THE 1969 MIRACLE METS: THE IMPROBABLE STORY OF THE WORLD’S GREATEST UNDERDOG TEAM (31 page)

Ed Charles said Hodges’s platoon system of 1968 took
some getting used; by the players, fans, and press alike, but “By
1969, I think we had all adjusted to it.”

While expectations from the baseball punditry were
mixed, there was legitimate historical comparison of the
Seaver-Koosman tandem with the Koufax-Drysdale combination. The
Dodgers of the mid-1960s had little more offense than this Mets
team, and despite mythology were not great defensive clubs. They
had pitched Los Angeles into three World Series, winning two. This
was the power of great mound work, which famed Philadelphia A’s
manager Cornelius “Connie Mack” McGillicuddy once said was, “90
percent of the game.”

A key newcomer was rookie right-hander Gary Gentry,
a fireballer from Arizona State; the same program, coached by Bobby
Winkles, that won the 1965 (and later the 1969) College World
Series. They produced such stalwarts as Reggie Jackson, Sal Bando
and Rick Monday of the Oakland A’s. Don Cardwell was a veteran
expected to fill the fourth spot. He just needed to win a little
more than he lost. Jim McAndrew and Nolan Ryan competed for the
fifth place in the rotation. Ryan, like Harrelson, was slated to
miss some games because of a military commitment; a few weekends
and a two-week training hitch. Traditionally, baseball teams went
with four starters. Seaver went every four days when he came up as
a rookie in 1967, but he and Hodges were revolutionizing the way
pitchers were used. Aside from the platoon system, originally put
into full use by Stengel and now utilized by Hodges, the five-man
rotation would prove to be the way of the future.

Seaver was a gamer, a bulldog who gave every ounce
of what he had. He had over the years devised what many consider to
be the most perfect pitching motion ever. Certainly, for pitchers
below 6-2, with strong legs, buttocks and lower back muscles, his
style was machine-effective. At the top of his leg lift there was a
slight hesitation, a gathering of momentum, maybe even a slight
mental preparation. This was followed by a release that resembled
the uncoiling of a spring. Seaver dropped his right knee to the
ground. He needed a pad to prevent bleeding. He went through pants
like they were going out of style, but in so doing he made full use
of the biggest muscles in his body. This took the essential
pressure off his shoulder and elbow, which he used in an overhand
release perhaps slightly three-quarter, but with the elbow parallel
to the shoulder to avoid short-arming. His low-gravity
mound-dragging style put a lot of stress on his feet, which
required constant trainer’s attention. He also kept the shoe
company in business and needed new pitcher’s toes all the time.

To the hitter, it was a flurry of legs and a
blinding fastball that seemed to be on home plate before they could
adjust. There was none of the
saaame old wind-up
, the
double-pump, a big kick, a lazy arm action as in the old days.
Instead, Seaver
exploded
. He had strength, he had ability,
but most of all, Seaver was a scientist on the mound. His style
(similar to Hall of Famer Robin Roberts), was perfect for his body
type, which resembled a wrestler. Tall pitchers like Don Drysdale
and Steve Carlton utilized their height. Jim Palmer’s motion was
the polar-opposite. None made use of the “drop-and-drive” of
Seaver, but among pitchers, mostly right-handers of Seaver’s
general physical dimensions, he was a guru. Virtually all of his
pitcher-teammates on the Mets, later Cincinnati and Chicago,
patterned themselves after him.

But this pitching style took a great effort. Tom did
not pace himself. By the eighth or ninth inning, he was often spent
and honest about it with Hodges. Hodges had seen Don Newcombe work
himself into exhaustion trying to go nine. Perhaps if he had not
started the ninth inning of the 1951 play-off loss to the Giants,
things would have been different.

One day Seaver approached Hodges, suggesting that he
was fresher if given an extra days’ rest; from four to five. It
made sense to Hodges. The Seaver-Koosman tandem was fabulous used
in this manner. Many in baseball, including the irascible Leo
Durocher, disdained the practice. They were old school guys who
believed pitchers were coddled enough, not working three of every
four games. It was less than “manly” for them if they failed to
complete nine innings.

In the new scheme of things, with Hodges using
starters every five days, removing them instead of letting them
pitch into the ninth inning with tired arms, the Mets’ bullpen
would be key. There was potential but it was largely untested. Cal
Koonce and Ron Taylor were veterans. Tug McGraw was a question
mark.

