Painting the Corners

by Bob Weintraub

  By this time, McTigue already watched a couple of pitches go by. Fontaine stayed so close to first it looked like someone was holding him there with a leash. I tried to keep Jake from boiling over and hollered out to Mo to take a good lead. He stepped off a little more but I could see he was leaning towards first when Wheeler delivered to the plate. The count was in McTigue’s favor and Jake flashed the sign for Fontaine to steal on the next pitch.

  “If he don’t want to move on his own, we’ll give him a push,” Jake muttered in my direction. “He hasn’t got a stolen base in three games.”

  Fletch went through all his motions in the third base coach’s box and Fontaine knew what was on. It looked like he finally woke up. He took a good lead and began dancing back and forth with those bitsy little steps of his. He bent down lower and started shaking his hands. Wheeler saw that Mo had come to life out there, but with that kind of lead he just wanted to go after McTigue. He didn’t bother keeping Mo close. He stretched, looked over to first, and pitched to the plate. But when the ball left his hand Mo was moving back toward first instead of the other way.

  Now Jake was really hot. He grabbed a bat and slammed it down a couple of times on the top step of the dugout. He did it hard enough so that even the home plate umpire looked over to see what was going on. Jake sat down, still holding the bat, and gave Fletch the steal sign again. I was thinking to myself that if Mo didn’t go on this next one, I’d better be ready to duck real fast in case Jake couldn’t control himself.

  Wheeler tried to give McTigue a Nolan Ryan fastball on the next delivery and threw it in the dirt about a foot outside the plate. The ball went to the backstop and Fontaine moved down to second easy. Jake and I could both see he got a late start on Wheeler’s motion and would’ve been a dead duck on a good pitch. Jake didn’t say anything, but he kept the bat in his hand the rest of the game and I knew he was burning up inside. The final score was 15-5. I was ready for some kind of explosion in the clubhouse, but Jake just slammed the door to his office and was still in there when I left the park.

  Gleeson was close to perfect the next day, throwing the shutout and giving the Mets just three hits. He hadn’t shaved since the Series started, and had that real mean look on his face all afternoon. I guess Jake figured he had to show Fontaine he didn’t like what he was seeing out there because he dropped him from leadoff down to eighth in the order. He posted the lineup in the dugout without saying a word to Mo, and Mo didn’t ask any questions. We won it 3-zip, on just five hits. Things stayed peaceful the whole game because Mo went for the collar in three at bats. He made two sensational grabs out in center, one of them on a dive at the warning track. Jake didn’t say a word to him either time when he came back in.

  We flew back to New York that night and worked out a couple of hours the next day. Afterwards, Jake reminded the guys that they had a chance to become world champs by winning one more game. He warned them that the Mets would be tough to beat at home unless everyone gave a 100% out on the field. You could see that he looked a little harder at Fontaine when he said it. I knew Jake was hoping to wind up the Series in six games because he didn’t know who he’d pitch in the seventh if it got that far. There was no way he’d send Buddy Walker back out again after the way “Big W” got clobbered in game four.

  Well, you saw how close Jake got to getting his wish the next night. We pulled ahead 4-3 in the sixth on another Graboski homer and hung tough. Then it came down to Morrison getting the last three outs for us in the bottom of the ninth.

  He fanned Rivers leading off, and when he threw a couple of quick strikes past DiAngelo, it sure looked good. You could smell that championship. Everyone on the bench started moving toward the steps so we could run out on the field as soon as it was over. Then bang, bang, and it was over alright. But the Mets had pulled it out on DiAngelo’s handle hit and Richie Ross’s belt just inside the foul pole in left. It was a low fastball that Jake had called from the bench, and Ross got all of it. Morrison’s eyes almost rolled out of his head when he saw the ball take off. He just stood there, staring out at the bleachers, while Ross rounded the bases. It looked like he was hoping the ground would open up and swallow him. The fans went wild, and all of a sudden Jake had some tough decisions to make about the final game on Sunday.

