by Gruver , Ed;
He learned a valuable lesson when, after winning four straight late in the season, he was sent back to the minors. The next season his attitude was 100 percent better.
When Coleman was traded to the Tigers, his attitude was as sky-high as the evening charter flight on which the deal was made in October 1970. Senators owner Bob Short was infatuated with big-name players, and he coveted Denny McLain. Detroit general manager Jim Campbell had just finished dinner on the flight from Minnesota to Baltimore in the middle of the ALCS when Short slipped him a note across the aisle. On the piece of paper was Short’s latest proposal: Coleman, Eddie Brinkman, Aurelio Rodriguez, and Jim Hannan for McLain, Don Wert, Elliott Maddox, and Norm McRae.
McLain had been suspended for half of the 1970 season and suspended again for dumping water on two writers and carrying a gun. With an opportunity to rid Detroit of baseball’s bad boy, the Tigers’ GM pulled the trigger on the deal. He spent the rest of the flight feeling as if he were flying a bit higher than the forty thousand feet other passengers were at.
It didn’t take long for Coleman to discover the difference between playing in Washington for Ted Williams and playing in Detroit for Billy Martin. Amid miserable weather in a 1970 game, Coleman had thrown a three-hit shutout and afterward recalled being berated by Williams for not throwing more sliders.
The first day of spring training with the Tigers in 1971, Coleman recalled Martin’s pulling him aside and telling him he would be his number two pitcher behind Mickey Lolich. Coleman thought Martin’s positive attitude, contrasted with Williams’s pessimism, was a big reason he won just 8 games his final season with Washington and 20 his first season with Detroit.
The twenty-five-year-old Coleman climbed the hill for Game Three wearing a long-sleeved black undershirt beneath his white home uniform with its trademark “D” in Olde English script on the left breast. Despite the brilliant sunshine bathing ancient Tiger Stadium, fall was in full swing, and players on both sides wore long sleeves and in some cases turtlenecks—those of the A’s bright green beneath their gold tops, the Tigers’ black—to guard against the dipping daytime temperatures.
It was a glorious October afternoon, and the sights and sounds of the historic old ballpark—the emerald green outfield and contrasting forest green of the outfield walls, the alternating light- and dark-brown dirt of the sunlit infield and shaded area around home plate, the bright white bases and foul lines, the blurring of men in motion on the field, the cheers and chants of the colorfully clad crowd—made the action even more vivid.
Since Tiger Stadium was a hitter’s park, that meant more often than not exciting, memorable baseball. The stands were deep in center field but reachable in right, where the distance was very short down the line, and in left. Right-center and left-center were the spots where deep drives usually flew out of the park. The overhang in the right-field corner jutted out about ten feet into fair territory and extended from the second deck over the lower stands. That area was Norm Cash’s favorite spot in Tiger Stadium, and in years past former Yankee Roger Maris, another left-handed pull hitter, had also hit many drives off the overhang. Along with the short dimensions in right- and left-center one of the reasons hitters loved to hit in Tiger Stadium was the dark background behind the pitcher. Tony Kubek, who played in Tiger Stadium, said hitters could see the ball perfectly, unlike at some ballparks where there were white shirts in the center-field crowd. The wind inside the stadium could be tricky at times, whipping on occasion from the left-field foul pole to the foul pole in right.
A’s announcer Monte Moore made note on the radio of the “beautiful fall day here in Michigan . . . bright sunshine,” and it was the latter that led to one other attribute of Tiger Stadium: the sun field in left. In that regard it was like Yankee Stadium, where the glaring sunlight and sweeping shadows made left field a notoriously difficult place to play in October and once prompted Yogi Berra to proclaim, “It gets late early out there.”
On this day both Joe Rudi and his Detroit counterpart, Willie Horton, would be staring directly into the bright glare behind the grandstand, but Oakland color analyst Jimmy Piersall, a former center fielder for several American League teams, pointed out that the main difficulty for outfielders in Tiger Stadium was the shadows that descended in late afternoon and early twilight.