In 1965, the rookie southpaw beat Sandy Koufax. He
had been seen as a starter, but his promise fizzled and he had been
up-and-down. Military commitments set him back (he was a free
spirit and certainly not well suited for it). McGraw spent 1968 at
Jacksonville, but Hodges planned to make him a regular member of
his staff. His exact role – starter, long relief, closer – was not
yet defined. Pitching coach Rube Walker was tasked with the
“project” Tug McGraw; when to use him, how to focus his
off-the-wall personality.

Kranepool held the first base job, but he needed
competition to push him. Second baseman Ken Boswell was so shaky
defensively that people made a “clink” sound to resemble a ball
bouncing off a metal glove when describing his “prowess.” Al Weis
had come over from Chicago and was a journeyman at best. Harrelson
had suffered a knee injury that needed to be taken into
consideration. At third base, Hodges planned to alternate
right-hand hitting Ed Charles with left-hand hitting Wayne “Red”
Garrett, who reminded nobody of Brooks Robinson in the field or
Eddie Mathews at the plate. Young prospect Amos Otis was given a
shot at third base, but he was an outfielder and resisted.
Eventually Otis was sent to Kansas City, where he enjoyed
success.

Jones was set in left field. If the Mets were to
support Seaver and Koosman, he would need to emerge into the star
player he had the potential to be. Perhaps the biggest key was Agee
in center. He had gotten it done in Chicago in 1967, not so in New
York the next season. But the ability was there, offensively,
defensively and on the base paths.

“I liked them,” Swoboda said of the two friends from
Mobile. Mobile, Alabama, a small Gulf Coast town, may have produced
more unbelievable baseball talent than anyplace of similar size.
Aside from Jones and Agree, Hank Aaron and his brother Tommie came
from there, as did Willie McCovey. Willie Mays hailed from
Fairfield (closer to Birmingham). Billy Williams of the Cubs was
from Alabama, too.

“I still like them,” said Swoboda. “Everybody wanted
to make Cleon and Tommie Mobile boys. But Cleon came from a much
rougher background. Tommy’s people were religious. There was a lot
more structure in Tommy’s family. Cleon grew up a little
rougher.

“There was a tendency back then for whites to grant
black athletes their due as physical athletes, but reluctant to
recognize them as intelligent athletes. And Cleon was a very
studious hitter. He understood hitting. He would look at film. He
would be in the back looking at the little loops of film we had of
hitting. He studied that and understood. I didn’t. He would be a
good hitting coach today. He could transmit what he knew about
hitting to today’s young players, no doubt in my mind. I’ve seen
him talk hitting. It’s illuminating.

“Tommy understood himself as a hitter very well,
too.”

Swoboda fumed over his platoon status with Art
Shamsky, one of the great rarities of sports: the Jewish athlete.
While Jews were few and far between in athletics, some were genuine
stars: Sandy Koufax, Hank Greenberg, Ken Holtzman, basketball hero
Dolph Shayes, and Hall of Fame quarterback Sid Luckman. Rod Gaspar
would be a utilityman. Behind the plate, Jerry Grote would handle
the pitching staff with aplomb, albeit in gruff manner. He was not
about to win any personality contests. When Grote got tired Duffy
Dyer could step in. J.C. Martin could bunt and pinch-run. Bobby
Pfeil could fill in if Harrelson’s knee hurt, or when Bud took off
for Camp Drum.

The question was: do the Mets rely on pitching and
defense, in the manner of the 1965 “Hitless Wonder” Dodgers, or do
they make a move for some more offense? The organization decided to
take on the rest of the National League using the pitching and
defense option, for a few reasons. First, L.A. had shown it could
be done. Second, the future, when honestly assessed, was 1970,
maybe 1971; not 1969. Finally, after the offensive woes of 1968,
expectations for offensive prowess anywhere in baseball were not
high. But the league had shortened the height of the mound a few
inches to make pitching less dominant. The expansion of the league
promised a dilution in mound talent that should create more
offense.

The National League of 1969 was at a crossroads.
Since the signing of Jackie Robinson in 1947, it was the league
that gave greater opportunities to black and Latino players.
Consequently, it was a faster, more aggressive league. Their
All-Star Game dominance demonstrated its superiority. With the
Yankees in a tailspin since winning the 1964 pennant, the senior
circuit was unquestionably better. But the league had been built by
several great superstars, some of whom were fading by 1968-69.