  Jake couldn’t try to do anything with Fontaine that day. Mo reached twice, once on a perfect bunt when he was up there to sacrifice, and on a single in the fifth. That’s when we loaded them up with two out but couldn’t score. Mo had nowhere to go on the bases either time, with a runner on second ahead of him, so he still didn’t have a steal to show since game one.

  At seven o’clock Sunday morning Jake called me on the phone. He wanted to know what I thought of him starting Gleeson on two days’ rest. I’d been awake most of the night with the same question and told him that if I was managing the ball club, that’s the call I’d make.

  “What about the lineup?” he asked.

  Since I’d spent a few hours tossing and turning over that one too, I told Jake that if it was up to me I’d put Fontaine back at the top of the order. “He’s still 58 for 63,” I said, “and a stolen base might win this thing.” He said he’d think about it and we could talk some more on the bus on the way over to Shea.

  Everyone was a little edgy on the ride from the hotel over to the park. Jake never said a word to me. During batting practice he taped the lineup in the dugout and had Fontaine hitting eighth again. Then, just a couple minutes before I had to meet with the umps at the plate and give them our batting order, Jake called Fontaine over and asked him how he felt.

  “Real good,” Mo told him.

  So Jake said he’d changed his mind and Mo’s the leadoff hitter.

  If Mo liked the idea, he didn’t show it. “Okay” was all he said, and went back down to the other end of the dugout.

  Well, you know what Gleeson did that day, Dave. Just pitched his heart out. Jake and I both figured the most he’d be able to give us was five good innings. But there he was in the bottom of the seventh with a 2-1 lead over Saunders who was looking for his third win of the Series too. Then, just like that, Tommy gave up a base on balls and a two-bagger with two out, and the Mets had runners on second and third. Jake had a couple of pitchers loosening every inning since the fourth, and he got up to go make a change. I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but instead I told him he ought to let Gleeson try to get the last out himself.

  Jake took his time walking out to the mound. He talked things over with Tommy until the home plate ump moved out there to break it up. When Kippinger saw that Gleeson was staying in, he sent up Cody Bowman, his best lefty pinch hitter, to bat for the little second baseman. Jake looked at what we had on Bowman in the book, flipped a coin in his head and decided not to give him the intentional pass. Bowman missed on two swings and we figured Gleeson had him. Then, after a couple of teasers that Bowman wouldn’t bite on, he got the handle of his bat on an inside fastball and poked it into left, just over the infield. Both runs scored and then suddenly we were losing 3-2.

  Jake looked at me, shaking his head. I was expecting to catch hell, but all he said was, “Lucky son of a bitch, he didn’t even see it.” The pitcher was up next. Kip let him bat with the lead, so Gleeson stayed in the game and fanned him on three heaters.

  If you remember, we caught a break in the eighth and tied the game with two out on a bad-hop grounder past the shortstop. Jake was all set to call Morrison in from the pen if we didn’t score that inning. But now he asked Gleeson if he had anything left. Tommy took off his jacket right away and told Jake he could give him three more outs.

  “Then go on out there,” Jake says, and patted him on the rump. It took Gleeson ten pitches and the Mets went down one-two-three.

  So there we were in the ninth inning of the last game and the Series was up for grabs. “Let’s get some runs,” Jake hollers down the bench. “Let’s get Tommy a win and go home.” He said it like it was just another ball game in July, not the biggest
damn game of everyone’s life.

  Gleeson was scheduled to lead off, and Jake sent Wally Herman up to hit for him. The kid was the best hitter in the farm system all year and showed us a good bat in September when the club brought him up. But you could see he was a little nervous at the plate this time and got under a fastball. He showed the folks in Shea what a major-league popup looks like.

  Fontaine was next and the whole bench was talking it up, telling him to get something started. Most of them had their caps turned around backwards on their heads, like little kids. Mo saw the first baseman playing back, guarding the line on him, and dragged the first pitch between the mound and the bag. By the time Saunders got over there and picked it up, it was too late to make a play.

  Kippinger was out of the dugout like a shot. He was tapping two fingers against his left arm before he even got to the mound. The man knew a good thing when he saw it, and so far Wheeler had Fontaine’s number. Kip didn’t want to let Mo get into scoring position on a stolen base.

