Ortiz, Clemente, Yastrzemski: September (and October!) memories

September, for baseball fans, creates—and brings back—some wonderful memories.

Reputations are earned.  The pennant-race games take on a less easy-going, pastoral flavor and the intensity is ratcheted up significantly.

As the 2010 season comes to a close, it’s hard not to think back on September performances that stand out.

In recent years, it would be difficult to argue that David Ortiz of the Red Sox is not the finest ‘clutch’ hitter in baseball.  He slid back early this (2010) season, but has still finished the season with good numbers.  But I’m more harkening back to the Sox championship seasons, when “big Papi” was indeed big, when it mattered, at key times during the regular season and the playoffs.

Since joining the Red Sox from the Twins some years back, he has surpassed Mo Vaughn as a slugging favorite in Boston, and more importantly, has helped lead the Sox to their first World Series championships since the days of Babe Ruth.

Ortiz’ mere presence in the BoSox lineup dictates game strategy for their opponents, particularly so in the late innings—though the notion of lefty-righty matchups seem to mean very little to Ortiz. 

Given his somewhat diminished production this year, how long this will last, of course, is impossible to say.

No one stays ‘clutch’ forever.  Even the greatest hitters can’t stay ‘in the zone’ indefinitely over the course of a season, or a career.

But Ortiz’ extraordinary performance in late-game situations brought back memories of other great performances by baseball immortals of the past.

The greatest performance I ever recall over a short period of time was from Roberto Clemente in the 1971 World Series, against the Baltimore Orioles.

I was born in 1953, and remember watching games on TV with my dad (he loved the Yankees, having watched Ruth and Gehrig, among others, in person as a young man) as early as probably 1958-’59.

The first World Series I remember was the ’60 series, when  Bill Mazeroski hit the famous game-winning home run against Ralph Terry in the bottom of the 9^th inning of Game 7 to win it for the underdog Pirates.

So, I had certainly seen Clemente play on television on occasion through the 60’s, and would have heard Pirate broadcasters (probably Bob Prince, if I remember correctly) as well, as I loved to channel surf on the old family radio long before it was called surfing.

But knowing about Clemente, and then watching him on the big stage over a 7-game series was astonishing to me.

Baltimore had that great pitching staff from the mid-60s to the mid-‘70s, and names like Jim Palmer, Dave McNally, Mike Cuellar and others come to mind.

But in that October World Series, Clemente was unbelievable, for 7 consecutive games.  He didn’t hit moon shots.  He would hit line drives to every part of the ball park.  Outside pitches would get stung to right field.  He’d pull the inside pitch.  His bat speed was remarkable, his wrists so strong to be able to drive the ball so hard the opposite way.

Without looking it up, I don’t recall what he hit, but I seem to recall it was well over .400 in the Series     .  But beyond that, his base running was spectacular and his outfield play was unbelievable.  He had an arm like I’ve never seen before or since.  (And I’ve seen many great outfield arms, from Al Kaline with the Tigers in the 60s and beyond, to a young Reggie Jackson in Oakland, Jay Buhner, Jesse Barfield, even Jose Guillen years ago.)

But no one could throw like Clemente.  Low, flat, and like a rocket from deep in right-field.

To this day, Clemente is the best all-around ballplayer I have ever seen.  In that ’71 Series he was so clutch.  And so good.

That said, the greatest day-after-day clutch performance I can recall was authored by Red Sox outfielder Carl Yastrzemski, throughout the month of September in 1967.

In the mid-‘60s, the Sox were perennial losers.  Good individual players but a second-division team, basically.  Yaz, as he was knick-named, was a good ballplayer, who had replaced the legendary Ted Williams in left field for the BoSox in 1961 or thereabouts.

But something special happened in 1967.  The Sox brought in a new manager, Dick Williams, from their Triple “A” affiliate in Toronto (the old Toronto Maple Leafs, now long-defunct).  A pitcher by the name of Jim Lonborg, a tall, hard-throwing right-hander, had what would, because of later injuries, turn out to be a career year that season.

The Red Sox were fighting with the Tigers, Twins and White Sox if I remember correctly, for first place in the American league.  This was before the days of 4 or 6 divisions.  There was only one pennant winner in the American League, one in the National League, all based on the regular season schedule.