Along with Moore and Piersall (whose battles with bipolar disorder led to a book and movie titled Fear Strikes Out), the A’s broadcast team included the sublime Jim Woods, one of the greatest baseball broadcasters ever. He had broken in with the Yankees in the 1950s and worked for several clubs, teaming with Prince in Pittsburgh, Mel Allen with the Yankees, Russ Hodges with the Giants, Jack Buck in St. Louis, and Ned Martin in Boston. Like Gowdy, Woods owned a low-key, friendly voice. He understood the game and let it unfold naturally but was a great storyteller when the situation called for it. Woods was known as “Possum” or, as Prince often referred to him on the air, “Poss.” The nickname came courtesy of former Yankees outfielder Enos Slaughter, who upon first meeting Woods in the clubhouse took note of his short gray hair and slight overbite and announced, “I’ve seen better heads on a possum.”
Woods noted in Game Three that Tiger Stadium had always been known as a hitter’s paradise, one favoring a left-handed batter, and taking note of the unpredictable winds, he remarked, “Anything hit up in the air today [there’s] no telling what’s liable to happen.”
With Campy out of the A’s lineup, the leadoff spot was assigned to Matty Alou, and the little left-hander pulled Coleman’s first pitch down the right-field line for a double. Al Kaline quickly fired the ball in, but Alou beat the throw with a dusty, head-first slide into the bag. It was one of a series-high four doubles for Alou, who would have eight hits overall and bat .381 over the five games, leading all hitters with ten or more at-bats.
Dal Maxvill followed with a walk, and with Joe Rudi, Reggie Jackson, and Mike Epstein set to follow, Coleman was in trouble early. Dropping his right arm down to a sidearm, almost submarine slot, the 6-foot-3 Coleman kept his cool and struck Rudi out looking. Jackson, standing in the shadows of home plate, struck out swinging. Alou stole third but was stranded when Coleman blew a high fastball past a swinging Epstein for the inning-ending strikeout and strode from the mound to raucous cheers.
In the third Alou again led off with a hit, stroking a single that was quickly run down by Kaline near the right-field foul line. Maxvill struck out swinging on an outside pitch before Rudi dipped his bat and dropped a perfectly executed bunt single up the third base line. Amid a whipping wind that stirred up a small dirt storm in front of home plate, Jackson swung violently and ripped a vicious grounder. The ball was hit so hard that it handcuffed Tony Taylor, who dropped it before recovering to toss to Ike Brown at first.
NBC replays showed Reggie crossing the bag before the ball got there, but he was called out by first base umpire Don Denkinger. In 1985 Denkinger would make arguably the most controversial call in World Series history when he ruled Kansas City’s Jorge Orta safe at first in Game Six against St. Louis. Denkinger’s disputed call set the stage for a two-run rally, and the Royals went on to win the Series in seven games.
Coleman closed out the A’s inning by tying up Epstein with an inside pitch, striking him out swinging for the second time.
Oakland put its leadoff runner on board in each of the first three frames and eventually in seven of the nine innings but failed to score. Williams thought his young A’s, overanxious for the sweep, were overswinging at the plate. Ken Holtzman, Coleman’s opposite, retired eight straight in the early innings. Holtzman was working in and out, shooting for spots. He ran into trouble in the fifth when he issued a one-out walk to Kaline. Catcher Bill Freehan, back from an injury and playing in his first game of the series, caught all of a Holtzman offering over the heart of the plate and doubled past a diving Sal Bando at third. Holtzman loaded the bases when he walked Willie Horton with a pitch that was way outside—Gene Tenace had to reach across his body t
o snag it.
Brown, glaring out at the mound behind glittering glasses, smashed a grounder that skipped under Holtzman’s glove and into center field. George Kell made the call on the Tigers’ television network: “The 1-1 pitch. . . . Ground ball through, a base hit! Here comes Kaline home, he’ll score one run! Freehan charging home, run Number Two, and the Tigers lead two-to-nothing!”
Freehan further celebrated his return when he drove an eighth-inning pitch from Bob Locker into the now shadowy lower left-field seats.
Kell: Here’s a long drive, way back, may be. . . . It’s gone! Bill Freehan has just pumped one into the lower deck in left field and the Tigers lead three-nothing!
As dugout cameras showed Martin and his coaches applauding in their navy blue nylon jackets, a man in full Bengal Tiger regalia stood among the more than forty-one thousand attendees—“bug-eyed Tiger fans,” Woods called them, “who want a victory in the worst way”—and clanged a cow bell as Freehan crossed the plate. The real Tiger, however, was Coleman.
