THE 1969 MIRACLE METS: THE IMPROBABLE STORY OF THE WORLD’S GREATEST UNDERDOG TEAM (88 page)

Ryan was part of the Angels’ re-birth. The
Angels had always been a bunch of carousers who treated Spring
Training as a chance to hustle girls by the pool. In Palm Springs
in 1972, however, Ryan worked harder under pitching coach Tom
Morgan and conditioning coach Jimmie Reese than he ever had.
Instead of hitting the bars every night, he instead drove two hours
on Interstate 10 to Anaheim, where his young wife Ruth and infant
son Reid were staying.

His work ethic paid off. Morgan fashioned
Ryan’s style, tightening his motion. Ryan was tremendous, striking
out 329 hitters in 284 innings with 20 complete games to go with a
19-16 record and miniscule 2.28 earned run average. Ryan said that
New York manager Gil Hodges and pitching coach Rube Walker had
“given up” on him, but now a star was born.

Then in 1973 Ryan put together the biggest
year in the history of fastball aces. He was 21-16 with a 2.87
earned run average, tossing 26 complete games. He also struck out
the all-time Major League record of 383 hitters in 326 innings,
breaking Sandy Koufax’s record of 382 set in 1965. He threw two
no-hit games.

Ryan’s last scheduled start was on September
27 against Minnesota. The Twins of Rod Carew, Tony Oliva and Harmon
Killebrew scored three runs in the first inning, but Ryan settled
down and started to strike people out. He needed 16 to break the
record. Entering the seventh he had 10, but K’d the side to get to
13, with the spray-hitting Carew going down.

“He was just blowing the ball by people,”
recalled Carew. “His ball literally exploded. I remember he threw
Harmon Killebrew a fastball that was up and in, and his eyes got as
big as saucers. He was just unbelievable that night.”

The Angels tied the game but Ryan tore his
hamstring. Despite the pain he plugged on in the season finale,
trying for Koufax’s record. The injury hampered him, and he
struggled through the ninth, having tied the record. California
failed to score in the bottom of the ninth, leaving manager Bobby
Winkles with a dilemma. He decided to stay with the struggling
Ryan, who along with the fans wanted the record.

Ryan made it through a scoreless
10
^th
but did not strike anybody out. The Angels did
their part, not scoring in their half. In the 11
^th
Carew
walked and stole second. The crowd booed catcher Jeff Torborg’s
throw to second, not wanting to take an out that Ryan could use for
the record, even if it might cost him the game. Torborg had caught
Sandy Koufax’s perfect game in 1965, the year he set the
record.

Rich Reese came to the plate. Winkles
visited the exhausted Ryan. It was decided that this would be his
last batter, which would have created a lot of booing had Ryan not
gotten Reese on strikes. Ryan got two strikes on him.

“Ryan now has two strikes on Rich Reese,”
announcer Dick Enberg said. “. . . Two strike pitch is coming up,
Ryan sets, here it is, SWUNG ON AND MISSED . . . Nolan Ryan is the
Major League strikeout king of all time! . . . Ladies and
gentlemen, we have seen one of the finest young men to ever wear a
baseball uniform record one of the most incredible records in Major
League history. 383 for Nolan Ryan!” Then California scored to give
Ryan his 21
^st
win, making it a perfect night.

Jim Palmer of Baltimore won the Cy Young
award, which created some controversy. Palmer won three in his
career and was the more complete hurler, but a thorough analysis of
both their 1973 seasons reveals that Ryan was at least as
deserving. Ryan won 22 games with 367 strikeouts and a 2.89 earned
run average in 1974. He pitched for California through the 1979
season, leading the American League in strikeouts seven of eight
seasons. He pitched four no-hitters for California.

Ryan pitched spectacularly throughout the
1980s with the Astros, and continued to be a marvel with Texas from
1989-91. He threw three additional no-hitters to finish with seven
in his career, shattering all lifetime strikeout records with an
astounding 5,714 and a 3.19 earned run average to go with his 324
wins.

The career records for wins, ERA and of
course strikeouts bolsters some arguments that he was the best
ever, or the best of his generation. His lack of Cy Young awards
and World Championships (other than 1969) works against him, as
does his 2,295 career walks.

