This Is This

There was a baseball player when I was a kid. A guy by the name of Tug McGraw. He was a rough-edged relief pitcher for the Philadelphia Phillies, who would come on as a substitute at the end of the game to change the pace and seal it - what’s known as a “closer”.

He was a real character, and I don’t know what cloth he was cut from, but there wasn’t much left over to make too many others. When asked if he preferred astroturf or grass, he said he’d never smoked astroturf. He had names for his pitches, like his fastball, which he named Peggy Lee, because she sang “Is That All There Is?” He called another the Cutty Sark, so named because “it sailed”.

His son’s a country singer - Tim McGraw, who is married to Faith Hill who you also may have heard of.

He signed from the New York Mets at age thirty one and was considered by many as past his best then, but he was thirty six when the Phillies made it to the World Series in 1980. He wasn’t a last resort either, Tug helped them get there, with the trademark slamming of his mitt on his thigh at the end of an inning after striking out the batter. He stood in for ace pitcher Steve Carlton, winner of the Cy Young award and no slouch on the mound himself.

The 1980 Philadelphia Phillies were one hell of a team: Mike Schmidt on third base, Pete Rose on first, Larry Bowa at shortstop, Bob Boone behind the plate with Manny Trillo and Bake McBride in outfield. These were the finest players of their day, and the best in the history of a team which had never won the championship.

They were the stuff of dreams, and it’s not just because I was nine years old at the time. They played like a symphony and that season was like a legend before it was even over.

Like in the playoffs, the way Bake McBride took the fly ball at the top of the last inning against the Houston Astros to win the game that sent the Phillies into the championship. His positioning was so right and the moment so perfect that he caught it with his eyes closed.

Game Six of the World Series was on 21 October 1980 and the Phils were up 4-0, but our pitcher Steve Carlton was pulled after allowing the first two Kansas City Royals’ batters to reach base. Enter Tug McGraw who starts throwing smoke.

The Royals fought back and loaded the bases in the last inning with the winning run at the plate. Willie Wilson steps back up to the plate with two out, two strikes of his own and 65,838 fans jammed into Veterans Stadium, holding their breath.

Some thirty miles away I was glued to the TV with my heart in my mouth.

Everyone knew that a home run would win it for the Royals and force a seventh and deciding game.

Tug McGraw winds up the pitch in his trademark style, both arms to the heavens almost in salvation. He unleashes Betty Lea and it that is all there is.

Instead of charging off the mound, slapping his glove and tapping his chest the way he would after a close call, he stood there for a split second, like Zeus on Olympus. Then he launched himself into the air and my memory, turned to his right to Mike Schmidt who was running over from third base to become the first player to embrace Tug.

I spent many afternoons at Veterans Stadium, and would be lulled to sleep by the potholes of the Skuykill Expressway, rolled up in the back of a blue Chevy Caprice, wishing it were red, but in a state of bliss. That was, and remains, my finest sporting moment and one the Phillies have never repeated.

I remember in the victory parade live on TV when he was addressed the crowd. He held a mic in his hand and said “New York City can take this championship - and stick it!”

We hadn’t even played New York, but he was talking about the Mets who had traded him five years earlier, writing off his career and casting him out of the big city.

I remember the crowd going nuts to that, the formerly anguished sports fans of Philly who had fallen for him, utterly smitten. His personal message became the soundbite of the day and I didn’t understand why he apologised for it a couple of days later. It wasn’t the most gracious thing to say, but it hardly seemed rude compared to what I heard every day.

He was everyone’s hero, and that’s why one of my most prized possessions is a ball signed by Tug. The Phillies had won the series in six games, but had it gone to seven, the ball I have sitting above my desk at home would have been used in the decider.

Tug died of a brain tumour in 2004, and you can barely read the signature on it now, but you can make out, there under “World Series 1980″, the mark of the man who said: “Ten million years from now, when then sun burns out and the Earth is just a frozen iceball hurtling through space, nobody’s going to care whether or not I got this guy out.”

But he’d do it anyway.

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In spiritual terms, I’m a colour agnostic. Red and green may exist and I’m sure that other people are certain that they do, but I couldn’t swear on it.
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This entry was posted on Monday, February 12th, 2007 at 8:30 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed, or you can skip to the end and leave a comment yourself.