be given a double, two RBIs!”

  Armed with a five-run lead, Odom was cruising. He allowed just three hits in going the distance and did not allow a runner from the fifth inning on, retiring 16 straight to close out a 5–0 win. He faced 29 batters, just 2 over the minimum, and did not walk a batter in the course of throwing 101 pitches.

  Yet life hadn’t always been so good for Johnny Lee Odom.

  Gowdy spoke of Odom’s comeback from two gunshot wounds in the off-season and from bone chips in his pitching elbow in 1970. Blue Moon had grown up playing baseball in the middle-class African American neighborhood of Macon, Georgia. His father died when Johnny Lee was just five years old, leaving his mother, Florence, to raise two older daughters and her son.

  While in grade school, Odom was nicknamed “Blue Moon” by a classmate who thought his round face resembled a moon. By the time Odom was in the ninth grade, he was already pitching for the Ballard Hudson High School varsity. In four years of prep ball Odom went 42-2 with eight no-hitters and numerous one-hitters. He twice led his team to the Georgia state championship and capped his career with an amazing performance: a 19-strikeout no-hitter in the seven-inning state title game. At the time there were twenty major league teams, and eighteen of them sent scouts to Macon.

  A’s owner Charlie Finley won out after offering a bonus of $75,000 and helping Florence cook a Southern soul meal of fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and greens and then attending Johnny Lee’s high school graduation.

  San Francisco offered Odom $40,000, and unlike the A’s at the time, the Giants were perennial contenders for the pennant. Odom, however, knew the A
’s needed pitching and figured to get to the majors more quickly.

  He figured right. In less than three months the nineteen-year-old Odom made his major league debut for the A’s on September 5, 1964. Facing an aging but still scary Yankees lineup of Tony Kubek, Bobby Richardson, Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, Joe Pepitone, Tom Tresh, Elston Howard, and Clete Boyer, Odom surrendered six runs and was gone after two innings. His next start, on September 11, went much better. He two-hit the Orioles in an 8–0 complete-game win and always considered the game a no-hitter since he said both hits—infield singles—were questionable calls by the official scorer at Memorial Stadium.

  Odom spent the next two seasons seeking better control of his sinking fastball and meeting with only mild success. In 1967 he was stunned when A’s manager Alvin Dark sent him to the minors. At the time the demotion was the biggest jolt of Odom’s career, but it also turned into a blessing. A’s minor league pitching coach Bill Posedel changed Odom’s windup and delivery.

  Kubek, who had been the first hitter Odom faced in the majors, spoke of Blue Moon’s transition from a thrower to a hitter: “He’s changed his style of pitching since he came up with the A’s,” Kubek told NBC viewers. “He was a very hard thrower. . . . He has an assortment now of different pitches—a sinkerball; what they call a ‘slop curve’ that he likes to use a lot; a good slider.”

  Odom returned to the majors and in 1968 one-hit the Orioles—Davey Johnson had a broken-bat single with two outs in the ninth—and the Senators. Opposing hitters said hitting a Moonball—Odom’s heavy, sinking heater—was like trying to hit a sinking shot put. Blue Moon complemented his sinker with a rising temper. By his own admission he was not a nice guy on the mound.