THE 1969 MIRACLE METS: THE IMPROBABLE STORY OF THE WORLD’S GREATEST UNDERDOG TEAM (65 page)

Robinson dominated every level of the minor
leagues, enduring two years at Columbia, South Carolina of the
Sally League. His response to racism was on-field excellence: 25
homers, 110 RBIs and a .336 average in 1954. Despite that, he was
sent back in 1955. Cincinnati was a highly conservative, all-white
city; not the most hospitable of big league towns. It was so
conservative, in fact, that at one point the Reds felt the need to
change their name to “Red Legs” so as to avoid connotation with
Communism during those McCarthyism days. New York, Brooklyn,
Chicago, or Detroit would have been an easier sell than the Queen
City.

In 1956 he could not be denied. Robinson
enjoyed one of the four or five best rookie seasons ever up until
that time (Joe DiMaggio, 1936; Ted Williams, 1939; one or two
others), tying Wally Berger’s rookie record for home runs with 38
(since broken by Mark McGwire, 49 in 1987). He also set the rookie
record for getting hit by pitches, and would break the all-time
mark over the years for most seasons leading the league in this
category.

Over the next decade, Robinson was as
dangerous a hitter as anybody in baseball. He was the equal of all
the great contemporaries that mark his as quite possibly the golden
era of baseball history: Willie Mays, Orlando Cepeda, Willie
McCovey, Mickey Mantle, Duke Snider, Ted Williams, Roberto
Clemente, Willie Stargell, Hank Aaron, Eddie Mathews, Al Kaline,
Ernie Banks, Carl Yastrzemski, Richie Allen, Pete Rose, Johnny
Bench, Harmon Killebrew, and Reggie Jackson.

In 1959 he hit 36 home runs, drove in 125
and batted .311. In 1961 Robinson powered Cincinnati into the World
Series, earning the MVP award by hitting 37 homers with 124 RBIs
while batting .323. Perhaps his greatest season was 1962, when
Robinson produced a line that historians consider one of the most
beautifully even offensive years ever: 162 games played, 609
at-bats, a league-leading 134 runs scored, 208 hits, a
league-leading 51 hits, 39 home runs, 139 runs batted in, and a
.342 batting average. In1965, Robinson hit 33 home runs while
driving in 113, but he had worn out his welcome with Reds’ owner
Bill DeWitt.

His outspoken attitude was not well received
in all circles. He was viewed as an agitator, a clubhouse lawyer.
His intellect was off-putting. He was naturally abrasive; his
personality clashes in part his fault. He was a hard-ass, no two
ways about it.

In the early 1960s, Robinson had been
arrested for carrying a concealed weapon. He carried it in response
to death threats, but it did not help his image. He squabbled with
the owner over money, and prior to the 1966 season was traded to
the Orioles for outfielder Dick Simpson, pitcher Milt Pappas and
Jack Baldschun. In the entire history of the great game of
baseball, it may be the very worst trade ever made . . . from
Cincinnati’s point of view.

“He’s an old 30,” DeWitt said of the man who
would tear up baseball for another eight years.

Baltimore had no history before that. They
were the Browns, then a non-contender in the 1950s. Finally in the
1960s under Richards, Baltimore began to show signs of a successful
franchise, but Robinson’s arrival had an effect not unlike Babe
Ruth’s in New York.

In 1966, Robinson won the American League
Triple Crown, leading the league in homers (49), RBIs (122) and
batting average (.316). It was one of the finest all-around seasons
ever. He was a Hall of Famer before 1966; a first ballot electee
after it. The Orioles stuck around the .500 mark until mid-season,
then put on a hot streak in the second half to win the title going
away.

Prior to game one of the 1966 World Series
at Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles, photographers snapped pictures of
Robinson with white third baseman Brooks Robinson, a native of
Arkansas.

“Better hope they don’t show these down
home,” Robinson joked, but only half-way.

In a series dominated by pitching, Robinson
was for all practical purposes all the offense Baltimore had, or
needed. They swept the Dodgers of Koufax and Drysdale in four
straight games. Robinson was the Most Valuable Player in the league
and the Series. He became the first man to win the MVP award in
both leagues. In 1968, an injury to Robinson prevented Baltimore
from making a more serious run, but in 1969 he enjoyed one of his
most productive years, hitting 32 homers with 100 runs batted in
while hitting .308 while playing in right field.

