Hairs vs. Squares Page 19

  Chicago and Oakland were clearly the best in the West, but the division was not without its stars. In Minnesota, Rod Carew—holding his thin bat so lightly it seemed to dance in his hands—led the league with a .318 batting average while Harmon Killebrew’s compact swing powered the Twins with a team-high 26 homers. Carew became the first AL player to win the batting title without benefit of a home run.

  The 1972 season saw the end of Minnesota’s celebrated brand of hardball played on the prairie. The Twins finished 77-77, and though Carew was the best hitter in the league, Killebrew was in his final season as a feared slugger and former star Tony Oliva was limited to just ten games due to an injured right knee that cut short a potential Hall of Fame career.

  The plight of Tony O., the Killer, and Carew in ’72 was captured by Terry Cashman in his song “Talkin’ Twins Baseball: Tony, the Killer and Carew.”

  Nicknamed “Killer” and “Hammerin’ Harmon,” Killebrew was one of the most prolific power hitters in history. At the time of his retirement in 1975 he had hit more homers (573) than any right-handed hitter. A thirteen-time All-Star in his twenty-two-year career and the AL’s MVP in 1969, Killebrew was a 5-foot-11, 210-pound man mountain who looked to have enough strength to squash a small bear.

  Hoisting his “Oregon Slammer” bat, which was made of maple rather than ash since maple was said to last longer, Harmon was a frightening sight for opposing pitchers and managers. Former Baltimore Orioles skipper Paul Richards said Killebrew could “knock the ball out of any park—including Yellowstone.”

  Killebrew credited his prodigious power to the chores he had growing up in Idaho in the 1950s. For four years, beginning in 1950, when he turned fourteen, he lifted and hauled ten-gallon milk cans full of milk. That, he said, would put muscles on you even if you weren’t trying.

  Soft-spoken and humble, Killebrew’s quiet dignity was a hallmark of a man who embodied not only Minnesota Twins baseball, but also baseball in the Midwest. At the time of Killebrew’s death from cancer in May 2011, Carew issued a statement in which he called his fellow Hall of Famer “a consummate professional who treated everyone from the brashest of rookies to the groundskeepers to the ushers in the stadium with the utmost respect. I would not be the person I am today if it weren’t for Harmon Killebrew.”

  Oliva said it was difficult to describe how nice Harmon was. Like Carew, Oliva described the man called “Killer” as being nice to everyone and always willing to help people. To play with Killer, Oliva remembered, was a privilege.

  In Kansas City, John Mayberry, a twenty-three-year-old wallbanger playing his first full season of big league ball, plated 100 RBIs for the Royals and was called the Chauffeur for driving so many men home. Traded from Houston to Kansas City in 1971 after the Astros acquired Lee May from Cincinnati, Mayberry struggled at first to learn American League pitchers. After forty-one games his batting average (.222) was the same as the title of a popular TV show at the time, Room 222.

  Mayberry wasn’t worried. He was going bad but making good contact. Big John was a fast learner and an intelligent hitter. Royals hitting instructor Charlie Lau said at the time that he had never seen anyone Mayberry’s age know the strike zone as well as he did. Opponents knew it and were baffled on how to pitch Big John. Red Sox rookie catcher Carlton Fisk found that Mayberry didn’t swing at many bad pitches and that although Boston pitchers tried to set him up for a pitch, Mayberry didn’t go for setup pitches. Fisk tried mixing pitch selection but finally admitted the Red Sox were stymied.

  Mayberry ended his initial AL campaign with 25 homers and a .298 batting average. The Royals’ neighbor in the new-look West, the Texas Rangers, were led by skipper Ted Williams. The Rangers lost 100 games in their first season in Texas, but another newcomer, California Angels fireballer Nolan Ryan, was trending upward.

  Ryan’s fastball, clocked at a then Guinness World Record 100.9 m.p.h., was dubbed “the Express” after the 1965 World War II action movie Von Ryan’s Express. It’s been suggested that Ryan reached 108 m.p.h. in his career, but no official reading exists. Still he is the man most consider the fastest throwing pitcher in history, faster even than celebrated fireballers like Aroldis Chapman of the Reds, who in 2013 set the MLB record for fastest pitch ever recorded at 105.1 m.p.h., and Rapid Robert Feller, who was timed at 107.9 m.p.h. in 1946, a mark MLB doesn’t recognize because it can’t verify its accuracy.

