he went to the ballpark and watched the Dodgers’ pitcher Don Sutton throw a no-hitter against his guys for six full innings. Don Sutton! That cheater. Sparky was sure Sutton was cutting the baseball so that he could make it dive down harder. Sparky had even started his own collection of Don Sutton–engraved baseballs—you could see that he cut the ball in the same spot every time. He planned to show those baseballs to an umpire someday. But today he just watched as Sutton got out after out. Morgan popped up behind the plate. Bench hit a foul pop-up behind the plate—damn, Bench hadn’t hit worth a damn since he got married. Perez hit a foul pop-up down the first-base line. Sparky’s guys could not even hit the ball into fair territory.
In the seventh inning, Rose hit a harmless fly ball to center. Morgan struck out. Sutton punched the air in joy after striking out Morgan. The thirty thousand or so in the crowd went crazy. Everyone could sense it: Sutton was going to no-hit the Machine. Sparky could not believe the day he was having.
Then Sutton made his one mistake. He was so happy he got Joe Morgan out that he grooved a fastball right down the middle of theplate to Johnny Bench. Bench still knew what to do with belt-high fastballs, and he crushed it over the left-field wall. That blew the shutout and the no-hitter. But that was the only hit for the Reds. The Dodgers still won the game. The Reds had lost four of five games.
“I wonder if we can beat anybody right now,” Sparky told reporters.
Sparky knew who to blame for the bad start. Who else? John Vukovich. His third baseman. Balsa. Sure, Bench wasn’t hitting. Perez wasn’t hitting. Hell, nobody on the whole team but Morgan was hitting. But that didn’t matter: Sparky knew all those guys would come around. But that third baseman was killing him. John Vukovich would never come around.
“Look at the third baseman they have over there,” he told his bench coach and right-hand man, George “Shug” Scherger, as he pointed over to the Dodgers’ third baseman, Ron Cey, the one everyone called “the Penguin.” Now that was a third baseman. He hit with some power. He drove in some runs. He made the diving defensive plays. He did all the things a third baseman was supposed to do, and on top of that he was tough and strong, and damn it all, how was Sparky supposed to beat the Los Angeles Dodgers with a third baseman who was so weak he kept getting the bat knocked out of his hands?
“You tell me,” Sparky said to Scherger. “How?” Scherger nodded and shrugged. He had known Sparky for more than twenty years—Scherger was actually Sparky’s minor league manager back in Santa Barbara in 1953. He knew Sparky when he was wild, out of control, when he played baseball with more of an edge than any player Scherger had ever known. None of these players would even recognize Sparky back then. He always seemed a beat away from attacking someone—an opposing player, a teammate, an umpire, whoever.
Sparky had harnessed that temper, but he had not lost it. Schergercould see that Sparky was about to lose it. Truth was, Vukovich wasn’t hitting too bad—he had a .294 average through the first eight games—and it was too early in the year to start panicking. But Sparky had that look, the look he’d had when he was nineteen years old and wanted to beat up the world. Vukovich was a dead man, and the poor son of a bitch didn’t even know it.
On a cold April day in Los Angeles, the Dodgers pitched an old legend, Juan Marichal, in the third game of the series. Marichal had been a great pitcher in the 1960s—he won more than twenty games six times during the decade. Marichal had a most remarkable windup. Time magazine once ran a nine-photo sequence of Marichal’s pitching delivery. In one of the photos, Marichal’s left foot is above his head. In another, Marichal’s arms have flailed to the side like he is conducting the Boston Pops. They called him “the
In the seventh inning, Rose hit a harmless fly ball to center. Morgan struck out. Sutton punched the air in joy after striking out Morgan. The thirty thousand or so in the crowd went crazy. Everyone could sense it: Sutton was going to no-hit the Machine. Sparky could not believe the day he was having.
Then Sutton made his one mistake. He was so happy he got Joe Morgan out that he grooved a fastball right down the middle of theplate to Johnny Bench. Bench still knew what to do with belt-high fastballs, and he crushed it over the left-field wall. That blew the shutout and the no-hitter. But that was the only hit for the Reds. The Dodgers still won the game. The Reds had lost four of five games.
“I wonder if we can beat anybody right now,” Sparky told reporters.
Sparky knew who to blame for the bad start. Who else? John Vukovich. His third baseman. Balsa. Sure, Bench wasn’t hitting. Perez wasn’t hitting. Hell, nobody on the whole team but Morgan was hitting. But that didn’t matter: Sparky knew all those guys would come around. But that third baseman was killing him. John Vukovich would never come around.
“Look at the third baseman they have over there,” he told his bench coach and right-hand man, George “Shug” Scherger, as he pointed over to the Dodgers’ third baseman, Ron Cey, the one everyone called “the Penguin.” Now that was a third baseman. He hit with some power. He drove in some runs. He made the diving defensive plays. He did all the things a third baseman was supposed to do, and on top of that he was tough and strong, and damn it all, how was Sparky supposed to beat the Los Angeles Dodgers with a third baseman who was so weak he kept getting the bat knocked out of his hands?
“You tell me,” Sparky said to Scherger. “How?” Scherger nodded and shrugged. He had known Sparky for more than twenty years—Scherger was actually Sparky’s minor league manager back in Santa Barbara in 1953. He knew Sparky when he was wild, out of control, when he played baseball with more of an edge than any player Scherger had ever known. None of these players would even recognize Sparky back then. He always seemed a beat away from attacking someone—an opposing player, a teammate, an umpire, whoever.
Sparky had harnessed that temper, but he had not lost it. Schergercould see that Sparky was about to lose it. Truth was, Vukovich wasn’t hitting too bad—he had a .294 average through the first eight games—and it was too early in the year to start panicking. But Sparky had that look, the look he’d had when he was nineteen years old and wanted to beat up the world. Vukovich was a dead man, and the poor son of a bitch didn’t even know it.
On a cold April day in Los Angeles, the Dodgers pitched an old legend, Juan Marichal, in the third game of the series. Marichal had been a great pitcher in the 1960s—he won more than twenty games six times during the decade. Marichal had a most remarkable windup. Time magazine once ran a nine-photo sequence of Marichal’s pitching delivery. In one of the photos, Marichal’s left foot is above his head. In another, Marichal’s arms have flailed to the side like he is conducting the Boston Pops. They called him “the
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