by Mark Frost
Working- and middle-class white resistance to what they perceived as unwanted federal meddling led to an ugly, reactionary grassroots political movement led by a former Massachusetts congresswoman named Louise Day Hicks. This accelerated the city’s rampant “white flight” to the suburbs, but disapproval of Garrity’s busing plan wasn’t confined to just one side; more than 80 percent of all Boston’s residents hated the idea. Although the program’s goals of racial equity remained admirable, at the heart of forced busing was a paternalistic and perhaps inherently racist notion that African-American children could only become better students when seated next to whites. Some progressive proponents of the plan openly admitted that, regardless of the negative stress it put on the kids involved, busing needed to be enforced simply to open people’s eyes to the massive problems facing inner city schools, and that the only way to change and improve those schools was by forcing the white community to suffer the same injustices. Judging by the results, which showed no overall improvement in student performance on either side, cost the taxpayers millions, threatened to shatter the culture of many long-standing communities, and severely disrupted thousands of families, forced busing appears in retrospect to be the classic big-government blunder that made no one’s life better. Within twenty years the entire program would be abandoned and openly acknowledged as a misguided failure, not only in Boston but around the country, but as the 1975 school year neared, with the prospect of what citizens perceived as a direct threat to their children’s education and social existence, incidents of racially motivated violence traumatized all the affected neighborhoods. As both sides increasingly demonized the other, the number of murders that summer in Boston shot up dramatically, many attributable to this lamentable rise in tensions. Trouble even spilled over to the safe haven of sports, when a racially motivated stabbing in the stands marred a Red Sox game at Fenway. The start of the school year in September had brought continued unrest, regular student walkouts, and a teachers’ strike. With hundreds of local and state police brought in to patrol troubled neighborhoods and campuses, the net result was a city on edge, left even more racially polarized and increasingly segregated. In trying to light the lamp of freedom, Arthur Garrity had instead lit a fuse in a room full of gunpowder. All of this turmoil took place during the highly publicized run-up to the country’s upcoming bicentennial celebration in 1976, in which Boston, because of its prominent place in America’s revolutionary past, was slated to play a starring role.
In the middle of this pressure cooker, almost desperate for diversion from its pervasive problems, Boston had rallied around a burly, balding black Latin-American pitcher who seemed to rise above it all, standing alone on a mound in the most public of places, radiating cool and style and grace under fire, as he led his adopted city’s team toward the redemptive prospect of a long-sought-after World Championship. Those cries of “Loo-ee, Loo-ee” that filled the summer and autumn nights at Fenway contained more than the usual fervor of sports fans’ casual idolatry; they carried the hopes and dreams of a community looking for relief from its intractable racial dilemma. Luis Tiant would be the first to tell you that he was not a political man—in most ways he was the classic first-generation citizen-immigrant, grateful for the life his new country had afforded him, eager for assimilation—and the recent storybook deliverance of his beloved parents to America had confirmed his faith in the benevolence of democratic life. He was also a realist, who knew that out of uniform and away from Fenway, unrecognized, he was still a black man who had trouble hailing a cab in downtown Boston. Racial prejudice was a part of life, and so be it; he didn’t hold any of those beliefs himself, that wasn’t how his parents raised him, and on balance he saw the bright side. If strangers perceived him as a hero, it never for a moment affected how he perceived himself, but he remained grateful for their attention and believed wholeheartedly in the golden rule. The burden he carried was more personal, and more profound.
Ever since his early days in Cuba, when he struggled to win acceptance from his father for his own desire to pitch and to get people to see him as more than just his famous father’s son, to his years in Mexico City, establishing himself as an outsider in a foreign country, to his early seasons with the Indians, in an era when Latin players were constantly undervalued, underappreciated, and underpaid, to when he was so casually and cruelly discarded by the Twins and fought his way back to the major leagues, Luis Tiant had been battling for respect. As a consummate competitor and professional, he had earned it from teammates and fans wherever he played, but that didn’t diminish his need; it remained central to who he was as a man—a man, if he works hard and his intentions are honorable, must be respected—because that respect wasn’t ultimately just for himself, it was for all the Latin players who had suffered during those decades when the highest levels of baseball remained closed to them, and for one of them in particular, the man who was sitting with his wife in the stands at Fenway watching him pitch Game Six that night, Luis Tiant Sr., who had given everything he had to this game and received nothing in return, spending the next thirty years of his life in poverty. To survive his own struggles, Luis Tiant had always lived by the code he’d learned from his father: Do your best and try your damnedest, that’s how you honor your God, your family, and the talent you were born with; the first step to earning respect from others is to respect yourself.