The Sox came out of nowhere that season, but had a number of young players like Joe Foy, Mike Andrews and Tony Conigliaro, if memory serves correct.

But “the man” was Yaz.  He had an unbelievable September.  It seemed that, day after day, in the heat of a tight pennant race, he would deliver the clutch hits and plays that would push the Red Sox to victory.

His month of September was the finest prolonged stretch of excellence I had ever seen to that point as a young baseball fan, and frankly, I don’t think I’ve witnessed anything like it since.

A number of the September games in those days were day games, and I would come home from school and listen to the radio to hear about what Yaz and the Sox had done that day.  More often then not, he led the way as the Sox kept winning.

So prolific was he that by the end of the season, he had earned the “Triple Crown”, having led the American League in Home runs, RBI’s and batting average.  The last guy to do that before him was Mickey Mantle, and I don’t believe anyone has done it since.

Both Clemente and Yastrzemski were inducted into the Baseball Hall-of-Fame, and very deservedly so based on lengthy and outstanding careers.

Whether Ortiz reaches that level, we’re a ways off from knowing.  But in the interim, he has provided the Red Sox over many seasons with the kind of season-long excellence that Hall-of-Fame credentials are based on.

Vintage Sports Memories - remembering Ernie Harwell, a Tiger Stadium baseball game and going 22 innings—without food

The passing of legendary Detroit broadcaster Ernie Harwell at the age of 92 touched many people across America. He was a beloved sporting figure in Michigan, particularly, having made the state his chosen home from 1961 onwards.

As the voice of the Tigers through a changing time in America, he was a soothing, comfortable constant right through to his retirement in 2002: always engaging, warm and inviting.

I can’t match any of the thoughtfully written pieces about Harwell’s life. I did not know him, though like thousands upon thousands of others, he was a part of my life as a youngster because I grew up just across the river from Detroit. I wasn’t a Tiger fan, but listened to thousands of Tiger games on the radio in the ‘60s and ‘70s, particularly, before he reached the revered status he ultimately achieved.

As a friend wrote to me this week, he loved Harwell’s voice. That was a large part of his appeal. He was more than a play-by-play guy, The fact that he was a gentle, faith-filled man who devoted so much time to important causes and “gave back”, made his death all the sadder, but his life all the more memorable.

Though this is a “hockey blog”, I’ll share a non-hockey memory that I have. Though it has nothing to do with Harwell himself, it does have to do with the team he was broadcasting for back in 1962.

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Ours was a sports-oriented family. I was the youngest of five, including two older brothers. I was born in 1953.

Not only was I encouraged to play sports such as baseball and hockey, I was a huge fan.

When it came to baseball, my Dad was a passionate Yankees fan, just as he was an even more passionate Montreal Canadiens fan. Dad had seen Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio and many others in person on a number of occasions and told me stories time and again about some of the finest ballplayers the game had known.

In truth, I was not a Yankee fan myself. Probably because my Dad and two brothers were, I chose a different path. In hockey that meant cheering for Toronto (link to How I became a Leafs fan) instead of Montreal and in baseball, I liked the Chicago White Sox because my first favorite player was their big home-run hitting first-baseman, Ted Kluszewski

In our family our Sunday morning routine was pretty much that, a routine. Raised a Catholic, we went to Church every Sunday morning, always 10:30 Mass. We would often, after Church, take an intentional detour and drive by new sub-divisions to look at new houses being built. We particularly spent time on streets near the Essex Golf & Country Club, later to become home for the Canadian Open of golf in 1976.

We also would work in the fields, as we grew strawberries some years and also sweet corn. I mention this because this particular memory occurred in late June, 1962—after strawberry-picking season and before the sweet corn ‘harvest’.

This particular Sunday morning, we were on our way home from church. No detour this time, just a quick stop at the local market, another semi-regular stop on the way home after Sunday Mass. As Dad got back into the car after picking up a few things for breakfast, he pulled out a pair of tickets and said, “Would you like to go to a ball game today”?