He and Brooks Robinson were the undisputed
leaders of the Birds, linked forever by their common last names (F.
Robby and B. Robby), Cooperstown-level greatness, and the symbolism
of friendship between a white Southerner and black Californian.

Brooks Calbert Robinson came out of Little
Rock, Arkansas. He was 32 in 1969, still in his prime. At 6-1, 190
pounds, Robinson was a superb athlete. He was a country boy who
liked to hunt and fish, but was at ease with big league life.

He made his Major League debut in 1955, the
year he turned 18 on May 18. Robinson’s career, as an Oriole, an
infielder on the left side, and as a man, mirrors that of Cal
Ripken. He, too, was an “ironman” who led the league in games
played between 1961 and 1964, and again in 1968. He was a solid
hitter with good power. Robinson was a pro’s pro; dedicated,
perfect attitude, a team guy all the way. The fans adored him.
Thousands of children in Maryland were named Brooks after him. If
his Southern upbringing had steered him to find fault with the
black Frank Robinson or any number of minority teammates – Richards
put together a diverse team from the beginning – Robinson belied
it. The truth is, nobody is that good an actor. He was just a good,
fair man; an American hero.

But Brooks Robinson has a plaque in
Cooperstown, New York not because he was a fair man; a line drive
hitter with power; or a reliable professional. He has a plaque
because, quite simply, he is and may well always be regarded as the
greatest defensive third baseman who has ever played baseball; bar
none, end of argument.

Graig Nettles of the Yankees may be second.
Aurelio Rodriguez was a contemporary glove hero of Robinson’s, as
was New York’s Clete Boyer and his brother Ken of the Cardinals.
Billy Cox of Brooklyn was a wizard over at the hot corner, but
Robinson was from another planet. Whether it was spectacular dives
to his left or right; a gun for an arm coming out of a short-arm
throwing motion designed to reduce a fraction of a second; or the
slow roller; B. Robby was tops. Highlight reels of his defensive
prowess leave the clueless wondering if the film was doctored.
Nobody could make the plays he made. The advantage he provided
Baltimore pitchers on so many levels was immeasurable.

Robinson could hit, but he had consistency
problems. In 1964 he was the Most Valuable Player, driving the O’s
down the stretch in a pennant race between New York, Chicago and
Baltimore, ultimately won by the Yankees. He batted .317 with 28
homers and 118 runs batted in. He was a fixture as the A.L.’s
starting third baseman in every All-Star Game from 1960 onward, won
Gold Gloves yearly, and made
The Sporting News
All-Star Team
each season, as well. He always led the league in assists. But in
1969 he only batted .234, although he still hit 23 home runs and
drove in 84. It was an uncharacteristic slump that bore no
explanation, but his team was so good it was scarcely noticed.
Besides, his defensive contributions were so great that it would
not be an exaggeration to say that if he batted .100 he would still
have started and been valuable to the Oriole cause.

Despite the two Robinson superstars, in 1969
the Orioles’ most valuable weapon was first baseman John Wesley
“Boog” Powell. As a child, his family called him “Booger” because
he was always getting into mischief, and as he matured it was
shortened to “Boog.” Powell was a big, hulk of a man – 6-4 1/2, at
least 246 pounds – from Florida. He was given a $25,000 bonus to
sign with Baltimore out of high school and in 1961 led the
International League with 32 home runs at Rochester.

After a September 1961 call-up he stuck in
1962, displaying power and a penchant for striking out that kept
his average down. He slammed 39 homers in 1964, but broke out in a
big way with 34 home runs, 109 RBIs and a .287 average for the 1966
World Champion O’s. He and Frank Robinson provided the only offense
Baltimore needed in the sweep of Los Angeles. However, he slumped
in 1967 and 1968. 1969 was a big year that would determine the
overall value of his career. He responded with his best season: 37
home runs, 121 RBIs and a .304 average. Defensively, he was not Vic
Power or “Prince Hal” Chase, but he scooped up errant throws and
blocked hard shots with his massive body.

His personality matched his nickname. He
looked like big ol’ teddy bear and had an easygoing Florida
disposition. As a left-handed slugger, he posed the most immediate
concern to the right-hander Tom Seaver.

Second baseman Davey Johnson was also born
in Florida but attended college at Texas A&M, eventually
earning his degree in mathematics from Johns Hopkins. He enjoyed
life and was known to party heavily. As might be expected, he was a
smart player, knew how to position himself, and was a rock
defensively. He was a clutch hitter but not a major threat. He got
on base, could bunt, and ran the bases well.