His sidearm action had right-handed hitters flinching throughout the afternoon. Against Jackson and Epstein Coleman was mixing in a three-quarter delivery; Moore said he hadn’t seen any right-handed hurler throw as many sidearm pitches to lefty hitters all season. The result was that Coleman’s pitches were making little movements backward so that even when the A’s did connect, the ball was running in on them and taking away their power. Kell spent the afternoon punctuating his telecast with repeated calls of, “He got him on strikes!” Throwing fastballs at the letters, forkballs and curves on the corners—high heat and breaking balls all delivered from a variety of arm angles—and with his jaw working furiously on a piece of gum, Coleman went the distance to help Detroit avert a sweep. His 14 Ks were the most by an AL pitcher that season not named Nolan Ryan.
In Cincinnati later that day, another tall, mid-twenties right-hander was looking for a similar shut-down performance. Pittsburgh’s Dock Ellis took the mound for Game Four opposite fellow free spirit Ross Grimsley, a 15-game winner who had closed the season with victories in each of his final four decisions and posted a 0.63 ERA in September.
Just twenty-six years old, the enigmatic Ellis had already been a controversial figure for a couple of years. He was a California kid who had grown up in Watts hating baseball but became one of the iconic figures of his sport in the early 1970s. He was brash and bold, Charles Barkley before the world knew of Sir Charles. Dock had a sinking fastball, big curve, and big mouth. He was a talker, and his talk made national news.
Oliver found Ellis refreshingly real. In a world where it’s often difficult to find someone who is genuine, Dock was genuine. If Ellis had something to say to you, Oliver remarked, Dock would tell it to your face. “If I’ve got something to say, I’m gonna say it,” Ellis said at the time. “Nobody’s gonna shut me up.”
“Dock kept the clubhouse alive and agitated the hell out of the other team,” recalls Cash. “He was always chirping. We used him as a weapon. He was a competitor.”
A crusader for African American issues, Ellis had stated the season before that Sparky Anderson, who would be managing the National League All-Stars, would not dare start Ellis opposite “black brother” Vida Blue. Ellis received numerous letters condemning his statement, but among the letters offering encouragement was one he treasured. It was written by Jackie Robinson.
Ellis did start the All-Star Game—he surrendered the historic light-tower homer to Jackson—and went on to a 19-9 record in a season that saw him win thirteen straight. It followed a 1970 campaign in which Ellis no-hit San Diego on June 12, a game he later claimed to have pitched while on LSD.
In 1971 a Pittsburgh newspaper headline proclaimed Ellis “Probably the Most Unpopular Buc of All Time.” Ellis was used to negativity. At Gardena High School, a school of largely white students located on the outskirts of Los Angeles, he was called “Watusi” and “spear chucker.” In a minor league game in Kinston, North Carolina, Ellis fanned future Indians and Phillies manager Charlie Manuel to end the game and reacted to racial taunts from the crowd by holding his middle finger aloft as he slowly turned in a circle so that everyone could get a full view of his response.
Ellis may have been seen as a bad dude to outsiders, but those who got past his barriers saw something else. Roberto Clemente Jr. considered Dock a surrogate father. Longtime Pirates trainer Tony Bartirome couldn’t think of Ellis without thinking of his megawatt smile, his laughter in the locker room.
Ellis and Gene Alley were two of the pranksters in the clubhouse, and shouting and needling were part of the Pirate picture. “It’s all in fun,” Ellis said then. Sometimes it was misinterpreted by those who weren’t around the team all the time. Ellis chided a writer for a piece that accused Dock of “seriously needling” teammate Ronnie Kline.
He was kidding Kline, Ellis said later, but there was no kidding on the mound. Ellis credited former Negro Leaguer Chet Brewer for giving him his first step toward the majors and Kinston manager Bob Clear for providing tips on pitching. But it was former Pirates pitcher and then minor league instructor Harvey Haddix who taught Ellis the elements of his craft, including how to set up a hitter and how to keep the ball off the middle of the plate.