I knew right away this was no ordinary game. (We often went to see the local “senior” league team play at our nearby baseball park, games which were pretty intense and would often draw hundreds of people.) This was different. I grabbed the tickets and looked to see that they were tickets to see the Detroit Tigers play the New York Yankees, that very day, at Tiger Stadium in Detroit. I was 9 years old and the happiest kid around that day.

We went home briefly and I got ready to drive with my Dad across the border from Windsor to Detroit. I can’t honestly recall, but I think we would have taken the Ambassador Bridge, instead of the tunnel. Tiger Stadium was not that far beyond the bridge. We parked the car quite a ways off, as it was cheaper.

I was so excited that morning after I found out about the tickets, I didn’t eat a thing. We arrived just as the game was about to start. Just walking through the turnstiles at a major league park was, as it no doubt still is for most youngsters, a dream come true.

I recall that we sat in the lower deck at old Tiger Stadium, way back though, to the right of home plate. That day, the “Yankee killer” Frank Larry, started on the mound for the Tigers and Bob Turley started for the Yankees. Both were excellent pitchers but on this day both were knocked out of the game very early on.

One of my vivid memories of my first game was that Roger Maris played (who had hit a record-breaking 61 home runs the season before) center field (he was usually a right-fielder) for at least some of the game, and he made two great over the shoulder catches on deep balls hit by Tiger catcher Dick Brown. I have little memory about seeing Mickey Mantle, the Yankees star center-fielder. I believe he started the game but left early because of his leg problems.

Anyone who has ever been to a major league game knows that one of the thrills of going to a game is having a “ball park frank”, a good old-fashioned hotdog. Now, I no longer eat meat, but in those days I could pack away hot dogs as well as any kid. I started agitating for a hot dog from probably the third inning on. My mother had even slipped me some money on the way out the door (she knew my Dad was not one to spend unnecessarily). But my Dad wouldn’t budge. He started by saying, “let’s wait a while”, hoping, no doubt, I would eventually give up.

Regardless, I didn’t stop asking for my hot dog, and dad relented, by about the 7th inning. Back we went to stand in line. Then back to our seats with one hot dog each—no mustard, no ketchup, no drink, nothing. Dad didn’t want to miss any of the game.

I had eaten it by the time I was settled back in my seat. It was the first thing I had eaten all day.

It is important to understand that, as an unspoken trade-off, I was cheering that day for the Yankees. I guess I figured it was the least I could do since my Dad was nice enough to surprise me with tickets to my first ever game. So I yelled loudly for the Yankees, for all the guys I usually cheered privately against (largely because of my Dad and brothers and the fact that the Yankees won all the time back then).

So I was hoping my good behaviour would bring me some kind of bonus. Maybe another hot dog. Dad said no. I offered to use my own money—at least the money my mom had slipped me—but all he would say is, “They won’t take your Canadian money.” As I look back now, I think Diefenbaker was Prime Minister in Canada, and our dollar was worth more than the U.S. dollar, but regardless, I lost the debate.

The game went into extra innings. I’d keep asking for more food, and was surrounded by people who seemed to spend the entire afternoon eating, either food they had brought from home or from the concession stands. That didn’t help my hunger.

So we’re in extra innings and I’m starving. Dad keeps saying, “The game will end any minute now…we’ll eat when we go home”. Well, the game lasted a total of 22 innings. 7 full hours. Finally a back-up infielder named Phil Linz hit a (the most famous and one of the few in his entire career) home run to left field, and the game ended when the Tigers failed to score in the bottom of the 22nd inning.

The game set a record for the longest single-game in baseball history. The record stood for a very long time. It’s still in the history books, if I’m not mistaken, though other games may have lasted a bit longer since. It had started at 1:30 in the afternoon, and finished at 8:30 that night. By the time we filed out of the stadium, got back to where we had parked (far away from the field to save a few dollars), navigated through customs and were finally home, it was past 10 o’clock. My Mom was in bed. There was no food prepared, no “left-over” supper or anything.

I was hungry—real, real hungry. From bed, mom said, “I thought you would have eaten at the game”.

So had I.

Hey, it was a wonderful day. Great game. In fact, a record-breaking game. My first ever. It was a game I’ll never completely forget, because it was indeed my first. And I never let Dad forget, until the day he died in 1985, that I ate only one hot dog in 22 innings.