THE 1969 MIRACLE METS: THE IMPROBABLE STORY OF THE WORLD’S GREATEST UNDERDOG TEAM by Steven Travers Page B
Authors: Steven Travers
Tags: Baseball
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game and its
traditions, and to Mets fans number 41 began to represent the sort
of idol Whitey Ford and Mickey Mantle meant to Yankee supporters.
They chanted “Seav- uh” as he mowed hitters down at Shea
Stadium.
Seaver studied opponents and maintained
detailed scouting reports. His dedication was total, but he also
smiled and joked around. He was the quintessential “fan” living the
fantasy of playing in the Major Leagues. Almost all big leaguers
were high schools superstars who took their ability for granted,
strutting around like they owned the place. Seaver was still
pinching himself. Not only was he privileged to wear the uniform,
he was the ace of the staff! On a bad team he was a “stopper” whose
victories ended losing streaks.
“There was an aura of defeatism about the
team, a feeling of let’s get it over with,” Seaver recalled. “I
noticed that the team seemed to play better when I pitched but . .
. that wasn’t right and I said so. I probably got a few people mad,
but I went around and told the guys that if they did that for me
and not for somebody else, it was wrong.”
“When Seaver’s pitching, these guys plain
work a little harder,” noted catcher Jerry Grote.
“You notice his concentration out there on
the mound when he’s pitching,” said Bud Harrelson. “And playing
behind him, you try to match it.”
His performance in the All-Star Game filled
him with not just pride and confidence, but inspired him to try and
instill that same attitude in his teammates. He became the
undisputed leader of the young Mets. After one dismal game he stood
on a stool and announced: “Gentlemen, after watching that
performance, I would like to take this opportunity to announce my
retirement from the game of baseball.” If he pitched well but lost
for lack of support he took the weight of defeat on his own
shoulders.
“I just don’t feel I’m pitching as well as I
can,” he lamented. “A mistake here . . . a mistake there . . . they
add up. You wonder when you’re going to come on and start
eliminating the mistakes.”
He was a perfectionist, a trait he inherited
from his father. It applied to every aspect of his life; the way he
dressed, the way he conducted his marriage, his life. He expressed
admiration at brother Charles’s sculptures, since he could attain a
sense of perfection in the work that seemed impossible in the
messy, up-and-down competition of baseball. Still, each game he
came out hoping for a perfect game, something Sandy Koufax had
done. Koufax once said that he wanted a perfect game until the
first man reached base; a no-hitter until the first hit; a shutout
until the first run . . .
He made no excuses just because he was a
rookie. He handled every aspect of his business, not just pitching
well but fielding his position, showing some pop with the bat, and
cheerleading on days he did not pitch. The older Mets were replaced
more and more by youngsters who emulated Seaver’s
professionalism.
“For the first time maybe,” Seaver told a Sport magazine reporter years later, “we realized that we
had guys who cared deeply whether we achieved, that we had pitchers
who could hit occasionally and who wanted to win so desperately.
Looking back I think it was the first time in my experience with
the Mets that we believed in each other, the first time I felt that
that I wasn’t here to lose.”
Pitching coach Harvey Haddix marveled that
Seaver absorbed his lessons, did not need to be told something
twice, and analyzed his performances thoroughly. On road trips, he
sat with Mets broadcasters Lindsey Nelson and Ralph Kiner, figuring
he someday would be doing that, too. He never tailed off, as so
many young hotshots do when the league figures them out, or they
lose the psychological edge. In fact, Seaver in 1967 established a
trait he maintained throughout his career: a strong finish. After
winning the Rookie of the Year award, he said it was “nice,” but
added the unthinkable:
traditions, and to Mets fans number 41 began to represent the sort
of idol Whitey Ford and Mickey Mantle meant to Yankee supporters.
They chanted “Seav- uh” as he mowed hitters down at Shea
Stadium.
Seaver studied opponents and maintained
detailed scouting reports. His dedication was total, but he also
smiled and joked around. He was the quintessential “fan” living the
fantasy of playing in the Major Leagues. Almost all big leaguers
were high schools superstars who took their ability for granted,
strutting around like they owned the place. Seaver was still
pinching himself. Not only was he privileged to wear the uniform,
he was the ace of the staff! On a bad team he was a “stopper” whose
victories ended losing streaks.
“There was an aura of defeatism about the
team, a feeling of let’s get it over with,” Seaver recalled. “I
noticed that the team seemed to play better when I pitched but . .
. that wasn’t right and I said so. I probably got a few people mad,
but I went around and told the guys that if they did that for me
and not for somebody else, it was wrong.”
“When Seaver’s pitching, these guys plain
work a little harder,” noted catcher Jerry Grote.
“You notice his concentration out there on
the mound when he’s pitching,” said Bud Harrelson. “And playing
behind him, you try to match it.”
His performance in the All-Star Game filled
him with not just pride and confidence, but inspired him to try and
instill that same attitude in his teammates. He became the
undisputed leader of the young Mets. After one dismal game he stood
on a stool and announced: “Gentlemen, after watching that
performance, I would like to take this opportunity to announce my
retirement from the game of baseball.” If he pitched well but lost
for lack of support he took the weight of defeat on his own
shoulders.
“I just don’t feel I’m pitching as well as I
can,” he lamented. “A mistake here . . . a mistake there . . . they
add up. You wonder when you’re going to come on and start
eliminating the mistakes.”
He was a perfectionist, a trait he inherited
from his father. It applied to every aspect of his life; the way he
dressed, the way he conducted his marriage, his life. He expressed
admiration at brother Charles’s sculptures, since he could attain a
sense of perfection in the work that seemed impossible in the
messy, up-and-down competition of baseball. Still, each game he
came out hoping for a perfect game, something Sandy Koufax had
done. Koufax once said that he wanted a perfect game until the
first man reached base; a no-hitter until the first hit; a shutout
until the first run . . .
He made no excuses just because he was a
rookie. He handled every aspect of his business, not just pitching
well but fielding his position, showing some pop with the bat, and
cheerleading on days he did not pitch. The older Mets were replaced
more and more by youngsters who emulated Seaver’s
professionalism.
“For the first time maybe,” Seaver told a Sport magazine reporter years later, “we realized that we
had guys who cared deeply whether we achieved, that we had pitchers
who could hit occasionally and who wanted to win so desperately.
Looking back I think it was the first time in my experience with
the Mets that we believed in each other, the first time I felt that
that I wasn’t here to lose.”
Pitching coach Harvey Haddix marveled that
Seaver absorbed his lessons, did not need to be told something
twice, and analyzed his performances thoroughly. On road trips, he
sat with Mets broadcasters Lindsey Nelson and Ralph Kiner, figuring
he someday would be doing that, too. He never tailed off, as so
many young hotshots do when the league figures them out, or they
lose the psychological edge. In fact, Seaver in 1967 established a
trait he maintained throughout his career: a strong finish. After
winning the Rookie of the Year award, he said it was “nice,” but
added the unthinkable:
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