  Traded by the Mets to California on December 10, 1971, for third baseman Jim Fregosi in one of the more infamous deals in Mets’ history, Ryan blossomed on the West Coast, winning 19 games and pitching 20 complete games. He hurled a league-high 9 shutouts, tying Don Sutton and Steve Carlton for the most in the majors, and rang up 329 Ks in 284 innings, a ratio of 10.4 strikeouts per nine innings that ranked second all-time to Sam McDowell’s 10.7 in 1965. He blew away the powerful Twins with 17 strikeouts to tie a major league mark for most Ks at night and twice whiffed 16.

  Ryan was at his best in a July 9 game against the Red Sox. He struck out eight straight to tie another league record and retired 26 in a row in his second straight shutout.

  Mere stats, however, fail to do justice to the Express. Killebrew said if he was ever hit by Ryan’s heater, he would have the pitcher arrested for manslaughter. Oakland’s Sal Bando said Ryan threw him one pitch he didn’t even see. Reggie Jackson called the Express faster than instant coffee and remarked that Ryan was the only pitcher he feared.

  Jeff Torborg, an Angels catcher in 1972 who had previously played for the Dodgers and caught Koufax, thought Ryan as fast as Sandy. Catching Ryan caused Torborg to develop a bone bruise on his hand after just three pitches. The last time that had happened was when Torborg had caught Koufax the night of his perfect game.

  Former Koufax battery mate and Angels coach John Roseboro believed Ryan every bit as fast as Sandy. The difference was that Ryan didn’t mind knocking down a hitter. That was something Koufax wouldn’t do, Roseboro said.

  Before terrorizing American League batters, Ryan had been on a Mets staff that included Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman, and Gary Gentry and that had upset Baltimore in the 1969 World Series. For four seasons in New York Ryan was never able to get into a pitching rhythm; locked in a cycle between starting and relieving, he remained a wild-flinging flame thrower. In 1971 he walked seven batters every nine innings. Met management had seen enough and with the chance to snare an All-Star third baseman, sent Ryan to California.

  Angels GM Harry Dalton was so enamored with Ryan, he told those approaching him about a trade that the young ace was as much an “Untouchable” as Eliot Ness. Thriving on regular work, Ryan progressed from thrower to pitcher. In his final start of the season he went for the coveted twentieth win in a game against the A’s. Ryan pitched well, but Blue Moon Odom and Oakland won 2–1.

  The A’s run to a second straight division title wasn’t easy. They had to fight off a fierce challenge by the White Sox, and A’s skipper Dick Williams had to contend with injuries and a revolving door at second base, where eight different men played the position for Oakland during the ’72 season. A’s announcer Monte Moore said the situation at second seemed to be a takeoff on the classic Abbott and Costello bit: “Who’s on First?” In Oakland’s case, it was “Who’s on Second?”

  Williams also had to juggle an ever-changing roster, Finley making more deals than Monty Hall. The Oakland owner made sixty-two transactions that season.

  Still the A’s trailed the White Sox in late August, but Hunter’s 1–0 win over Cleveland in the Coliseum on August 29 put Oakland in first place for good. As late as September 19 the White Sox trailed the A’s by five games when they arrived in Oakland for a two-game series that marked their final meeting of the season.

  Prior to the opener Caray told his radio listeners this series was crucial for the Sox and “almost a must for the White Sox to sweep this series in order to have a chance.” Allen told Caray the Sox hadn’t given up yet. “This has been a scrappy club all year,” he said.


  Chicago’s scrappy side was on display in the opener, the Sox outlasting the A’s 8–7 in fifteen innings, with Gossage getting the win in relief thanks to a home run by rookie Jorge Orta. The A’s lead was cut to four, and if the Sox could sweep, they would leave Oakland trailing by three games with eleven to play and a more favorable schedule than the A’s. The second game of the series matched southpaw aces Holtzman and Wood. Neither proved particularly sharp, but Holtzman got the win with relief help from Fingers and homers by Jackson and Bando.

