by Mark Frost
Back in the Boston clubhouse, where he had finally retreated in the last inning, worn out, Luis Tiant settled into the whirlpool, watching the game on the training room television, an ice pack taped to his right shoulder, his long Cuban Presidente freshly lit.
Due up first, Carlton Fisk swung a bat around violently as Pat Darcy completed warm-up tosses for his third inning of work. Fisk watched Darcy throw, then turned to Fred Lynn, also loosening, who would follow him to the plate.
“I’m gonna try and hit one off the wall,” said Fisk. “You drive me in. Let’s get this over with.”
“Okay, Pudge,” said Lynn.
Lynn liked to cheat forward and to the left from the on-deck circle, so he could get a better view of home plate and a pitcher’s locations. He’d never faced Pat Darcy before and wanted to see what kind of stuff he had, so as Fisk stepped in, he leaned over to take a look.
Bench didn’t like his pitcher’s warm-ups, they weren’t popping; Darcy had lost measurable velocity, this looked like batting practice stuff. Bench glanced over at the bench, caught Sparky’s eye, and gave him the slightest shake of the head.
On the steps behind the Reds’ dugout, eyes on the field, Tony Kubek overheard Sparky Anderson then turn to his pitching coach, Larry Shepard, who was keeping their chart of the game.
“How many pitches has he thrown?” asked Sparky, looking out at Darcy on the mound.
Shep scanned the chart. “Twenty-nine.”
Sparky felt a sudden chill from the cooling night air. “Damn. He ain’t thrown that many in weeks.”
Ever since that moment in the eighth, thought Sparky, I could feel the devil getting ready to poke his pitchfork.
As he settled behind the plate, Bench shot a glance down toward third at Don Zimmer, his old coach in the Puerto Rican winter league, one of his closest friends in baseball; they’d been woofing at each other all Series, and now Zimmer was clapping his hands with a ferocious look in his eye.
He can feel it, too, thought Bench.
Fisk stepped into the box, snapping his arms back to stretch, shaking his head like a man fighting off sleep, trying to sharpen himself to full alertness. The crowd had come to life again with him, a low rumbling washed over the field. Umpire Satch Davidson leaned in low behind Bench for the pitch, his right hand resting on his shoulder.
Darcy’s thirtieth pitch of the game missed high for ball one, overheated, his stride a bit off mechanically. He hadn’t thrown a mistake that hurt him yet, and had retired six Red Sox in a row, but judging by his diminished velocity Bench knew that if they were going to survive, he’d have to coax Darcy through this inning by moving the ball around the plate. Bench signaled for the sinker, inside, and Darcy delivered. It didn’t have his usual hard kick, cutting low and inside, and probably would have finished out of the zone, a pitch most hitters couldn’t do much with, but Pudge Fisk, unusual for such a tall right-handed man, was a notorious inside/low-ball pull hitter, and that, finally, was Darcy’s one and only mistake.
Fisk saw it, liked it, reached down, and crushed it.
In the broadcast truck, director Harry Coyle tried to hail his left field cameraman, Lou Gerard, stationed inside the Green Monster scoreboard, on his headset. Fisk’s ball was headed straight down the left field line, a high towering shot, exactly the kind of flight path they’d planted a camera in there to pan up and capture. Gerard, at that moment, stood frozen in terror at his post, staring down at the biggest rat he’d ever seen in his life—the size of a frickin’ housecat—that had just crawled across his foot. Half-paralyzed with fright, he couldn’t swing his camera around; he held the close-up he’d established on Fisk.
Fred Lynn jumped up from the on-deck circle to align himself with the left field foul line, the first person in the park to realize this was going to turn out well; he jumped straight into the air. As the ball reached the apex of its flight, it began to hook to the left, toward the yellow foul pole and screen. With his great bat speed, and the way he jumped on inside pitches, Fisk hit dozens of foul “home runs” a year, and this might be another one; and in any other ballpark in baseball, absent the short left field wall, it undoubtedly would have been.
The crowd rose to its feet.
Carlton Fisk didn’t run. He turned sideways and took three abbreviated hops down the first base line, wildly waving his arms at the ball like a kid in a Little League game, urging, willing, begging it to stay fair.