  While Wheeler was on his way in, Jake hollered for Gibbons to come over to the dugout from his coach’s box at first. He told him to pass the word to Fontaine that he was to go on either the first or second pitch to the plate, whichever one he wanted, but that Brandon wouldn’t be swinging at the first one. Jake also wanted Mo to make Wheeler throw over there a few times so he could study his motion some more and get a good jump.

  Gibbons went back and whispered in Fontaine’s ear. As soon as Wheeler was set to pitch, Mo took a good lead and went into his back and forth routine. He looked ready to go, and Jake was whispering, “Watch him, Mo, watch him.”

  Wheeler threw over there, medium speed, and Fontaine hopped back to the bag. As soon as the left-hander put his foot back on the rubber, Fontaine moved off and stretched the lead a little more. He was challenging Wheeler to throw it again, and slid back in when the pitcher obliged. It was a close play, but Mo had learned exactly how far he could go. He took his lead and Wheeler gave him a long look out of the stretch before kicking and pitching to the plate. Mo didn’t go, and Brandon took a ball up high.

  Jake signaled for Brandon to lay off the next pitch too. Fletch went through his motions in the third base box, and Gibbons checked in again personally with Fontaine.

  Wheeler gave Mo a couple of head fakes while his right leg was up in the air and fired a bullet over to first. Mo froze for an instant and then dived back to the bag. His fingers reached the outside corner just a split second before the first baseman’s glove came down on his shoulder. It was so close it could’ve been called either way. Mo was up in a second, as soon as the ump gave the “safe” sign, and brushed himself off. He moved into his lead and then did the same dive all over again when Wheeler kicked his leg and Mo heard Gibbons yell “Back.” But the throw over was almost a lob, and Mo knew he could have gotten back to the base easily.

  This time he didn’t bother brushing the dirt off his uniform when he got up. I figured he was embarrassed that he’d been fooled again. Wheeler was giving him that same smirk he’d shown him in game one when he picked him off.

  “Watch him good, watch him good,” Jake was humming, as Fontaine got off the base again. Wheeler got set, hesitated, and just as Jake hollered out, “Go!” threw the next one to Brandon that his catcher had to dig out of the dirt. The pitch was tailor-made for a stolen base. Trouble is Mo stayed right there on first. I didn’t believe what I was seeing out there.

  Jake was furious. He called for time, and waived Fontaine over to the dugout. When Mo got there, Jake sat him down in his own spot and turned his back to the field so the cameras couldn’t pick up what he was saying. He told me to stand next to him and hide Mo from the other angle. That’s the first time I’d ever seen something like that happening. I couldn’t help wondering what the radio and TV guys upstairs were telling the fans about it.

  “I told you to go on one of them two pitches,” Jake said in a loud voice that’s not quite a roar. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Fontaine was trying to stay calm. “I was afraid of getting picked off,” he said.

  Jake was absolutely speechless for a couple of seconds. He wasn’t even sure what Mo was telling him. He sputtered a little before he asked him, “What do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t want to be humiliated like the last time,” Mo answered. “I can’t handle it.”

  Of course, this means more to me now than it did when I first heard Mo say it. That stuff that happened to him in high school was something I knew nothing about at the time.

  “This guy’s motion has me all tied up,” he told Jake. “I can’t steal on him.”

  That would’ve been the end of it if Jake had anyone else on the bench who came close to Fontaine’s speed. He’d have told Mo to go take a shower and sent in a runner for him. But there were no rabbits sitting around, and Jake also knew what he’d be giving up in center field if Mo wasn’t out there. Pulling him out of the game wasn’t an option. Jake looked at me, shook his head a couple of times and turned back to Mo. He lowered his voice to just a shade above normal.

  “Listen, Mo, there’s 24 other guys on this club who want to be world champs, plus a few coaches, and yours truly. That means I can’t let you worry only about yourself, no matter how much it bothers you. The strategy right now is to get you on second so you can score on a hit. The next run will probably win the game and the Series. So I’m telling you again right now to go on the next pitch. Don’t worry about getting picked off. Just keep your eye on that right leg of his, and as soon as you see it pointing toward the plate, take off! You hear what I’m saying?”