  The A’s would go 18-10 in September while the White Sox went 14-13. Hunter and Holtzman each went 5-0 in the season’s stretch run, Holtzman twice beating the rival White Sox. Holtzman had turned into one of Finley’s shrewdest acquisitions, and two other veterans, Matty Alou and Dal Maxvill, proved to be key late-summer additions. Another Finley addition was pinch-running specialist Allan Lewis, the “Panamanian Express,” who stole key bases in the drive to the division title.

  The A’s won the West on September 28 and did it in what was typically dramatic fashion for the Mustache Gang. With their magic number at one, Oakland trailed Minnesota 7–0 in the Coliseum. The swingin’ A’s battled back and eventually tied the score in the seventh on Angel Mangual’s two-run single.

  Sal Bando led off the bottom of the ninth and was hit by a pitch, bringing Maxville to the plate. Moore called the title-clinching hit:

  Maxville swings, hits a line drive, deep left-center field, it’s going all the way to the fence! Here’s Bando rounding third, he’s heading home and the A’s win the West! The fireworks are blasting away!

  It looked for a long time today as if it would never happen, but that’s not the way the A’s play. They make it happen!

  The war in the AL West was won. In the NL East, Roberto Clemente and the Pirates were making things happen as well.

  9

  Wilver Dornell Stargell was a Pirate treasure.

  A big man with a buttery, baritone voice, Stargell’s windmilling of his bat in looping, rhythmic circles between pitches is as enduring an image of signature batting styles from the summer of ’72 as Felix Millan’s hands-halfway-up-the-bat grip and Dick McAuliffe’s “foot-in-the-bucket” stance that stirred memories of Mel Ott.

  Bob Skinner, an outfielder with the Bucs when Stargell broke into the big leagues in 1962, said Stargell’s calling card was a timing device. Stargell would stand on the port side of the plate and get his bat going—one, two, three times around. But once the pitcher went into his delivery, Stargell’s bat was very still and in a cocked position. His record shows what happened after that, said Skinner.

  What happened in ’72 was that Stargell hit .293 and a team-high 33 home runs and 112 RBIs. It wasn’t his best season; the year before he had led the National League with a career-high 48 homers and in 1973 would post league-high numbers in homers (44), RBIs (119), doubles (43), slugging percentage (.646), and OPS (1.038).

  Stargell was a big bat, but the Bucs knew he was much more than that. Danny Murtaugh, who piloted the Pirates to a world title in 1971, thought Stargell was a lot like Roberto Clemente in that he led by example. He ran every play out and played hard all the time. The younger Pirate players would watch the thirty-two-year-old Stargell do things the right way and would try to follow in his footsteps. Pirates center fielder Al Oliver said the Bucs had so much respect for Stargell that if he asked them to jump off the Fort Pitt Bridge, their only question would be what kind of dive he wanted.

  “I think of Willie and those Pirate teams and we really had some good people,” Oliver remembered. “Dock [Ellis] and [Bob] Robertson and I came up and blended with [Roberto] Clemente and Stargell and [Steve] Blass, and we all got along so well. We had diversity—we were white and black and Spanish—and we all got along.”

  The previous September 1, the Pirates had made major league history by fielding a lineup made entirely of men of color: Rennie Stennett, second base; Gene Clines, center field; Clemente, right field; Stargell, left field; Manny Sanguillen, catcher; Dave Cash, third base; Oliver, first base; Roberto Hernandez, shortstop; Ellis, pitcher. Stargell was one of the leaders of this diverse team, but his road had not been an easy one; four years earlier he had stood at the crossroads of his career. There was a time when Stargell thought all there was to baseball was to show up at the stadium a couple of hours before game time, go through the usual routine, play nine innings, and go home. He talked to Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, and Stan Musial to find out what it took to give a good performance every game. Always give 100 percent, they said.

  Stargell did, at the plate and in the field. His prodigious power allowed him to own seven of the eighteen baseballs hit out of the Pirates’ old park, Forbes Field. When the team moved to Three Rivers Stadium, Stargell reached the upper-right-field deck several times. But he refused to be defined by home runs. He was embarrassed when people talked about his tape-measure drives. Stargell would reply that he was just as happy if his home run landed in the first row of seats.