Pete Rose turned and sprinted down the left field line, following the flight of the ball toward the pole, willing it to turn foul, and never saw Fisk’s dance toward first.
Tony Kubek stepped forward right into the Reds dugout, alongside Sparky and everyone else in the club, all of them craning their necks forward to keep the ball in sight.
Eyes fixed on the training room television, Luis Tiant sat up in the whirlpool. Hearing the deep rumbling about to crescendo in Fenway all the way down in the depths of the old building, Bill Lee jumped off the training table nearby and started shouting.
In the owner’s box, Tom Yawkey and Duffy Lewis stood up, their hands reaching out for each other.
In the broadcast booth, Dick Stockton, taking his turn back on play-by-play, his voice hoarse with emotion as he narrated: “There it goes, a long drive, if it stays fair…”
Thirty-five thousand people locked in a suspended passage of time—less than four seconds by the clock—and then, yes, the ball crashed off the screen near the very top of the left field foul pole.
“…home run!” finished Stockton, then wisely realized that the best thing now was to sit back and let the magic of the moment speak for itself.
Fisk rounded first by the time the ball kicked sharply back down into the glove of a motionless George Foster. Without breaking stride Pete Rose pivoted and ran back toward the dugout. Joe Morgan stayed close to second and watched Fisk carefully, making sure he touched all the bases. Fans broke out of the stands past the red-coated ushers and police security, rushed onto the tops of both dugouts, and then poured onto the field as the rest of the Reds hurried out of the way. Pat Darcy lowered his head and walked off the mound, lost in despair.
“Well, shit,” said Jack Billingham, watching the Reds’ clubhouse television.
Luis Tiant catapulted himself out of the whirlpool and sprinted for the tunnel to the dugout, whooping and hollering, Bill Lee a step ahead of him.
Sparky and the men in the dugout immediately headed for the tunnel to their clubhouse. Tony Kubek signaled his soundman, Aaron Traeger, and they rushed past the retreating Reds toward the melee on the field.
Next to the press box, organist John Kiley turned up the volume and broke into the thundering opening chords of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.”
By the time Fisk reached third, the fans on the field had started to reach him; he high-fived the first two that came toward him, then nearly straight-armed a third who stupidly stood in the base path, and by the time he jumped up and landed on home plate with both feet, the entire Red Sox team was there waiting for him, flinging their hats in the air. Satch Davidson waited to make sure Fisk touched home and then quickly moved out of the way, as fans and photographers mobbed in around them, trying to capture a piece of the moment.
Luis Tiant made it all the way down the tunnel to the back of the dugout before realizing he was wearing nothing but his jockstrap, then quickly stepped back and wrapped himself in a towel before the cameras found him.
Dick Stockton came back on the air as Fisk disappeared into the sea of people surrounding the Red Sox dugout. “Carlton Fisk becomes the first man in this Series to hit one over the Wall…the Red Sox win it in the twelfth!”
In the broadcast truck under the right field stands, NBC executive Chet Simmons, marveling at the events unfolding before him on their multiple screens, spotted the footage from Lou Gerard’s camera inside the Monster on one of their replay monitors: a close-up of Fisk as he bounced down the first base line waving at the ball, his face a kaleidoscope of emoti
on.
“What the hell is that?” he shouted. “Look at this. Put that up, Harry!”
As Fisk dropped into the dugout, director Harry Coyle had already punched up their first replay, from a camera in the left field seats, but it captured only the end of Fisk’s dance, focused on his back as he began to run and rounded first, and then Coyle went for the shot from a roving camera in the grandstand behind home that zoomed in to catch the moment of the ball ricocheting off the foul pole screen down into Foster’s glove.
Joe Garagiola, prodded back to business by Coyle on the headset, quickly announced the broadcasting particulars for what would now, in less than nineteen hours, be that night’s deciding Game Seven of the 1975 World Series, and then finally Coyle replayed the almost forgotten angle that Chet Simmons had seen from their left field camera, of Carlton Fisk’s home run swing and his hesitant, urging, ecstatic dance down the first base line, an instant classic that soon became one of the most enduring and iconic images in the history of televised sports.