  Just then the home plate umpire came over by the top step of the dugout and asked Jake if it was an official coffee break or what. Before Jake could answer, he shouted in at us, “Let’s play ball,” and started walking back.

  Jake looked at Fontaine again. “This pitch,” he said. “Have you got it straight?”

  Mo didn’t say a word. He just nodded his head up and down and got up off the bench. He started out of the dugout, then turned around and said to Jake, “This is the last time.”

  Jake sat back down and watched Mo jog out to first. “What the hell does that mean?” he asked, but he wasn’t expecting me to say anything.

  You know the rest, Dave. Mo started for second just a fraction too soon. Wheeler had him picked off dead to rights. But his cockiness must have caught up with him. Instead of just firing the ball, like he was ready to do, he tried to aim it over to first. Fortunately for us, he lost his rhythm and threw it wild past the bag.

  Mo saw what happened and ran the fastest 270 feet in his life. The right fielder was playing over toward center for Brandon and had to go all the way to the stands, past the foul line, to get the ball. He made a good throw, and the play at the plate was close, but I don’t think anything could have stopped Fontaine from scoring that run. He moved around the bases like his life depended on it, maybe like he knew it was the last chance he’d ever get to do it.

  When he came into the dugout, everyone gave him a high five or a big hug. Even Jake got up and slapped Mo’s shoulder a couple of times when he went by, but didn’t say anything to him. We got just the one run. Then Morrison came in to close it and did what he gets paid all that money to do.

  I was glad Mo caught the last out of the game on that ball up the alley no one else would have reached. Later on, after all the celebrating on the field and the champagne in the clubhouse, Mo brought the ball over to where I was dressing. He had already signed it and put the date on it.

  “Give this to Jake for me,” he said, “but hold onto it until the first day of spring training.” He winked at me, and I had a feeling even then, without knowing what I know now, that we’d seen the last of him on the club.

  A few months later, after Fontaine announced his decision to retire and concentrate on football, I got a call from his mother. I’d met her at one of our games earlier in the year. She had just learned the real reason from Mo herself a
nd told me the whole story. She felt that someone in our organization ought to know what happened to him in high school — like I told you earlier — and what kind of scars it left. And the straw that broke the camel’s back for Mo was Jake ordering him to steal off Wheeler after he told Jake he couldn’t do it. In Mo’s mind it was another white guy doing something to him he didn’t deserve, ready to embarrass him again in front of a stadium full of people. He told his mother he wouldn’t have to put up with anything like that in football, that it would just be him against whoever was covering him.

  She made me promise not to tell the story to the press because Mo didn’t want anyone’s sympathy. I also think she was afraid most people wouldn’t understand his feelings and would call him a quitter. This way, he went out as a hero and that’s how they’ll always remember him. I decided not to say a word to Jake at the time because I wasn’t sure how he’d take it. I’m gonna give him that baseball today, but I’m still not sure whether I’ll let him know what it was that kept Mo from trying to steal off Wheeler.

  And you know what, Davey? When we had the breakup party a couple of days after the Series, Mo didn’t show. He was the only one who missed it. I guess he’d already made up his mind what he was going to do. As far as I know, he left town without ever saying “Goodbye” to anyone on the club. Just stole away, you might say.

  •

  THE WAY THEY PLAY IS CRIMINAL

  •

  “It helps if the hitter thinks you’re a little crazy.”

  —Nolan Ryan

  WHAT I LIKE best about the baseball writers’ dinners I get to take in during the off-season are the questions they ask me while we’re standing around socializing and making a big hit out of the cash bar. Most of the fans who come around know I’ve done about everything there is in this game. I played fifteen years for the Dodgers in Brooklyn, coming up the same year DiMaggio did with the Yankees. When I couldn’t hit anymore and was set to retire, the front office decided I had what it took to be a big league manager. I hadn’t given it much thought before then, but I liked the idea when they threw it at me. First, though, I had to pay my dues down on the farm until the organization felt I could handle a major-league ball club and get respect from all the guys.