THE 1969 MIRACLE METS: THE IMPROBABLE STORY OF THE WORLD’S GREATEST UNDERDOG TEAM (34 page)

Swoboda first saw him pitch a bullpen session in an
empty Astrodome. He said the sound of Ryan’s fastball smacking into
the catcher’s glove sounded like “shooting skeet.” Apparently the
Astrodome had pigeons and a maintenance man would clear them out
with a shotgun. It said sounded like that.

Catcher John Stephenson once took a Ryan fastball
directly on the chest protector, which was designed to withstand
high velocity baseballs. He was out three weeks. Ryan was a
highball pitcher, though, and the National League was still
considered a low-ball strike zone.

Ruth Ryan could not handle New York. Nolan was
equally intimidated. They never socialized, which for the most part
meant drinking; not their gig. He had the respect of teammates
because he was real. His ways were his, and Ruth’s. They did not
look down on others who liked to get out and about. The Seavers,
while not party animals, were more social; visiting museums, the
opera, and other highlights of the Big Apple. The Ryan’s were not
up to that.

As the Mets prepared for the 1969 season, many felt
it was a “make or break” year for Ryan. His incredible fast ball
was already being compared to the likes of Walter Johnson, Bob
Feller and Sandy Koufax. Not even Seaver and Koosman, who threw
heat
, were in his league. If this guy could reach his
potential . . .

Jerry Koosman was another country boy who had
escaped the kind of attention that Dick Selma and Tom Seaver got in
scout-heavy Fresno, or Nolan Ryan in talent-laden Texas. The
weather was so cold in Minnesota that by the time kids really got
out on the field, school was almost out. Koosman’s high school did
not even have a baseball team. If a community did not have a big
time American Legion program, local players could be overlooked. It
was hockey country.

Koosman came out of Appleton, where he was born in
1942 to a farming family. When not tending to livestock, he played
some semi-pro baseball before going to college to study engineering
prior to getting drafted in 1962. Stationed in non-descript places
that did not feature baseball teams, he came home on leave. What
happened next was perfect timing for Koosman and eventually the
Mets.

He went for his annual dental exam. Koosman’s
dentist was Bob Miller, who just so happened to be the Commanding
Major General of the Minnesota National Guard (he was neither of
the Bob Miller’s who pitched for Casey Stengel, one of who whom
answered to Nelson). Koosman asked him if he could help transfer
him to a unit that had a baseball team. In order to effect the
transfer, Koosman needed to test for Officer’s Candidate School
because the base Miller had the power to transfer him to was part
of the Fifth Army out of Texas. It was a helicopter unit with the
best baseball team in the Southwest. Koosman would need to be a
warrant officer in order to train to be a helicopter pilot. As an
engineering student he had the aptitude.

At some point, Koosman’s pitching skills became
apparent and he claims his orders were changed from helicopter
training to “play baseball down there,” which he did for 17 months.
He later told Peter Golenbock that Bob Miller saved him from flying
choppers. Those guys all went to Vietnam with a poor rate of
survival, since they had to hover in sight of the Viet Cong
shooting at them while boarding wounded and evacuees.

The serendipity did not end there. His catcher on
the Army team was the son of a Shea Stadium usher. Through that
connection scout Red Murff was sent to see him pitch. With the
draft and a war brewing, so many young men were in the Army that it
was worthwhile to scout the military teams looking for nuggets . .
. like Koosman

He signed on August 28, 1964 in anticipation of an
October discharge. Koosman went to college that fall and reported
to Homestead, Florida in 1965, but impressed nobody. Pitching in
the Army was not the kind of pedigree that made a guy stand out.
But Frank Lary, the famed “Yankee killer” of the Detroit Tigers who
always seemed to have the Bronx Bombers’ number, was the Mets’
minor league pitching instructor. He taught Koosman a slider. Like
McGraw’s screwball it would make him a Major Leaguer.

At Auburn of the New York-Penn League, he had a
startling 1.38 ERA. Suddenly he was a prospect instead of a
suspect. His teammate was Steve Chilcott, a catcher who was the
number one pick in the entire 1966 draft. According to Reggie
Jackson, a collegiate superstar at Arizona State, the Mets chose
the white Chilcott because Reggie “dated a white girl,” which
Reggie found amusing since she was actually Mexican, and he was
half-Spanish himself. Chilcott threw his arm out at Auburn and
never made it. Jackson as a lifelong Met conjures numerous enticing
scenarios. Another hot prospect on that club who never panned out
was 6-5 pitcher Les Rohr.