In the press box, as a hundred others around him scrambled for superlatives against the sudden pressures of their impending deadlines, Peter Gammons of the Boston Globe, his senses whirling with wonder and amazement, cranked a fresh sheet of paper into his Underwood and prepared to quickly compose in a single pass one of the most lyrical, inspired, and impressionistic columns ever written about a baseball game. But first he had to ask a colleague to remind him what the final score had been.
Tony Kubek and his wireless microphone reached Carlton Fisk first, when he reemerged onto the field moments later, and for NBC’s cameras secured the first breathless interview with Boston’s freshly minted local hero. Cheeks flushed, eager and articulate, Fisk embraced and embodied the wonder he’d just inspired, a tall and handsome all-American Galahad, and at that moment, at quarter to one in the morning, in the steeple of his church in Fisk’s native Charleston, New Hampshire, bells rang out to commemorate the birth of a legend.
The crowd simply refused to leave, and when John Kiley played “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” when he saw Fisk come back onto the field, they clapped and sang along, the buoyant mood irresistible. After he finished his interview with Tony Kubek, and as NBC’s broadcast abruptly went off the air, Fisk trotted all the way around the warning track, waving and shaking hands with the faithful. As John Kiley played his entire upbeat repertoire—from “Give Me Some Men Who Are Stout-Hearted Men” to “The Beer Barrel Polka”—the transported crowd lingered in Fenway Park for another half an hour. Umpire Larry Barnett quickly changed and left the park with his armed FBI escort, and for the first time since the Armbrister incident, no one in Boston gave him a second look.
After they’d gone off the air, Dick Stockton made his way down to NBC’s hospitality tent and met up with Tony Kubek and the Reds’ Marty Brennaman, who’d just finished the network’s radio broadcast with Curt Gowdy. Everyone floated on the high of the moment, and even though the team that signed his paychecks had just lost the game, Brennaman said, “There was so much magic in the air, you just couldn’t seem to mind.” Chet Simmons came by to congratulate Dick on his outstanding work during the game; all three of them already knew it and commented on it, right then, before any ratings numbers had been tallied or rapturous columns printed, that this one game was going to bring baseball back from the dead.
“And to think,” said Stockton, “that yesterday people were saying let’s just get this thing over with.”
Press, photographers, and friends jammed around the players in the Red Sox locker room; quotes on every indelible moment were dutifully dispensed and recorded, the ineffable quickly reduced down to phrases, impressions, and snatches of narrative, most of them wholly inadequate to capture the fullness of feeling, the spiritual satisfaction derived from participating in an event that had packed so many unforgettable moments into a single night.
Darrell Johnson sat placidly at the desk in his small office, talking to the press as if his team had just won an afternoon game in April. Although he’d taken part in that mad scramble on the field after Fisk’s home run, the Red Sox manager was already back to business and appeared, oddly but characteristically, to take little pleasure in what they’d just accomplished.
Bill Lee stood calmly in the center of the maelstrom, patiently answering questions for nearly an hour after Game Six ended. Yes, of course he would be ready for tonight’s game. Yes, he thought the Red Sox could and should win this Series now.
Fred Lynn followed up a session with trainer Charlie Moss with a dip in the whirlpool; as the adrenaline wore off, his whole body felt stiff and aching from his collision with the wall, as if he’d been in a car wreck. But yes, he would be more than ready to play in Game Seven.
The resolutely modest Dwight Evans, finally stating when pushed that his game-saving catch in the eleventh had been “okay, I guess,” tried to direct reporters to give more credit to Bernie Carbo, who in the rush to celebrate Fisk’s immortal moment seemed at risk of being reduced to a sidebar. Bernie, deep into the beer and his own tangled, turbulent interior, didn’t seem to mind or even notice that thanks to Fisk’s home run he was on his way to becoming an unsung hero, pouring out a flood of flavorful prose to every reporter in the room, a lifetime’s thwarted dreams at last uncorked; manager Darrell Johnson took Bernie aside before he left that night and told him that he’d be in the starting lineup for Game Seven.