  What counted even more than reaching the seats, Stargell thought, was driving in runs. Even after hitting a game-winning homer, he would announce in the clubhouse, “You take the home runs; I’ll take the RBIs.” He had seen guys hit a lot of homers and not provide maximum production. Stargell didn’t want to be that kind of hitter. He wanted to be a guy who hit with men on base. To him earning the RBI crown was more important than being the home run champion.

  He didn’t regret playing in Pittsburgh’s spacious stadiums as opposed to cozy ball parks like Atlanta’s. If he had played in a bandbox, he might have developed an arch in his swing and would have been a home run hitter rather than a line-drive hitter. If he allowed himself to think in just one direction—hitting home runs—he would be forgetting other important parts of the game. Stargell wanted to do his best in every department.

  Stargell was an outstanding fielder with a fine arm. Few who witnessed it will forget his laser-like throw from left field that cut down Baltimore’s Davey Johnson at home plate in the ’71 World Series or his leap against the wall in that same Series. Blass thought the latter was one of the great leaps for a big man. Stargell was moved back and forth between the outfield and first base several times in his career and was named an All-Star at both positions. Physically he preferred playing first base because he saved wear and tear on his knees, which didn’t have to carry his 225-pound frame around the Tartan Turf of Three Rivers Stadium. Mentally he liked playing the outfield because it meant he was involved in fewer plays than at first base and could concentrate more on his next at-bat.

  Stargell played a pivotal role in the Pirates’ pennant drive in ’71 but struggled in the postseason, going 0 for 15 in the NLCS against San Francisco and batting .208 against Baltimore. He remained cool under pressure, calm amid adversity. He had always been even tempered. He remembered his father telling him to never feel too good when things were going well and never too bad when things were going badly.

  It was sage advice for a guy whose career ran hot and cold. The summer game could be as fickle a friend as the summer wind Frank Sinatra famously sang of in the 1960s and ’70s. Stargell’s career was proof of that. He once struck out seven straight times; on another occasion he lashed five doubles in a doubleheader.

  Stargell was unchanged either way. A product of the gritty Oakland, California, ghetto, he had experienced too much to be affected by ups and downs. His father had worked at the naval air station; his mother worked as a hair dresser and in the local cannery. Growing up in Alameda on the waterfront, Stargell was exposed to temptation. He could have easily taken the wrong road; a lot of his friends did.

  Stargell’s road led him to sign at age seventeen with the Pirates for a $1,200 bonus. A year later he was leaving home and heading for the Deep South for his first pro baseball camp. The plane had a stop in Jackson, Mississippi, and when Stargell and another black player, Art Blunt, headed for the airport restaurant, they were subjected to racial taunts by the man behind the food counter. The
trip, and the indignities, continued. In Jacksonville, Florida, Stargell couldn’t stay with white players in the comfortable accommodations on the beach; instead he was relegated to “black bottom,” an inland apartment house hot as a sauna. The second floor was equipped with army cots but no other furniture. Stargell said once the lights went out, he fought roaches for his bed.

  He also battled racial intolerance. He was called “pork chop” by fans in minor league parks. He often lay in his cot at night crying. In Grand Forks, North Dakota, a small girl pointed to Stargell and Elmo Plaskette, a Virgin Islander, and told her mother she wanted a teddy bear for Christmas as black as the two men were.

  “We weren’t really human,” Stargell once said of some people’s perception of blacks. His belief was reinforced when he and Plaskette walked into a barber shop in Grand Forks and were looked at by the other customers like invaders from another planet. When the barber asked what they wanted, Stargell said they wanted a haircut. The barber looked at their tightly curled hair. “I can’t cut that stuff,” he snapped.

  Stargell found the Steel City more to his liking. James Parton once described Pittsburgh as “Hell with the lid off,” and there was a time when the Steel City—or Smoky City as some called it because the smog was so thick that street lights burned by the day—lived up to its reputation. Powered by the Irish, Italians, Germans, Hungarians, and Poles who flocked to its three riverbeds, Pittsburgh’s mills and fiery furnaces forged the steel for the Industrial Revolution; victories in World Wars I and II; and the nation’s skyscrapers, including the Empire State Building. Enough carbon and soot was coughed and belched from its processing plants that the white collars of the robber barons that ravaged its mines for coal were turned black by noontime.