Summer of '68: The Season That Changed Baseball--And America--Forever by Tim Wendel Page A
Authors: Tim Wendel
Ads: Link
soul and give him the bad news. That’s when Warden decided to stay as far away as he could from the manager.
When Warden survived the first round of cuts, a week or so into camp, he moved into the main clubhouse, alongside such stars as Lolich, McAuliffe, Al Kaline, Willie Horton, and Norm Cash. He fought the temptation to ask them for their autographs. Instead he kept his mouth shut, to the point that he became known as the quiet kid.
“Warden, we couldn’t get you to say a thing in ’68,” Kaline told the pitcher decades later. “Now we can’t get you to shut up.”
In 1968, players came to camp to actually work themselves into shape. Playing professional ball wasn’t a year-round job and most players couldn’t afford to work out at a local club or at home. Many needed a second job to make ends meet. That was especially true for a newcomer like Warden, who helped unload produce trucks at the local supermarket back home in Ohio. In the 1960s, ballplayers had only a short period of time to get up to game-speed and perform, and if they didn’t they were often sent packing.
On March 31, Warden got his chance—and he made the most of it. Against the St. Louis Cardinals, the defending World Series champions, the rookie was brought into a tie game in the ninth inning. Warden proceeded to shut down the Cards for four innings—the ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth. He struck out six and walked just one.
That evening Warden ran into Wally Moses, one of the Tigers’ coaches, in the Holiday Inn lobby at Lakeland. “You didn’t hear it from me,” Moses told the rookie, “ but you just made the ballclub today.”
Warden ran up to his room and called his mother collect. At first she didn’t realize what he was trying to tell her: that her son had leaped past Triple-A and the lower rungs of the minor leagues and would open the’68 season with the big-league club. But soon enough the two of them were laughing and crying, yelling and screaming over the phone.
“That’s the greatest feeling that a twenty-one-year-old pitcher could ever have,” Warden said. “That I was heading north with a ballclub that had only lost the pennant the year before by a single game in the final game of the season. Everybody in baseball knew they were the favorites to win it all in the American League. That they were that good and somehow I was now a part of it all.”
A few days later, the Detroit team bus pulled up to the corner of Michigan and Trumbull, the site of old Tiger Stadium. It was Monday, April 8, 1968—a mild spring evening in the Motor City. Despite the pleasant weather, the city streets were already deserted by six o’clock at night—a scene that Warden found disappointing, even a bit disturbing.
After pitching for Class A Rocky Mount in the Carolina League, following the Tigers’ pennant chase from afar, Warden had made the most of his opportunities during spring training. Always a hard-thrower, he had gained some control, even the ability to pitch out of jams on occasion. Yet making the big-league club had come as such a surprise he still needed to buy a blazer or suit jacket for road trips and team functions.
The regular season had been delayed due to Martin Luther King’s assassination in Memphis. The funeral for the civil rights leader was scheduled for the next day, April 9, with the season to begin a day later, at home against the Boston Red Sox. The ballclub had stayed in Florida through the weekend, with Warden praying that the coaches didn’t change their minds about him making the team. But somehow here he was, along with Daryl Patterson, another rookie, standing outside the regal, old-style ballpark, ready for the season to start.
Gear shuttled from the bus into the ballpark, and Warden and Patterson were able to catch a glimpse of the emerald-green grass and the distinctive two-story pavilion that rose behind home plate. Tiger Stadium wasn’t considered a pitcher’s ballpark but on
When Warden survived the first round of cuts, a week or so into camp, he moved into the main clubhouse, alongside such stars as Lolich, McAuliffe, Al Kaline, Willie Horton, and Norm Cash. He fought the temptation to ask them for their autographs. Instead he kept his mouth shut, to the point that he became known as the quiet kid.
“Warden, we couldn’t get you to say a thing in ’68,” Kaline told the pitcher decades later. “Now we can’t get you to shut up.”
In 1968, players came to camp to actually work themselves into shape. Playing professional ball wasn’t a year-round job and most players couldn’t afford to work out at a local club or at home. Many needed a second job to make ends meet. That was especially true for a newcomer like Warden, who helped unload produce trucks at the local supermarket back home in Ohio. In the 1960s, ballplayers had only a short period of time to get up to game-speed and perform, and if they didn’t they were often sent packing.
On March 31, Warden got his chance—and he made the most of it. Against the St. Louis Cardinals, the defending World Series champions, the rookie was brought into a tie game in the ninth inning. Warden proceeded to shut down the Cards for four innings—the ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth. He struck out six and walked just one.
That evening Warden ran into Wally Moses, one of the Tigers’ coaches, in the Holiday Inn lobby at Lakeland. “You didn’t hear it from me,” Moses told the rookie, “ but you just made the ballclub today.”
Warden ran up to his room and called his mother collect. At first she didn’t realize what he was trying to tell her: that her son had leaped past Triple-A and the lower rungs of the minor leagues and would open the’68 season with the big-league club. But soon enough the two of them were laughing and crying, yelling and screaming over the phone.
“That’s the greatest feeling that a twenty-one-year-old pitcher could ever have,” Warden said. “That I was heading north with a ballclub that had only lost the pennant the year before by a single game in the final game of the season. Everybody in baseball knew they were the favorites to win it all in the American League. That they were that good and somehow I was now a part of it all.”
A few days later, the Detroit team bus pulled up to the corner of Michigan and Trumbull, the site of old Tiger Stadium. It was Monday, April 8, 1968—a mild spring evening in the Motor City. Despite the pleasant weather, the city streets were already deserted by six o’clock at night—a scene that Warden found disappointing, even a bit disturbing.
After pitching for Class A Rocky Mount in the Carolina League, following the Tigers’ pennant chase from afar, Warden had made the most of his opportunities during spring training. Always a hard-thrower, he had gained some control, even the ability to pitch out of jams on occasion. Yet making the big-league club had come as such a surprise he still needed to buy a blazer or suit jacket for road trips and team functions.
The regular season had been delayed due to Martin Luther King’s assassination in Memphis. The funeral for the civil rights leader was scheduled for the next day, April 9, with the season to begin a day later, at home against the Boston Red Sox. The ballclub had stayed in Florida through the weekend, with Warden praying that the coaches didn’t change their minds about him making the team. But somehow here he was, along with Daryl Patterson, another rookie, standing outside the regal, old-style ballpark, ready for the season to start.
Gear shuttled from the bus into the ballpark, and Warden and Patterson were able to catch a glimpse of the emerald-green grass and the distinctive two-story pavilion that rose behind home plate. Tiger Stadium wasn’t considered a pitcher’s ballpark but on
Similar Books
