When Morrison saw him peering down from around the front end of the car, he hollered, “What are you doing here so early?” and said that he still had a good hour’s work or more ahead of him. Abbott told him to take a break, that he had to speak to him for a few minutes. Morrison climbed the four iron steps from the oil pit, wiping grease from his hands onto a dirty blue towel.
“I saw you and your boy in that game last night. I think he’s gonna be a real fine big league pitcher,” Abbott said.
“Yeah,” Morrison answered, nodding his head up and down, “he’s got a knuckler that sure moves around. There’s no ballplayer in town that wants to hit against him. You can pull your back out trying to do something with what he throws up there.” Morrison laughed at what he had said. “He’s got all the makings. But he’s also got a good job, a souped-up Dodge, and a girlfriend right here in town. I don’t know that baseball’s so important to him that he’ll stay with it and try and catch on professionally.”
“Listen, Mr. Morrison…”
“Call me Galen. You’re a customer.”
“Okay, Galen. Let me tell you first off that I’ve been around pitching all my life. I’ve seen the best of them, the worst, and all the ones in between. Unless I’m crazy, your kid’s ready for the Majors right now, and I want him to tryout with the Browns as soon as we can get him to Chicago. If he makes it, I’d say he can earn himself $1000 a month. And I’m sure we could get the front office to pay you half that for catching for him.”
Morrison was speechless, as Abbott guessed he would be. “You heard me right, Galen. I told Moose Carlson, the manager, how you were probably the only one who could hold on to those knucklers, and he said to bring you along. Tommy pitches and you catch him. In the Big Leagues. How does that sound?”
As soon as the work on Abbott’s car was finished, he and Morrison drove over to the Gibson Filters plant. Someone brought Tommy to a room in the large office area that was empty except for a big oak desk and two chairs. Abbott closed the door.
“What’s up?” Tommy asked his father. “Someone get hurt? Is mom okay?”
“Everyone’s fine,” the senior Morrison assured him, raising his hands, palms out, for emphasis. “It’s nothing like that.” He and Abbott had agreed on the way over that it would be better for him to raise the matter with his son. He sat down on a corner of the desk. “How much you making here, a month, right now?”
“With overtime, about 350 or so, why?”
“How’d you like to make three times that much and not have to work as hard?”
“What are you talking about, Pop?”
“Tommy, this here’s Johnny Abbott. He’s the pitching coach for the St. Louis Browns. He saw what you did last night out at the park and thinks you can pitch for the Browns right now. Is that right, Johnny?”
Abbott jumped right in. “I’d bet anything on it, Tommy. You’re a natural with that knuckleball. And right now my club’s desperate for a starting pitcher to replace Art Whitlock. He tore out his elbow a couple of weeks ago, in case you didn’t read about it.” The blank stare on the younger Morrison’s face told Abbott that he probably didn’t even know who Whitlock was. He decided not to push it. “If you can do the job, it’s a thousand a month for August and September and probably a full share out of the pot if we get into the World Series. You get to be on the field with the best ballplayers in the game and you’ve got a chance to be a real hero. What do you think?”
Tommy Morrison’s answers made it clear that he wasn’t overwhelmed at all by what Abbott told him. He didn’t want to be away from his girlfriend for two months, he said. He’d visited St. Louis once with his parents and younger brother and didn’t like it at all. “Much too hot,” he said. And he figured it would be hard to make friends with players who were at least three or four years older than he was. “Besides,” he asked, “how could I be sure that Gibson would take me back when the season was over?” Before either Abbott or Galen Morrison could begin to reply, Tommy had made up his mind.
“No, I want to stay right here. Pitching’s fun when you know everybody in the stands who’s watching and you can have a few beers with the guys on the other team afterwards, but not when it’s so important to win. Playing for Gibson is good enough for me. I don’t need more money to do what I like and I’m not sure I want to be anyone’s hero.”