CENTER FIELDER Cesar Geronimo led off the top of the fifth inning for the Reds. Tiant started him with an off-speed curve, fat and up in the zone, and Geronimo hit it on the button, driving it to right field, where Dwight Evans moved two steps to his left and hauled it in for the out.
The pitcher’s spot was next; the Reds’ top pinch hitter, Terry Crowley, had for the second time come out to loosen up in the on-deck circle—Jack Billingham had already made his way back to the clubhouse, cracked open a beer, and hit the showers—but when Geronimo failed to get on base, Sparky once again called Crowley back to the dugout, saving his best left-handed bench player for a later situation when he could possibly drive in a run, and sent out reserve outfielder Ed Armbrister in his place.
Edison Rosanda Armbrister was twenty-seven, the last and least important piece of the Joe Morgan trade with Houston three years earlier. He hailed from Nassau in the Bahamas, just the fifth man from his country ever to make it to the major leagues—cricket was still king in the former British colony, which had only gained its independence in 1973—and he benefited from that island’s characteristically sunny disposition. A mid-level minor-league prospect at best, Armbrister had never played an inning for the Astros, but he fit the Reds’ need for speed, so Bob Howsam asked for him to be included, and he had spent parts of the last three seasons on the Reds’ roster as a reserve outfielder. The happy-go-lucky Armbrister could run and field any outfield position, but while appearing in fifty-nine games he’d barely hit his weight in 1975—and he only weighed 170—and driven in just two runs.
But Ed Armbrister had already earned a spot in World Series history—and Red Sox infamy—during the turning point of Game Three of the Series back in Cincinnati. After Dwight Evans tied the game at five runs apiece with a clutch home run for the Red Sox in the top of the ninth, which sent the game into extra innings, Armbrister came up to pinch hit for Reds reliever Rawly Eastwick in the bottom of the tenth, when Cesar Geronimo singled to open the inning. One of the few things the offensively challenged Armbrister could do exceedingly well was bunt, and everyone in Riverfront Stadium that night knew that he was at the plate to sacrifice Geronimo to second, in the hope that the top of the Reds’ lineup could then bring him home for the win. But Boston reliever Jim Willoughby had pitched three strong innings to shut down the Reds and keep his team in Game Three; Geronimo’s hit was only the second he’d allowed.
Tiant started Armbrister with a sidearm fastball, outside for ball one.
During his pinch-hit appearance in Game Three, Armbrister squared around to bunt on the second pitch, got his bat on the ball, and dro
ve it straight down into the dirt right in front of home plate. As it hopped almost straight back up, Armbrister took a step toward first and froze directly in the path of catcher Carlton Fisk, charging forward out of his crouch to grab the ball in midair with his bare hand in fair territory. Fisk appeared to push Armbrister out of his way, but when he fired to second to try to get the force on Geronimo, slightly off balance from their collision, the ball sailed high and right off the glove of Red Sox shortstop Rick Burleson into center field as Geronimo slid into the base below him. Geronimo hopped to his feet and kept on running, sliding into third base safely, just ahead of the alert and accurate throw from Red Sox center fielder Fred Lynn, while Armbrister advanced to second on the play. Then the fun started. Red Sox manager Darrell Johnson sprinted out of the dugout, and he and Fisk cornered home plate umpire Larry Barnett, arguing furiously that Armbrister had interfered with Fisk’s ability to field the ball, and since it had happened in fair territory, the rule book stated that Armbrister should be called out for interference, and Geronimo, who represented the winning run, should be returned to first base with one out.
Tiant’s second pitch to Armbrister also missed outside and low, two balls, no strikes.