As a popular athlete, however, he is on one
of the truly short lists ever. Ryan was and is a complete gentleman
on and off the field. He entered Cooperstown in 1999. His only dark
moment occurred in 1974 when he beaned Boston’s Doug Griffin with a
sickening fastball to his head. Distraught, Ryan called Griffin’s
house that night. His anguish was accentuated when the Griffin’s
little girl said, “My mommy can’t talk because she’s with my daddy
in the hospital.”

Ryan, a father himself, had to fight a
battle that others like Koufax and Walter Johnson fought; the
realization that they could kill somebody with their fastball, and
that if they were to succeed they would have to pitch inside
anyway. Reportedly, this fear had destroyed Steve Dalkowski, a
minor league teammate of Bo Belinsky who some say threw
harder
than Ryan, but had his career derailed by
alcoholism.

“I’m very proud that I have seven no-hitters
and was able to throw four in a three-year span, but I would have
to say the fourth one is the most memorable because it tied me with
Sandy Koufax,” Ryan told writer Robert Goldman.

Many insist on comparing Ryan and Koufax
because of the no-hitters and strikeouts.

“Ryan was a more physical pitcher,” said
ex-Angel manager Norm Sherry, whose brother Larry was Koufax’s
teammate in L.A. “He would use his legs and had a lot of drive and
put a lot of terrific effort into throwing the ball. Koufax was
more fluid and gave less exertion than Ryan.”

Sherry could not honestly say that one threw
harder than the other did, but as a general rule Ryan is thought to
be the hardest-throwing pitcher ever. A natural comparison comes
between Ryan and two right-handers with similar hard leg drive
styles, Seaver and the Texas-bred Clemens. While Randy Johnson’s
make-up is much different, many have determined Johnson to be as
close to Ryan as any pitcher in terms of sheer velocity.

Ryan’s son, Reid, insisted that the key to
his father’s success came from their hardscrabble family
background. Nolan’s parents survived the Great Depression, so work
ethic was instilled in him. Ryan never took anything for granted.
His cattle business was “his first love,” something to fall back
on. He and Seaver were the only players from the 1969 Mets to enter
the Hall of Fame.

Gary Gentry was one of the biggest
disappointments in Mets history. Ultimately, arm problems ended his
promising career much too soon, but in truth he did not improve on
his 1969 performance – which was occasionally brilliant – with 9-9
and 12-11 records over the next two years. Gentry was 7-10 in 1972,
then traded to Atlanta, where he fell by the wayside as so many
other overpitched Arizona State pitchers have done.

During Spring Training in 1970, conservative
Florida Governor Claude Kirk called the Mets a symbol of
Americanism in the culture war between hippies and decent citizens.
Tug McGraw was miffed. He flashed a peace sign. Seaver did not
interject himself into the ensuing argument. Besides, he did not
consider the two fingers extended to be a peace sign. It was a “V
for Victory” sign, first popularized by Winston Churchill and
Dwight Eisenhower when America defeated Nazi Germany in World War
II. It was also the universal sign made by students at his alma
mater, the University of Southern California, when the Trojans’
marching band played the distinctly unpeaceful victory song,
“Conquest.”

In May of 1970, student anti-war
demonstrators were shot at Kent State University in Ohio. For many,
this was the turning point, when support for the cause ended. The
event proved to be a psychic shot for McGraw, who did weekend
military duty like many of his teammates. He realized that he could
have been one of the National Guardsmen who fired at the
protestors.

“I never could believe that the country had
reached the point where the National Guard would shoot people,” he
said. “The one thing I was never able to shut off in my mind, or
even to explain to myself, was Kent State. I couldn’t get myself to
go to the ballpark and enjoy myself, for God’s sake, playing a game
of baseball. It didn’t seem fair that I could be happy or even safe
after the Guard had been called out and started shooting at
students.”