And that would have been the end of it if the Browns already had someone on their team who could catch a knuckleball. But they didn’t, and when Tommy found out that his father would go up to the big leagues with him and be behind the plate whenever he took the mound, that changed things around. Almost two hours later, Galen Morrison had communicated the sudden turn of events to his dazed wife and unbelieving younger son, and Tommy had comforted his girlfriend on the telephone as best he could. Father and son — suitcases packed — were in Abbott’s car, with its new muffler, heading north to Chicago. Abbott drove faster than usual, reassured by the knowledge that he had a mechanic with him in case of any other trouble. He hoped that he wouldn’t be on this same road, returning to Peoria, the next day.
The Browns lost to the White Sox that afternoon by a score of 10-5. It was a laugher for the Sox who were ahead by eight runs most of the game, giving up three meaningless tallies in the ninth inning. Abbott and the Morrisons got to Comiskey Park about a half hour after the game started, in time for the coach to put on his uniform and be in the dugout when Carlson had to pull his starter out of the game in the bottom of the third. It would have been Whitlock’s turn again to pitch in the rotation if he hadn’t been injured. Carlson was especially agitated that day, watching his team get beat again and thinking about what might have been.
As the Browns were batting in the ninth, Abbott asked whether Carlson wanted to see the new pitcher and catcher work out after the game or wait until Saturday morning.
“Let’s get it over with today,” the manager hissed. “A few of our guys look like they can use a little extra batting practice.”
“Okay, Moose, but remember that this kid pitched seven innings last night. He could be a little tired.”
“Just get this phenom of yours in a suit and out on the field. I don’t want to hear any excuses. What about the catcher, is he here too?”
“Yeah, he’s here.”
“Okay, have them both ready to go at four-thirty.”
By five o’clock, Carlson had seen enough. Tommy Morrison had thrown his knuckleball to six of the Browns’ regulars and not one of them had made solid contact. Every so often he mixed in a hard curve or a fastball to keep them off stride. Even though Carlson had hoped to see his hitters pick up some confidence in the batting cage, he let the young pitcher serve up whatever he wanted and show what he had. By the time he sent someone else out to take over for Morrison, Carlson was exuberant.
“Great pitching, kid. Johnny here was right. You got an amazing knuckler. Thing just doesn’t want to be touched. Congratulations, you just made the St. Louis Browns, and you’ll be on the hill for us Monday when we get to Detroit.”
Morrison showed no sign of excitement. “My dad’s on the team, too, right?”
Carlson didn’t understand. “Your dad? What the hell’s this got to do with your dad?”
Abbott dreaded the moment. He spoke up quickly. “His old man’s the catcher. Name’s Galen Morrison. Handles that knuckleball like a charm, doesn’t he, Moose?”
Carlson looked over at the elder Morrison, still behind the plate in the batting cage. “His father? How old is he for Chrissake?” he shouted at his pitching coach.
“Forty-two. But look at him work. You’d think he was ten years younger.”
“Goddammit, Johnny. Why didn’t you tell me on the phone you were talking about the kid’s old man? The writers would crucify me for bringing in someone his age and letting one of the younger guys go back down. I can’t do it.”
Abbott saw the expression on Tommy Morrison’s face. He knew the young pitcher was only seconds away from telling
Carlson to shove the job, that nothing could ever get him to take the mound for St. Louis. He moved over to Carlson and pulled him aside, leading him a few steps toward the outfield.
“They’re a team, Moose. If you want the kid, you take his old man. If you don’t, Tommy goes back to Peoria with him. But don’t feel like you’d be hurting the club by signing them both. You saw how he handles his kid’s knuckler, and we don’t have another catcher in the whole organization who can do it. So I think you’d better put down the welcome mat for these guys in the next half minute or you’ll be trying to figure out who else can pitch for us against the Tigers on Monday.”
Carlson looked glum. He felt he had a tiger by the tail. “Bring him over,” he said reluctantly, nodding his head toward Galen Morrison. “I guess I got no choice. And tell Rollins to write up the contracts tonight for whatever you promised them. Let’s hope these guys are the answer.”