By the time he stared in at Reds leadoff hitter Pete Rose in the bottom of the first inning of Game Four on Tuesday, October 10, Ellis was arguably the hottest pitcher in baseball. The Riverfront crowd of just under forty thousand seemed to realize the same; Bench could sense the tension in the stadium.
The Reds reached Ellis for an unearned run in the first, the Big Red Machine playing small ball. Cincinnati bunched two singles, a sacrifice, a fielder’s choice, a stolen base (by Bench), and an error into the grand total of a single run.
Amid brilliant Indian summer weather, Cincinnati scored two more unearned runs in the fourth, and Ellis was lifted for pinch hitter Bill Mazeroski in the sixth. Though he left the game trailing 3–0, Dock hadn’t pitched badly. He scattered five hits in five innings but was betrayed by three errors, which led to all the runs against him being unearned.
The Reds blew the game open by blowing up the Bucs’ bullpen in the sixth and seventh innings. Pittsburgh’s lone counter came on a seventh-inning homer by Clemente. Otherwise Grimsley owned the Pirates.
Bench went into the day hoping Grimsley would be strong but had no idea the twenty-two-year-old would be that strong. He had speed and rhythm and was hitting the glove no matter where Bench put it. Grimsley was in just his second season in the bigs, but he had always pitched well against Pittsburgh to that point, and it seemed to Bench that Ross could throw his glove on the mound and beat the Pirates.
Still the Reds didn’t expect a complete-game two-hitter. Bench saw Grimsley as an intense, high-strung guy who hated to pitch poorly and hated to lose. That was true, but Grimsley wasn’t exactly buttoned up. He had a quirky personality, and though not as well known as early 1970s icons like Ellis, Sparky Lyle, and Bill “Spaceman” Lee, Grimsley was considered something of a flake by Anderson.
“You’re crazy,” Sparky told him in 1971, when the rookie told reporters stories of his communication with a self-proclaimed witch and indulging in superstition and good-luck charms. Anderson warned that Grimsley would be the “clown of the league” once word got out about his involvement with a witch. Grimsley didn’t care what others thought. If he thought it helped him win, why shouldn’t he keep in touch with the witch?
It wasn’t just witches and good-luck charms that gave Anderson pause. The Reds were a conservative organization, and Ross was radical. The Reds had strict rules about short hair and no facial hair; Grimsley liked to let his dark black locks grow in wavy lengths while sporting a two-day stubble. Along with his sometimes unkempt look, Grimsley was distinctive for large, bulging green eyes that, when fixed on an object, produced a piercing expression. Some found his stare unnerving and called him “crazy eyes.”
With his bulging, green-eyed glare, herky-jerky delivery, and overpoweri
ng pitching, Grimsley dispatched the Pirates in less than two hours en route to a 7–1 win. He went at them with an assortment of pitches—fastball, curve, a slider on the outside—all the while changing speeds and arm angles, delivering from three-quarters overhand and then over the top. He needed just eighty-four pitches to subdue the Pirates—eighty-four pitches and a good-luck charm, his father, Ross Sr., a former major league hurler.
“That was five times my dad has seen me win,” Grimsley said later. “He never has seen me lose.”
The Reds succeeded in retying the series, but Cincinnati suffered a setback in the seventh inning when Morgan, running out a ground ball, hit the first base bag hard and severely injured his heel. By the time he got to the clubhouse, he realized he no longer had use of that foot. It was all he could do to leave Riverfront Stadium unassisted, and he spent the night icing his foot, the pain preventing him from sleeping. The next morning, the day of the fifth and final game, Morgan figured the likelihood of his playing was all but nil.
Wednesday, October 11, 1972, marked the day the League Championship Series arrived as an event, a happening. To that point, the three-year-old series had resembled the Super Bowl in its first two years, a sideshow to the main event. In pro football, the down-to-the-wire NFL title games between Green Bay and Dallas in 1966 and ’67 were seen by most as the “real” championship, while the Super Bowl with the AFL champion was anticlimactic, a mere formality.
The situation was reversed in baseball. Baltimore had swept each of its first three league championship series in the American League; in the NLCS the New York Mets and Pitsburgh had sandwiched four-game wins around a Cincinnati sweep. Prior to 1972 the LCS was seen as a manufactured playoff lacking any real drama.