Game Six (18 page)

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MAZING AS LUIS TIANT’S COMEBACK FOR THE RED SOX
had been, capped by his commanding performances down the stretch of the pennant drive and throughout the playoffs, viewed in the context of what was happening in Boston during the summer of 1975 it becomes even more remarkable. A place with a long memory, built on a tradition of clearly defined class lines, Boston had evolved from a confederation of succinct and separate neighborhoods into a city that has been described, accurately, as the biggest small town in America; closely knit but cloistered and partitioned. Never as robust and vibrant a melting pot as New York, throughout its history racial and ethnic boundaries in Boston had tended to be drawn in more indelible ink. When the northward migration of African-Americans fleeing Reconstruction and the Jim Crow South in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries brought thousands to eastern Massachusetts seeking factory and manufacturing jobs, those segregated neighborhood lines became even more sharply carved in the earth. By the 1960s, as the Civil Rights Movement advanced the cause of fuller social equality, atavistic racial attitudes, often provoked by incidents of prejudicial police brutality, erupted into violence throughout the inner cities of the United States. The black neighborhood of Roxbury, where tensions had simmered near boiling for years, experienced three nights of rioting and violence in June of 1967, the summer of the Red Sox’s “Impossible Dream.” Seven years later, the flash point in Boston for
these ancient, lingering antipathies became implementation of the Supreme Court’s 1971 ruling that segregated public schools should now be integrated by forced busing of students.

The first phase of that policy in Boston had been mandated by Federal District Judge Arthur Garrity prior to the school year of 1974, and brought chaos throughout the city, particularly in Roxbury and the nearby working-class-white South Boston, known as “Southie.” Not only were disadvantaged African-American kids bused into predominantly Caucasian schools, white kids were compelled to move the other way, into crumbling, underfunded, and understaffed inner city schools. When Garrity ordered that the busing program expand into what he called Phase 2 during the fall of 1975, a move that brought some of the city’s largely white suburbs into the plan and affected another fifteen thousand students, the outcry dominated headlines in Boston and elevated tensions to dangerous levels all summer. City officials, Garrity in particular, seemed to have forgotten that Boston’s nostalgic national image as America’s historical “cradle of liberty”—the basis of its lucrative tourist trade—was actually predicated on the hardheaded, violent resistance of its citizens to “outside” government interference. That same independent and willful Yankee temperament of the region’s first patriots still hummed in the DNA of their contemporary blue-collar descendants—some at protest rallies even echoed the cries of Paul Revere by shouting: “The buses are coming, the buses are coming!”

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 drove 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.