A game to remember

Once in a while, when space allows, we want to give WORLD members the opportunity to be part of our writing community. So, here’s a question: What sports event have you attended that most sticks in your memory? I’m not asking about the most important game, just one you recall vividly. Please email descriptions to jmcgraw@wng.org. I’ll read them, and we’ll periodically run good ones on WORLD’s website.

Here’s mine: April 29, 1967. The Boston Red Sox had not had a winning record for 10 years. On this day, temperatures were in the 40s and a 20 mph wind blew from the Atlantic, but it was a Saturday afternoon and Fenway Park was still serving up its green grass with a side of green wall, so in my 17th year I was there in a cheap seat as I always tried to be.

The Red Sox were playing the Kansas City A’s, who would soon move to Oakland and become a tri-championship team. I hoped the KC starter, Blue Moon Odom, had that nickname because he threw a shutout only about that often, but it turned out his ERA was 2.49 in 1966, his rookie season, so I expected the worst.

Disaster struck in the top of the third as the A’s scored one run and then four more on a grand slam by second baseman Dick Green, who hit only five home runs in the entire season. “Down the drain,” the leather-lunged fan behind me yelled, but Boston knocked out Blue Moon with six runs in the bottom of the inning.

By the time fans stretched halfway through the seventh inning, the score was 9-9. The Red Sox almost won with two outs in the ninth and a runner of sorts on second. Shortstop Rico Petrocelli singled to right field and lumbering Joe Foy aspired to make it to home and a walk-off celebration. When Foy slid in, umpire Bill Kinnamon hesitated for a second—time to go home?—and then called him out.

Those were the days when closers went to the close of the game or until their arms fell off, whichever came first. John Wyatt and Jack Aker had both started pitching for the Sox and the A’s, respectively, in the seventh inning. Five innings later they were still on the mound. KC almost took the lead in the top of the 12th, but Red Sox left fielder Carl Yastrzemski threw out at home an A’s runner, with Kinnamon again choosing ethics over ease as he yelled, “Yer out,” loudly enough for me in the stands to hear it.

Of course, by then I had moved from my customary right field spot to a position of affluence directly behind home plate: The original 9,724 in attendance had dwindled to maybe 972, and ushers were unlikely to chase me away. The temperature dropped, and I shivered in my jacket BUT WOULD NOT LEAVE.

The A’s finally scored in the top of the 15th, but in the bottom of the inning Boston loaded the bases. José Tartabull, a .174 hitter known mostly for playing bongos in the clubhouse, was at the plate. The fastball of A’s closer Aker, who had just filed a petition to change his name to Aching, lollygagged to the plate. Tartabull laced it to the outfield. Two runs scored, and my perseverance had paid off: Boston 11, Kansas City 10.

It seemed an inconsequential event, but when the season ended five months later, Boston had astoundingly won the American League pennant for the first time in 21 years—and by one game!

Your turn!