* * *
It was a crisp, sunny October afternoon in New York. The Polo Grounds was filling up with its rabid Giants fans, all of them grateful for having been able to get tickets to the game. The lush grass that stretched all the way from home plate to the clubhouses in deep center field was resplendent. Banners could be seen hanging in every part of the ballpark. Dozens of writers and photographers roamed the area near the two dugouts looking for interviews. The constant sound of “thwack” echoed in the stands as players — taking turns in the batting cage — teed off at the soft offerings being thrown to them.
“You know, Johnny, we never would have gotten here if it wasn’t for that heap of yours breaking down in Peoria and you going to that ball game. And you wouldn’t have been driving through there at all if you didn’t have that damn thing about cigarette smoke. It’s hard to figure how some things happen.”
Carlson and Abbott were sitting in the dugout, watching their team take batting practice before the first game of the World Series. Tommy Morrison would pitch the opener for the Browns. He was being counted on, not only to start game four, but to be on the mound for the seventh game if the Series went that far. In the last two months of the season he had been fantastic, beating one team after another. He won eleven of his twelve starts, with an ERA of 1.96. His only loss came on a score of 1-0 when his father, on a whim, called for a fastball instead of a knuckler on the first pitch of the game. He regretted it moments later when the ball was hit over the left field fence. Morrison’s extraordinary performance was even more meaningful in light of the fact that the rest of the pitching staff lost a game for every one they won in the August and September stretch drive.
“Just dumb luck, Moose,” Abbott replied. He was sure the Browns would win the Series, and had already begun worrying about the next season. He knew that Galen Morrison was going to call it quits for his short career in baseball and stay in Peoria. Morrison didn’t want to be away from his family for such long periods of time, he had said, and he missed his work in the garage. Abbott knew that the team would have to trade for a catcher who wouldn’t panic on the receiving end of a knuckleball. But even if it did, he wouldn’t bet that Tommy Morrison would be willing to stay in the Big Leagues without his father. He kept telling himself to enjoy the moment; that it was his great scouting discovery that had gotten the team into the World Series, but it was difficult to do.
The New York crowd was screaming at fever pitch when their heroes batted in the first inning, intensifying the nervousness Tommy Morrison took with him to the mound. He couldn’t control the knuckleball and walked the first two batters. Galen ran out to talk to his son. Abbott got up from his seat next to the bat rack, but Carlson told him to stay in the dugout. The runners moved up a base on a slowly hit ground ball to the second baseman, and the only run of the inning scored when the cleanup hitter checked his swing on a knuckler and rolled it down the first base line for the second out. Morrison closed out the inning by throwing three straight knuckleballs past the powerful Giants center fielder.
For the next eight innings Carlson exhorted his players to get some runs, but it was in vain. The Browns had several good chances, twice putting a runner on third base with only one out, but the Giants got out of the jam each time. The final score was 1-0, the second time Morrison had been victimized that way, and Moose Carlson had to be concerned about the fact that his team lost with its best pitcher.
In the second game the next day, Warren Potter gave the Giants twelve hits and five runs, enough to lose most games. But the New York pitcher had to watch in despair as his teammates made three costly errors in the field. The miscues gave the Browns four unearned runs to go along with the three very legitimate ones that scored on third baseman George Wacker’s long home run. The 7-5 final tied the Series at one game each, and the teams had that night and part of the next morning to ride the Century Limited to St. Louis. Abbott bought a deck of cards and spent all of his non-sleeping time in the last seat of the last car, playing solitaire. It wasn’t entirely free of smoke, but the rash he got was more like goose bumps than the large, itchy hives.
It had been a while since Sportsman’s Park had seen the red, white, and blue bunting of World Series flags. They hung from the facade of the upper deck all around the field, no more than five feet apart at any location. Still others were draped over the railing of the box seats situated down the line from home to the first and third base bags. The crowd was in a festive mood from the time the gates opened two and a half hours before the game’s one o’clock starting time. They cheered loudly at the conclusion of the singing of the National Anthem by Kate Smith. The Governor of Missouri threw out the first ball and probably should have guessed from the loud chorus of boos responding to the announcement of his name over the public address system that his bid for re-election in exactly 29 days was doomed.