After a brief big league debut in 1967, Koosman was
sent back to Jacksonville for more seasoning in 1967. He pitched
well and earned a return to New York during the September roster
expansion. Wes Westrum liked Koosman but was fired shortly after
his arrival. Gil Hodges took over in 1968.

“Looking back, he was feeling the club out and
learning the organization,” said Koosman. Koosman’s first start in
1968 at San Francisco was post-poned because of Martin Luther King
Jr.’s assassination. Instead, he debuted with a sterling 4-0
shutout of Los Angeles at Dodger Stadium. The series in L.A.
symbolized a subtle change; the Dodgers were no longer dominant,
and in 1968 were little better than New York.

In Houston, Hodges used the entire staff in a
24-inning loss to the Astros, 1-0 when a ground ball to Al Weis
took a bad hop. The next game at Shea Stadium, Koosman was for all
practical purposes the only available pitcher. When he loaded the
bases against San Francisco in the first inning it looked like a
long afternoon. Koosman simply overpowered Willie Mays, Jim Ray
Hart and Jack Hiatt, all dangerous hitters. Ron Swoboda’s mouth
just dropped seeing it. A star was born.

Koosman ran his scoreless innings streak to 21
against Houston in a 3-1 win. Largely because of his tremendous
mound work, the press started to think unthinkable things early in
1968, although the club’s offense was so dismal that it could not
be overcome.

Koosman befriended Ryan, “a farm boy from Texas and
I’m a farm boy from Minnesota, and neither one of us was
comfortable in New York,” said Koosman. “It was way out of our
realm of upbringing. Neither one of us was used to the lifestyle.
Going from the farm to New York City, I don’t know of any other
extreme a person could have as a young person. Look at the change
in the pace of life. You go from the farm to the tension and the
crowd, something neither one of us was used to.”

Seaver was “a friend.” Younger than Koosman,
Seaver’s worldliness always made him seem older. “He was a college
graduate and did not get his degree until well into the 1970s>,
well-spoken, well-read, a man who handled himself real well with
the press.”

Koosman’s description of Jerry Grote was the same as
Ron Swoboda’s: “red ass,” but “he’d fight tooth and nail ‘til death
to win a ball game.” Grote controlled the pitching staff like a
Marine drill instructor. The staff seemed more concerned with
earning his respect than anything else. If Grote respected you,
everything else was in order anyway.

The Mets played above their heads until the 1968
All-Star break. Seaver, Koosman and Grote were all selected for the
game in Houston and they returned riding high. But the Mets slumped
in the second half of the season.

Koosman pitched the day Hodges had his late-season
heart attack, almost blaming himself for getting knocked out in the
sixth inning, as if that caused the seizure. Koosman, who did not
play in high school or college, had experienced real success for
the first time under Hodges and was very concerned that “Number
14,” as they called him, would be back in 1969.

Koosman’s 19-12 record with a 2.08 earned run
average was even more spectacular than Seaver’s support-deprived
16-12 with a 2.20 ERA. However, he did not repeat as a Rookie of
the Year winner, as Seaver had been in 1967. Cincinnati’s Johnny
Bench earned the award, apparently when a writer in Chicago named
Enright split the decision, giving it to Bench by half a vote.

Gary Gentry brought a 150-pound St. Bernard with him
to Spring Training.

“Mrs. Payson doesn’t have enough dough to feed that
thing,” Johnny Murphy said in kidding.

Gentry was a rookie trying to make the staff. Spring
camp was his chance to prove himself. When the players struck at
the beginning, it was a real shock to the system, and to the fans,
who had never fathomed such a crazy notion. Gentry needed the whole
spring to make his impression. But while other young pitchers
sweated out the strike, costing a couple weeks of preparation, he
never seemed to worry.