After waiting patiently for the older sportswriters to finish their work, young reporter David Israel finally found himself alone with Carlton Fisk in the locker room; still in his uniform after most of the players had showered and left, Fisk had had a little time now to reflect on everything this game and that moment had meant to him, as a New England native and a lifelong Red Sox fan. Israel had found the big story he’d sensed was out on the field that night. Staying up till dawn, he would write one of the most insightful pieces about Game Six and its intelligent, thoughtful, and most obvious hero; Israel’s future as a sportswriter was assured.
Luis Tiant walked out near one-fifteen to find his father, wearing a broad, weary grin, waiting for him outside the clubhouse—his mother and wife had left at the end of the game to get the kids home to bed on a school night—and they embraced.
“I am so proud of you,” his father whispered in his ear.
Forty years in pro baseball between them, from Havana to the Negro Leagues, Mexico, the minors, and the bigs, through disappointment, poverty, pain, loneliness, despair, and resurrection, to this pinnacle. Accepting the grateful thanks of the many fans who still lingered there, they made their way to the players’ parking lot under the right field stands, arms around each other, and lit up a couple of fresh cigars for the drive back home to Milton. Whatever happened in the final game later that day, he had now done all he could do, given every last measure of himself; Luis Tiant’s work in this World Series was over. He had his family together with him in America—there was no way his parents were going back to Castro’s Cuba after this—and that was what mattered most; dreams, on the larger scorecard, sometimes do come true.
The magic spread with them from Fenway Park as the crowd finally dispersed, filtering out into Kenmore Square and then all around Boston, horns honking, strangers embracing, tossing streamers into the trees. The Red Sox had finally shaken off their star-crossed legacy, stared down the mighty Reds and their own long, woeful history in the big games that mattered; clinching the Series now seemed a mere formality and miles away, tomorrow’s problem—that job was all but done. Dick Stockton strolled back alone to his hotel through the enlivened street scenes, soaking it all in, a whole city walking on air at one-thirty on a Wednesday October morning. When he made his way into the bar at the Lenox Hotel, Stockton was surprised to find Game Six’s winning pitcher, Rick Wise, and his wife—with his family still in St. Louis, Wise had spent most of the season living at the Lenox as well—and they shared a drink and the once-in-a-lifetime feeling that required no words whatsoever.
Ri
co Petrocelli drove himself home from the park, twenty miles to the North Shore, his wife, their four kids, his mother and father and brother all caravanning together in a happy two-car tumble. Rico hardly slept a wink that night—“on cloud nine”—his mind already racing ahead to Game Seven.
He was going to play in at least one more ball game.
IT WAS ALL matter-of-fact in the Cincinnati clubhouse. Downcast, sure, for a few difficult moments, but you lose a ball game, big fucking deal, there’s another one tomorrow, right? That was the Reds’ way: It’s just one game. Indulging in remorse or self-pity was for losers. And the first thing they always did as a team was take care of their own. Jack Billingham, who’d watched the end of it on the clubhouse television, made a point of finding his young charge, Pat Darcy, shaking his hand, and looking him straight in the eye.
“You did great out there,” said Billingham. “Shit happens. Don’t let it bother you.”
Joe Morgan came by Darcy’s locker, and then Rose. Sparky patted Darcy on the rear as he passed. “You stay ready. We might need you tomorrow.”
Sparky called them all together, ran his hands through his hair, made the short speech he was obliged to give before the press was admitted. “Great game, guys. Nothing to worry about. And we’ll do business tomorrow.”
Sparky went off to change, then Rose and Perez and Morgan and Bench jumped in and picked their team up, keeping the chatter going, any whiff of morbidity or self-doubt banished from the room. Joe Morgan dressed and showered quickly, following his disciplined routine, then gave his own speech, the last word after the reporters cleared out:
“We know what we have to do. We’re the better team, we’ve got Don Gullett going tomorrow, and we’re exactly where we want to be. Everybody get your rest, get back here, and we’ll get it done.”
They’d been “here” twice before, ’70 and ’72, and lost the World Series both times. That it could happen now again was in the back of everybody’s mind, but no one dared give a voice to it. Every man on the Machine was back on task by the time they filed out in their coats and ties and loaded into the bus for the ride back to the hotel.