But all the fun and excitement ended for the Browns fans when the Giants knocked out the starting pitcher in the first inning, scoring six runs. A box seat customer told an inquiring reporter after the game that it was like seeing a brand new car come off the assembly line and get driven into a brick wall. St. Louis tried hard to catch up and was behind by only three runs after a rally in the sixth, but the Giants weren’t to be denied and won 9-5.
It was unseasonably cool in St. Louis the next day. When Tommy Morrison finished warming up and walked alongside his father from the bullpen to the Browns’ dugout before the start of game four, Carlson asked him how he felt.
“Like winning a World Series game, in case I don’t get another chance,” he answered.
Carlson smiled, showing Morrison the big gap on the right side of his mouth where two lower teeth had been knocked out in a fight with one of his own ballplayers several years earlier. “You’ll have plenty of chances, kid, for at least the next ten years.”
Whatever Morrison thought of Carlson’s reply, he took advantage of the opportunity he had that day and pitched the Browns to a 3-1 victory. It was the seventh time in the season that he had at least ten strikeouts, falling one short of his personal high of fourteen. The Giants scored their only run in the eighth inning when a knuckler snuck through Galen Morrison’s legs after dropping sharply and bouncing in the dirt in front of him. He felt bad that he had cost Tommy the shutout and told him so after the game. The Series now belonged to whichever team could win two of the remaining three contests.
The Giants and Browns both scored two runs in the second inning of game five, and the score remained that way until each team duplicated its feat in the eighth. Both clubs blew at least one good scoring chance in the next three innings. In the twelfth, the Giants pushed across an unanswered run on three seeing-eye singles through the infield. Browns fans — emotionally exhausted — filed out of the park quietly, wondering how their heroes would respond with their backs to the wall.
The team from New York had good reason to celebrate on the long train ride back to the east coast. They were ready to clinch the championship in their own park, in front of their own fans. Carlson and Abbott spent most of the trip exchanging id
eas about who would do the pitching for them in the next game. All they wanted was the opportunity to get to game seven and another chance for Tommy Morrison.
Everyone agreed afterwards that the game in which St. Louis tied the Giants at three victories apiece may have been the most exciting World Series contest ever played. It featured five home runs — two by the Giants, including a grand slam by a rookie pinch hitter named Dawson Douglas in his first at bat of the series. The Browns’ shortstop pulled off an unassisted triple play just when it appeared that the home team wasn’t satisfied with rallying from a five-run deficit but was ready to blow the game wide open. There were two incredible outfield catches on balls about to clear the fence that saved another home run by each team. And at the end, the disappointed crowd witnessed five consecutive strikeouts by Tommy Morrison who was brought into the game in desperation by Carlson when the Giants loaded the bases with one out in the eighth inning of an 8-8 tie.
The winning run for St. Louis was scored by Galen Morrison who had entered the game at the same time as his son. He walked to lead off the ninth and scored from second on a single after a hard collision at home with the Giants catcher. In the last of the ninth, the elder Morrison found that it became increasingly more difficult for him to throw the ball back to the mound. On the first two strikes to the final batter of the game, he was forced to run out to the mound, as if he had to converse with the pitcher, to hand Tommy the ball.
Carlson and Abbott both saw that Galen Morrison had a problem, even though he claimed to feel just stiffness, not pain. An hour later, X-rays confirmed that he had seriously injured his shoulder and wouldn’t be able to play in the final game. That meant that it would be futile to pitch Tommy Morrison, even if his knuckleball was as good as it had been that afternoon. The Browns had no one else who could catch it. The manager and his pitching coach had seen too many baseball games in their long careers to ever concede defeat, but they were realistic enough to know that they’d be the heavy underdog without Morrison on the mound.
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