Gentry was tall, thin and threw
heat
. He was
a high school phenom but his father, a schoolteacher, wanted him to
go to college before signing a professional contract. After turning
down suitors from Baltimore, Houston and San Francisco, Gentry went
to Phoenix Junior College, and from there a scholarship to baseball
powerhouse Arizona State. He played for coach Bobby Winkles right
after the Sun Devils won the 1965 College World Series behind Sal
Bando and Rick Monday. Gentry was right behind Reggie Jackson, who
was a year behind Bando and Monday. In 1969, ASU would win their
second National Championship.

Gentry was 17-1 with two victories in the College
World Series. His gaudy record, however, was an indication of
something amiss in the Arizona State program. Over the years, a
number of Sun Devil hurlers have compiled big records like
Gentry’s: 17-0, 19-1 and the like. Winkles and later coach Jim
Brock tended to overpitch their aces. Many promising Sun Devils
experienced arm troubles and did not enjoy as much big league
success as some of USC’s pitchers over the years; Seaver, Randy
Johnson, Barry Zito, to name a few. Rod Dedeaux and later coach
Mike Gillespie did not overpitch Trojan aces as much as Arizona
State tended to. Gentry, who did not use his legs as Seaver and
Koosman did, would experience arm problems later, but in 1969 he
was young, strong, and seemingly carefree.

Gentry had been given a nice bonus by the Mets in
1967, progressed nicely through the minor leagues, and at 22 was
seen as the 1969 version of Seaver and Koosman. The press took to
calling him “the new Tom Seaver.” It was a big expectation, and he
had competition, namely from Ryan, but Gentry was loosey-goosey
about it.

Jim McAndrew was a bundle of nerves, but not Gentry.
A code of
machismo
, established by Seaver, ruled the Mets’
pitching
ethos
. Seaver was no gentleman on the hill. In a
league without designated hitters, he was willing to go after
batters, incurring the wrath of such opposing “head hunters” as Don
Drysdale and Bob Gibson. In one legendary encounter, Gibson and
Seaver retaliated against each other with wicked fastballs that, if
landed in the wrong place, could kill a man. Seaver threw a 99-mile
per hour fast ball that seemingly split the difference between
Gibson’s skull and his batting helmet.

“I know you got better control than that, Tommie,”
Gibson said to the glaring, unsmiling Seaver. Respect had been
earned.

McAndrew was called “Moms” because he lacked the
fire of Seaver, Koosman and now Gentry. Ryan was still working on
this part of his make-up. He would not achieve his potential until
embracing it.

Being tough was “an important thing,” Swoboda said.
Pitchers often are at either one end of the spectrum or the other.
If they are good, they are the most respected players on the team.
Good pitching stops good hitting, it is 90 percent of the game, and
if a team has it they are given the opportunity to win. On the
other hand, bad pitching can ruin the best efforts of an
otherwise-good team. The blame game is an easy one to play in a
clubhouse. A pitcher needs to display a “gunslinger” mentality,
like a quarterback in the huddle during a two-minute drive. Gentry
was a cowboy and it came naturally to him.

“His stuff was every bit as good as Seaver’s,”
stated Swoboda. This was quite a statement. “He had just as live an
arm.”

Swoboda, in order to keep his reflexes sharp, would
go to the bullpen and spell the bullpen catcher. When he caught
Gentry’s fastball, it simply exploded with a wide variance of
movement. Plus, “Gary was this Western guy who just wasn’t afraid
of anything,” said Swoboda. “He was a cowboy, a skinny kid with a
tremendous arm. He was great.”

On the mound, Gentry challenged hitters inside, or
up and out over the plate, daring them with his great movement and
tremendous velocity. He came straight over-the-top, his ball
exploding on home plate zone, resulting in broken bats, “blue
hammers” (jarring pain to the hand and fingers when the ball makes
contact with the low end of the stick) and checked-swing
strikes.

Fans often do not understand the true nature of the
big league hurler, the kind of stuff a talented young pitching ace
possesses. Television does not accurately depict it. Most seats in
the ballpark do not reveal it. Only those right behind home plate,
or behind the dugout near home plate, see the real thing. It can be
awe-inspiring, leaving the fan in admiration of anybody who has the
courage to stand in against it without fear, much less
hit
it
. Of all athletic endeavors – dunking forwards, majestic
passing quarterbacks – the hard-throwing pitcher may be the most
magnificent figure in sports.

The Mets had four of the best: Seaver, Koosman,
Gentry and Ryan. Now, to harness all that talent.