Home plate umpire Larry Barnett stuttered defensively, but stood his ground, explaining repeatedly that in his judgment Armbrister had done nothing to “intentionally” interfere with Fisk, therefore absolving him of guilt. Darrell Johnson, a former big-league catcher who knew the rule on this backward and forward, reminded him that the rule book never mentioned “intent,” and in fact stated that the batter should be called out “whether the contact was intentional or not.” Barnett did not agree; in his opinion, the collision had not interfered with Fisk’s ability to make the throw, and his throw to second only “went wild because he threw it wildly.” Johnson pleaded with Barnett to consult with other members of his crew for help. Barnett refused, and Johnson realized he was banging his head against a wall, so he walked down the line to try to enlist the support of first base umpire Dick Stello.
Tiant’s third pitch, a sidearm fastball, just missed high, to put Armbrister ahead in the count 3–0.
While Johnson argued with Stello, NBC’s broadcasters Curt Gowdy, Tony Kubek, and full-time Reds announcer Marty Brennaman scrutinized the incident repeatedly on slow-motion replay and all agreed that Armbrister, by stepping into Fisk’s path, appeared to interfere with his ability to make a play. Darrell Johnson went back to home plate to give Larry Barnett one last earful before departing for the Red Sox dugout, defeated and angry, but Barnett’s original no-call would stand, and Fisk was officially charged with an error on his throw. Fisk, still simmering, then got into a shouting match with Dick Stello—who, as a matter of random interest, was married to a notorious exotic dancer named Chesty Morgan—and had to be separated from him by Denny Doyle and, of all people, Larry Barnett. Fisk stalked back behind the plate, kicking dirt around, picked up his mask, and went back to work in front of the home plate umpire, the two of them avoiding eye contact like a couple after a fight at a dinner party.
Tiant’s fourth pitch to Armbrister finally caught the outside corner for a strike, 3–1.
Red Sox manager Darrell Johnson came back out of the dugout to pull his pitcher Jim Willoughby from the game and bring in left-hander Rogelio “Roger” Moret to face Pete Rose, while Curt Gowdy, who had been handed the baseball rule book by his producer Jay Scott—who was himself a part-time Triple-A umpire—read the relevant rule 7.09 in its entirety on the air. After hearing the rule out loud, Tony Kubek reiterated his opinion that Armbrister had clearly interfered with and/or impeded Fisk’s ability to field the ball. While Rose waited as Moret warmed up, he heard Fisk and Barnett continuing to jaw at each other, and later said, “Fisk was the maddest I’d seen anyone in a long time—and he had a right to be—so for once in my life I decided to keep my mouth shut.” Once Rose stepped into the box, Fisk got his head back in the game and remembered they had decided to put Rose on first with an intentional walk to load the bases with nobody out. After Moret’s four throws, Rose sprinted down to first, tossing his bat to the bat boy, and Sparky sent up his best right-handed pinch hitter, Merv Rettenmund, to bat for right fielder Ken Griffey. After Moret struck out Rettenmund for the inning’s first out, Darrell Johnson moved the Red Sox infield back to double-play depth and waved in his outfielders toward the edge of the grass, giving them a chance to double-up Geronimo at home on any ball hit in the air to the shallow outfield. Joe Morgan came to the plate, worked the count to 2–1, then drove an outside fastball into the gap in left center field, where it landed well past the drawn-in Fred Lynn. Geronimo trotted home with the winning run, and just like that the Reds had won Game Three, 6–5, and taken the lead in the Series.
Tiant’s fifth pitch missed high again, and Ed Armbrister trotted down to first without ever having taken the bat off his shoulder, the second man Tiant had walked in the game.
