A Nice Little Place on the North Side: Wrigley Field at One Hundred by George Will
Authors: George Will
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turnstiles at Wrigley Field were turning more and more slowly. In 1965, attendance had sunk to 641,361, an average of 7,727 per game, and the club had lost $1.3 million, which was real money in a year when the average player salary was $14,341 and the average team payroll was $573,640. Wrigley’s business model—serve cold beer in a pretty place and the score will not matter—was not working. And it was becoming expensive.
Durocher adored P. K. Wrigley: “Simply the finest man to work for in the world. The most decent man, probably, I have ever met.” Wrigley probably reciprocated Durocher’s affection because in Durocher’s second year, 1967, the Cubs were making money and finished third with a winning record (87–74), the first time they had finished in what was then called “the first division”—the top half of a league—since 1946. In 1968, the Cubs again finished third (84–78) but drew more than a million customers (1,043,409) for the first time since 1952. In 1969, they drew 1,674,993, breaking a franchise record that had existedsince 1929. They also set a Chicago record, topping the one set by Bill Veeck’s White Sox of 1960. This at a time when Wrigley Field’s capacity was just 36,667 and all games were played in the afternoon; lights were still nineteen years away. The 1969 attendance record would survive until 1984, when the Cubs played in their first postseason since 1945. Yet 1969, like 1984, would not end happily.
The Cubs started the season by winning eleven of their first twelve games and on August 7 were in first place, with a nine-game lead. But August is when the first four months of the season have taken their toll in injuries and drained energy, and before the challenge of September can revive the adrenaline of a pennant contender. Durocher, then sixty-four, was more impatient than ever to win, and he would not rest his key players, who wore down just at the moment when the “Miracle Mets”—a franchise just seven seasons old—were becoming white hot.
By September 8, the Cubs’ lead was down to two and a half games as they entered Shea Stadium for their final two away games against the Mets. They lost both, their slide accelerated, and they finished the season in second place, eight games behind the Mets, who went on to defeat Baltimore’s heavily favored Orioles 4–1 in the World Series.
The remainder of Durocher’s stay in Chicago was an exercise in disappointment, a fact that he blamed on Banks and perhaps the second-most-popular Cub of all time, third baseman Ron Santo. “Right in the middle of the lineup,” Durocher complained, “I had two men who couldn’t run.” Durocher says he tried to trade Santo butcould get no takers. What he says about Banks is scalding. He concedes that Banks was a great player in his time but adds, “Unfortunately, his time wasn’t my time.” Durocher knew how to nurse a grudge, and when he published his memoir, just three years after leaving the Friendly Confines, he offered an unfriendly assessment of Banks:
He couldn’t run, he couldn’t field; toward the end, he couldn’t even hit. There are some players who instinctively do the right thing on the base paths. Ernie had an unfailing instinct for doing the wrong thing. But I had to play him. Had to play the man or there would have been a revolution in the street.… Ernie Banks owns Chicago.… How does he do it? You could say about Ernie that he never remembered a sign or forgot a newspaperman’s name.
Durocher was just warming to his theme:
With every other player, we had the usual signs, an indicator followed by a combination. With Ernie we had to have flash signs. One sign. Like the Little League. Ernie, you’re always hitting unless we flash something at you. If I tip my hat, now you’re taking. Pull up my belt, it’s a hit-and-run. In my first year, when he could still run a little, I’d sometimes want him moving on a 3–1 count [when he was the runner on first] with
Durocher adored P. K. Wrigley: “Simply the finest man to work for in the world. The most decent man, probably, I have ever met.” Wrigley probably reciprocated Durocher’s affection because in Durocher’s second year, 1967, the Cubs were making money and finished third with a winning record (87–74), the first time they had finished in what was then called “the first division”—the top half of a league—since 1946. In 1968, the Cubs again finished third (84–78) but drew more than a million customers (1,043,409) for the first time since 1952. In 1969, they drew 1,674,993, breaking a franchise record that had existedsince 1929. They also set a Chicago record, topping the one set by Bill Veeck’s White Sox of 1960. This at a time when Wrigley Field’s capacity was just 36,667 and all games were played in the afternoon; lights were still nineteen years away. The 1969 attendance record would survive until 1984, when the Cubs played in their first postseason since 1945. Yet 1969, like 1984, would not end happily.
The Cubs started the season by winning eleven of their first twelve games and on August 7 were in first place, with a nine-game lead. But August is when the first four months of the season have taken their toll in injuries and drained energy, and before the challenge of September can revive the adrenaline of a pennant contender. Durocher, then sixty-four, was more impatient than ever to win, and he would not rest his key players, who wore down just at the moment when the “Miracle Mets”—a franchise just seven seasons old—were becoming white hot.
By September 8, the Cubs’ lead was down to two and a half games as they entered Shea Stadium for their final two away games against the Mets. They lost both, their slide accelerated, and they finished the season in second place, eight games behind the Mets, who went on to defeat Baltimore’s heavily favored Orioles 4–1 in the World Series.
The remainder of Durocher’s stay in Chicago was an exercise in disappointment, a fact that he blamed on Banks and perhaps the second-most-popular Cub of all time, third baseman Ron Santo. “Right in the middle of the lineup,” Durocher complained, “I had two men who couldn’t run.” Durocher says he tried to trade Santo butcould get no takers. What he says about Banks is scalding. He concedes that Banks was a great player in his time but adds, “Unfortunately, his time wasn’t my time.” Durocher knew how to nurse a grudge, and when he published his memoir, just three years after leaving the Friendly Confines, he offered an unfriendly assessment of Banks:
He couldn’t run, he couldn’t field; toward the end, he couldn’t even hit. There are some players who instinctively do the right thing on the base paths. Ernie had an unfailing instinct for doing the wrong thing. But I had to play him. Had to play the man or there would have been a revolution in the street.… Ernie Banks owns Chicago.… How does he do it? You could say about Ernie that he never remembered a sign or forgot a newspaperman’s name.
Durocher was just warming to his theme:
With every other player, we had the usual signs, an indicator followed by a combination. With Ernie we had to have flash signs. One sign. Like the Little League. Ernie, you’re always hitting unless we flash something at you. If I tip my hat, now you’re taking. Pull up my belt, it’s a hit-and-run. In my first year, when he could still run a little, I’d sometimes want him moving on a 3–1 count [when he was the runner on first] with
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