Shortstop Mark Belanger was one of the
pre-eminent defensive players at his position at that time. He was
wiry, a typical middle infielder in the days before Ripken, Alex
Rodriguez and others redefined what kind of size, strength and
offensive capability can be expected of a shortstop (Ernie Banks
had set that standard but had been made into a first baseman in
1962).

Andy Etchebarren and Elrod Hendricks
platooned behind the plate. It was the only position Weaver
platooned. Neither was a great hitter or extraordinary behind the
dish. It was the closest thing the Orioles had to a weakness.

Center fielder Paul Blair was deemed
expendable by the 1962 Mets, and thus drafted by Baltimore. It was
one of the few real player development mistakes during the George
Weis era. At 25, Blair had his breakout year in 1969, hitting 26
homers with 76 runs batted in while batting .285. Blair was, like
Brooks Robinson, Davey Johnson and Mark Belanger, simply the best
defensive center fielder in the American League. With Willie Mays
showing his age, he may well have been the best in baseball,
leading the league with 407 putouts.

In left field was the former football player
from the University of Southern California, Don Buford. For some
reason, Buford’s name became attached to a trivia question: who
played in both a Rose Bowl and a World Series? In fact, Buford
lettered two years at USC, but did not play on the 1962 Trojans’
National Championship squad that beat Wisconsin in the Rose Bowl.
In 1969, he
did play
in the World Series.

Weaver could have used the speed of Blair
and Buford, but held them back. Buford, the leadoff man, stole 27
bases in 1968 but only 19 in 1969 when the strategy was pretty much
“just mash.” He was not considered a great outfielder. His arm was
semi-weak. A sharp college guy, he was not one of those black
players who felt the game was their only ticket to success.

Baltimore had great defense. Hitting
something past the O’s was like “trying to throw hamburgers threw a
brick wall,” said Detroit manager Mayo Smith. They had power, some
speed, good righty-lefty balance, clutch hitters, and superstars.
But the 1969 Orioles were threatening to go down in history as one
of the greatest baseball teams ever because
they had
pitching!
They had a staff that could not be touched. Baltimore
pitching was the equal of Los Angeles pitching in the
Koufax-Drysdale era, or the Yankees of Whitey Ford, Vic Raschi and
Allie Reynolds.

Top to bottom, Baltimore’s staff looked to
be better than the Mets, which was saying something. It was
starter-heavy, true, but Weaver did not seem to have need of a
bullpen. Pitching was a Baltimore trademark; like USC’s running
backs or Penn State’s linebackers. In later years, the Braves and
the A’s built their teams with pitching like that.

Steve Barber had been a phenom until his arm
went bad. Wally Bunker came out of San Mateo, California, making a
big splash as a teenager before injuries did him in. If there was a
chink in their pitching armor, perhaps it was the injury factor.
They did not adhere to the Gil Hodges theory; five days in between
starts, with set-up men and closers (even if those roles were not
defined, or were rotated).

Case in point number one was Jim Palmer. It
is not an exaggeration to state that as good as Tom Seaver was, Jim
Palmer was somewhere between almost as good, and just as good. In
some ways, he may have been better, and it does not get better than
that.

Palmer was born in New York City in 1945,
then made an orphan. He was adopted by a wealthy businessman, and
raised in the lap of luxury on Park Avenue. Later, the family moved
to Beverly Hills. He lived in a mansion. His next door neighbors
were Tony Curtis, his wife Janet Leigh, and their daughter Jamie
Leigh Curtis. His adopted father passed away when he was nine. His
mother re-married and the family moved to the posh Phoenix suburb
of Scottsdale, Arizona. There, the rich kid established himself as
the greatest schoolboy pitcher in the long history of Arizona prep
baseball. Oh, one other thing: John Wooden offered him a
scholarship to play basketball at UCLA when the Bruins were about
to start their dynasty.

He was 6-3, 195 pounds, and simply one of
the best lookin’ dudes ever to play baseball. He looked better than
Robert Redford when Redford made
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance
Kid
. Later, he modeled underwear and was a legitimate sex
symbol. Women swooned before him, but Palmer always had the upper
crust airs of a British royal. He was unfazed by anything, whether
it be beautiful women throwing themselves at him or Carl
Yastrzemski stepping in to hit against him.