The incident that ended Game Three in Cincinnati’s favor generated enormous controversy, and divided opinions along strict party lines: Boston’s players and fans saw only injustice; Reds supporters said Barnett’s decision was by its very nature a judgment call and couldn’t be questioned. Passions ran hot in the Red Sox dressing room afterward; a furious Carlton Fisk repeatedly slammed his mask into a wall, while many of his teammates stomped around screaming and shouting. In the postgame press conference, Fisk and Darrell Johnson continued to rip Barnett, with Fisk saying it was time to look around for better umpires while Johnson ill-advisedly suggested that Barnett might want to buy a “personal insurance policy.” Sparky Anderson admitted in the press conference that had the same call gone against him he “probably would have gone insane, but it’s over and the issue is closed.” Larry Barnett and his umpiring crew, who reviewed the play on video for an hour after the game, continued to defend his call. The next day Ed Armbrister continued to maintain his innocence, after repeatedly viewing the replay on television. Red Sox pitcher Bill Lee, always good for a pithy quote, said bitterly that “the Series is now even: one for us, one for the Reds, and one for the umps.” Editorials around the country used the incident as exhibit A for the argument that baseball should employ a policy of instant video replay. Sparky’s last wry word on the rhubarb put it all in perspective: “The fact that guys all winter in bars will be arguing over this play is good for baseball.”
The Armbrister-Fisk collision had overnight become the most scrutinized six seconds of footage since the Zapruder film—the case was reviewed the next day in criminal law classes at Harvard and Yale—but the fact remained that for the second time in a row the Red Sox had let a World Series game slip away from them in the final inning, and the outrage all the Boston players voiced afterward had as much to do with their frustration at themselves as it did with Larry Barnett. The more uncomfortable truth was that Fisk didn’t have to make that aggressive throw to second, a low-percentage play at best with the speedy Geronimo running from first on contact, and he also could have easily tagged Armbrister right there out in front of the plate or thrown him out at first. The probability remained that Fisk had tagged Armbrister in any case while trying to move him out of the way—and that Barnett missed that part of the play as well—but this was hardly even mentioned in the postmortems. If Barnett had made that call and Fisk had held on to the ball, Geronimo would have stopped at second with one out; that would have allowed the Red Sox to walk Rose, create a double-play situation, and pitch more aggressively to Griffey. They might still have gone on to lose the game, we’ll never know; as it happened, all that bile and anger stirred up about Barnett’s actions would soon have a very real and regrettable consequence.
Pete Rose came to the plate for his third at bat against Tiant in Game Six. It’s an old baseball adage that a pitcher holds an edge over hitters the first time through the lineup, while the second time through the odds even up as hitters adjust to the pitcher’s speed and style, and by the third time through, the advantage shifts
to the batter. Rose’s at bat marked the start of the Reds’ third look at Tiant in Game Six, in their third game against him in the last eleven days; the question now was could Luis Tiant continue to outfox a lineup stacked with the most professional hitters in the world, or would this be the moment they figured him out and momentum shifted back to the Reds?
On Tiant’s first pitch, Rose tried to drop a surprise drag bunt down toward third, but fouled the low-and-away fastball into the stands above the Reds’ dugout.
Umpires for the World Series used to be selected on merit by their respective leagues, but after a one-day walkout staged by the then two-year-old umpires union nearly upended the 1970 postseason, the men in blue had since bargained hard for better wages and working conditions. In 1974 their union pushed through a ruling that the World Series would henceforth be staffed by a crew drawn in random rotation from the pool of all umpires with at least six years of major-league experience, which in the minds of many players and managers simply ensured and rewarded mediocrity. By some strange luck of the draw, all six umpires for the 1975 World Series were working in their first Fall Classic. (Hearing that fact before the Series, Carl Yastrzemski had snorted contemptuously: “Then why don’t they just rotate the teams?”) Thirty-year-old Larry Barnett had been an American League umpire for seven years, garnering average reviews for his work, but by the time the World Series shifted back to Boston for Game Six, he had received a sack full of hideous hate mail for his controversial call in Game Three. An anonymous telegram had also been sent directly to his home in Prospect, Ohio, that threatened not only his life but that of his wife and two-year-old daughter. Local police immediately placed a twenty-four-hour guard on the Barnett house and family, and the FBI quickly came in to investigate at the behest of Commissioner Bowie Kuhn. Since arriving back in Boston on Friday, throughout the rain delay over the weekend, and that afternoon when he arrived at Fenway—even tonight, from in the stands, by agents stationed near where he was working the game at third base—Larry Barnett, scared half to death, had been under the watchful eyes of an FBI protective detail larger than the one that had protected former secretary of state Henry Kissinger at a game earlier in the Series.