Chief among them was San Francisco’s Willie Mays,
one of if not the finest player of all time. After winning the 1965
MVP award and pushing his team in a tight, down-to-the-wire pennant
run in 1966, Mays slipped considerably in 1967-68. Despite that, it
had not prevented him from winning Most Valuable Player honors when
he scored the only run in the National’s 1-0 1968 All-Star Game win
at the Astrodome. Mays was still a fan favorite in New York. The
Mets were not pleased that he would only play six games at Shea
Stadium instead of nine under the old system. Then there was
Drysdale, a star in Brooklyn at the end. Outside of manager Walt
Alston, coach Junior Gilliam . . . and owner Walter O’Malley, plus
a host of advisors kept on the payroll for PR purposes, he was the
last link to Brooklyn. Big D had been spectacular in 1968, but he
came down with the curiously named “tennis elbow” early in 1969,
forcing an early retirement.

But a look back at 1969 indicates it to be a golden
year in which many veterans were still at the top of their games.
These stars were matched with a glittering array of young players
who promised to be the baseball heroes of the 1970s. The Cubs
featured third baseman Ron Santo, Hall of Fame first baseman Ernie
Banks, All-Star center fielder Billy Williams, and two young mound
aces, Ferguson Jenkins and Ken Holtzman.

The Cardinals had high-priced superstars: pitcher
Bob Gibson, emerging star southpaw Steve Carlton, and speed demon
Lou Brock in left. Catcher Tim McCarver was one of the best in the
game. But unbeknownst to many, they were about to implode. Right
fielder Roger Maris had retired, and would be missed. Star first
baseman Orlando Cepeda, after wearing out his welcome, was packed
off to Atlanta. Outfielder Curt Flood was a “clubhouse lawyer.” His
attitude would eventually effectuate his trade to Philadelphia,
opening a “Pandora’s Box” of legal problems.

Pittsburgh had veterans: the incredible Roberto
Clemente, still slightly underrated in the pantheon; slugger Willie
Stargell; a host of mashers (Al Oliver, Matty Alou), and not enough
on the mound. Philadelphia featured the fearsome Dick “don’t call
me Richie” Allen, who when not spraying frozen ropes off walls and
over fences infuriated everybody with his carefree attitude and
tendency to do a little bit o’ drinkin’. This was manifested by his
playing in the right field shade on hot days, regardless of where
the best place to defense hitters was. His manager, Gene Mauch, was
infuriated by him, but had been fired and was now in Montreal. They
were the East Division’s expansion team. Their one name player was
Rusty Staub, a star in Houston.

The Giants were an early West Division favorite.
Aside from Mays, Hall of Fame first baseman Willie McCovey was in
his absolute prime on the verge of his best season ever. They had
power, little speed, average defense, two Hall of Fame pitchers
(Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry) and not much else. Atlanta featured
an offensive powerhouse, led by Henry Aaron (who had not slowed up
a step and was just starting to get people to calculate his age,
rate of homers, health, and longevity with an eye toward Babe
Ruth’s 714 home runs). Mays was the man chasing Ruth, but he had
slowed up and there was no chance. “Hammerin’ Hank,” to quote Mick
Jagger, could say that “time is on my side.” Rico Carty was a
monster at the plate, too. The Braves question mark was pitching,
but knuckleball ace Phil Niekro would have his best year.

Cincinnati was all offense with little mound
presence beyond their 1960s ace, Fresno’s own Jim Maloney. But they
sure could hit. The future Big Red Machine included Johnny Bench,
one of the greatest all-around catchers ever (Josh Gibson may have
been the only one who was better); slugging first sacker Lee May,
RBI-man extraordinaire Tony Perez, and fiery left fielder Pete
Rose. They called L.A.
The Mod Squad
, after a popular TV
show of the era. They were a gaggle of challenging names for
announcer Vin Scully to pronounce: Grabarkewitz, Lefebvre and
Sudakis, a few vets, and the next ace in the tradition of Koufax
and Drysdale, Don Sutton. Houston still had the “expansion” tag. In
those days, before free agency, an expansion team took years to
develop. But the Astros had world class talent, namely in the form
of heaterballers Larry Dierker and Don Wilson, second baseman Joe
Morgan, and center fielder Jimmy “the Toy Cannon” Wynn. San Diego
was the other new N.L. expansion club and offered little incentive
to watch. Nate Colbert was their only good player. In looking back,
and examining the statistics as well, it seemed incongruous that
among all these good teams and good players, the Mets would emerge
victorious.