The Machine by Joe Posnanski Page A

Dominican Dandy.” But on this day, he was thirty-eight years old, his left leg did not lift as high, his fastball did not rush in as hard. Marichal had not pitched especially well in four years; hitters whispered that the great Marichal had nothing left. Nobody knew it when the game began, but this would be the last time Marichal pitched in the big leagues.
    In the second inning, with the game scoreless, Marichal walked Ken Griffey to load the bases. John Vukovich was scheduled to hit. Maybe if it had been a different day, different circumstances, Sparky would have left it alone. Maybe if the team had not crumbled against Don Sutton’s pitching the day before, he would have left it alone. Maybe. But Sparky’s team was in the tank. His family was breaking apart. The Dodgers were laughing in his face.
    “Danny, grab a bat,” Sparky yelled out to Dan Driessen. Then, turning to Vukovich, he said, “Vuke, you sit this one out.”
    The dugout fell silent, and Vukovich stared at Sparky for a second. At first, he thought this had to be a joke…Sparky was not really going to pinch-hit for him in the second inning. Managers neverpinch-hit for a player in the second inning. It had to be a joke, but if it was a joke, Vukovich did not get it. Then he watched it happen. Driessen grabbed a bat and walked on the field. The public-address announcer said, “Now batting for John Vukovich, Dan Driessen.” All the Reds players were looking at Vukovich—this was really happening. Sparky Anderson was pinch-hitting for him before he even got his first at-bat of the game. Vukovich had never even heard of such a thing, not in high school, not in Little League, not ever. His whole body felt hot, he knew his face was red, and he could almost taste blood.
    Vukovich just stood there with his mouth open. What to do? Talk to Sparky? Yell at him? Hit him? Throw a bat? He only knew that he had to do something. Vukovich knew that he was a weak hitter. He knew that Sparky saw him as the weak link in the Machine. But this was something more, this was personal, this was Sparky just kicking sand in his face. Vukovich looked at Sparky again, for just an instant. Then he grabbed his bat, and he started screaming. He walked into the tunnel, and he shouted curse words in an order that did not form sentences, and then he meticulously smashed every lightbulb in the tunnel leading back to the clubhouse.
    Back on the field, Dan Driessen fouled out to third base.
     
    The Reds pummeled Marichal in the third inning. Pete doubled. Johnny singled him home. Tony Perez homered. Cesar Geronimo singled. Dave Concepcion singled. Ken Griffey doubled them both home. Sparky still seethed in the dugout. Vukovich showed him up. This punk third baseman who couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat showed him up. It was unacceptable. It could not be tolerated. Sparky, above all, believed in order. That was why he could not stand to see Lee with long hair. That was why he treated stars better than he treated the other players. When Sparky went out to the mound to take out a pitcher, there was a right way to do it. The pitcher wassupposed to put the baseball in his hand softly—like he was handing over important documents—and then walk to the dugout without saying a word. And if a pitcher ever mouthed off, ever, well, Sparky did not like it.
    “I still feel good,” the kid pitcher Pat Darcy said to Sparky once. Only once.
    “Yeah?” Sparky snapped. “You feel good? You’ll feel better in the shower.” And when that game ended, Sparky gave the kid the verbal beating of his life. It wasn’t personal. Darcy just needed to learn.
    Now, this no-hit third baseman was going around breaking lightbulbs, acting like he’d actually done something in his life. Sparky stewed on the bench. Then watched the lead fade. In the fourth inning, the Penguin hit a two-run homer for the Dodgers. “You see?” he shouted at Scherger, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “You see what