That spring, McGraw had a nervous breakdown.
It was a combination of things: the war, his “complicity” as a
service member, Kent State, the expectations, then subsequent let
down after 1969. Finally, his parents went through a messy divorce
and ceased being civil to each other. McGraw was caught in the
middle of it. He went to Hodges, telling the manager he could not
function anymore. He said he was “cracking up.” It was a telling
moment for Hodges. Leo Durocher or any number of old school
baseball people would have told him to “suck it up,” or some such
“advice.” Hodges talked to him like a Dutch uncle, soothing his
young pitcher with sage recollections based on years of experience
in baseball, in life, as a husband, father and Christian. He helped
McGraw overcome his problems.

He came into his own in 1971 with an 11-4
record and microscopic 1.70 ERA. His screwball had become
perfected. In 1972 McGraw repeated the act – a 1.70 ERA - but his
most memorable year was 1973. Perhaps that was because the U.S.
finally pulled its troops out of Vietnam that January, but McGraw’s
personality blossomed. Like most of his teammates, he was
inconsistent, going nowhere on a nowhere team, when suddenly the
club picked it up the last two months and chased down the National
League East pennant. Suddenly, McGraw became the face of the Mets,
his energetic mound efforts riling up capacity crowds at Shea
Stadium in a marvelous resurrection of the 1969 spirit.

He would prounce around, whip his glove
against his side, and coined a catch phrase that became the team’s
rallying cry.
Ya Gotta Believe!
was a symbol of Mets’
fortitude (and the name of a book by Michael Lichtenstein), but has
been used by every desperate team, soldier and situation in the
succeeding 36 years. It had a spiritual, religious connotation to
it, which would have extra meaning for McGraw later.

His 25 saves, mostly down the stretch,
spurred Yogi Berra’s Mets to the play-offs. McGraw closed out key
games in the 3-2 win over Cincinnati in the N.L.C.S., as well as in
the seven-game Series loss to Oakland.

McGraw went to the Philadelphia Phillies,
where he was a key component on excellent Phillies teams, often
saving wins for the great Steve Carlton. In 1980 he had a 1.47 ERA
and 20 saves, keying the Phillies to a World Series victory over
the Kansas City Royals. His memorable last out and leap into the
air, arms held aloft, is regularly re-played on the classic sports
channels.

McGraw retired after the 1984 campaign with
19 years under his belt, a 96-92 record, 180 saves in an era in
which the use of closers was not perfected, and a 3.13 earned run
average. His play-off ERA was 2.67 in 15 games. In the 1973 and
1980 World Series (he did not pitch against Baltimore in 1969),
McGraw had a 2.11 earned run average in nine appearances.

Just as Koosman is not in the Hall of Fame, neither
is McGraw; he probably never will be; but they could do worse. The
man who once joked that he “picked up my wife in a bar” was a rube
in New York City. It certainly did not positively effect his career
at first. He went wild and had a reputation for being “girl crazy.”
One night he met some chick, had what was probably little more than
a one-night stand, and later found out she was pregnant. Tug
distanced himself from all of it, although he did not completely
abandon the girl or his son, who eventually grew up to be
mega-superstar country western singer Tim McGraw. Tim looked more
and more like his old man as he matured. The relationship was
strained for obvious reasons but normalized. It certainly did not
hurt that his son made more money than Tug ever dreamed of, not to
mention marrying bombshell singer Faith Hill. Tim had a forgiving
heart. But aside from the physical appearance, the two seemed cut
out of the same cloth. Tim liked to drink and party. He had his old
man’s wild side.

In the film
Friday Night Lights
, Tim played a
character who in many ways seemed to be Tug, or at least what Tug
might have been had they grown up with each other. He portrayed a
former high school football legend, still good-lookin’, apparently
re-married to a young hottie, whose son is now a senior on the
Odessa, Texas Permian Panthers. The two clash constantly. Tim’s
character drinks and even walks in shirtless on his son with a
half-naked girl, maybe looking to get some. In the end, there was
reconciliation.

Tug’s life was a country song in and of
itself; honky-tonks, wild livin’, life’s lessons learned,
reconciliation with a Christian sense of redemption, which somehow
capped the whole tragi-comic story when Tug died young of cancer.
He was 59, living in Tim’s Nashville-area home when he passed away
in 2004.

In the end, Tim and Tug became inextricably
linked by physical appearance, sir name and oddly similar life
paths, but in 1969, when Tug McGraw was one of those anointed
heroes of New York, Tim was just a gleam in his eye.