A century of Classic memories
It all began 100 years ago with a gentlemen's challenge.
Two Major Leagues -- an established one called the "National" and a newcomer
called the "American." The owners of Pittsburgh's NL club and Boston's AL club
agreed to schedule a series of games to decide true superiority, and the team
that won the most would be declared the best baseball team in the land.
From Cy Young's first pitch for Boston to Troy Percival's last for Anaheim,
that has remained the fundamental purpose of a living storybook known as the
World Series. Only the chapters end, and the book goes on forever, always with
the same and simple mission of settling summertime debate on a glorious autumn
diamond.
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Long live the Fall Classic.
Yes, it is so big and meaningful that it is known by more than one name, the
way Babe Ruth needed "Sultan of Swat" and "Bambino" to fit his stature. The
100th Anniversary of the World Series is a time to celebrate, not only to end a
2003 chapter but also to remember and rediscover lost youth. This event has
touched everyone in an individual way, a reassuring lighthouse for a century of
explorers, a defining rite of passage from adolescence to adulthood. Brewers
All-Star Richie Sexson, 28, may have said it best when he, as with most other
active Major Leaguers surveyed by MLB.com, cited Kirk Gibson's 1988 "Miracle
Homer" as his favorite World Series memory: "That's when I was really old enough
to understand what it was all about."
Maybe you remember that new, explosive awareness you felt when you listened
on your transistor radio at school as Tom Seaver, Tommie Agee and the Amazin'
Mets shocked Brooks Robinson, Jim Palmer and the Orioles. Maybe you remember how
you felt when Reggie Jackson officially became Mr. October on that three-homer
night, when Pops Stargell got the disco started in Pittsburgh, when Detroit
literally went wild over Alan Trammell and the Tigers, when Kirby Puckett took
the stage and when Luis Gonzalez got enough wood on Mariano Rivera's best out
pitch.
Carlton Fisk's 1975 Game 6 homer is forever fair in your mind, whether you
stayed up late with an entire nation to watch it on TV or see the replay year
after year. Maybe you are young enough at heart to remember when Yogi, The Mick,
Willie and even Dem Bums turned the event into their own private, post-war
borough bash. Perhaps that will be you, years from now, telling your
grandchildren about the time a Rally Monkey and a guy named Spiezio confirmed at
last what Emily Dickinson had written: Success is counted sweetest by those
who ne'er succeed.
"I remember after we won in 1971, which was my first full season in the
Majors," says Cubs coach Gene Clines, recalling the Pirates' Series victory over
Baltimore. "I looked at Clemente and Stargell, our team leaders, and they were
crying. I said, 'What are they crying about?' It wasn't until a while later that
I absorbed what that meant. During that time I talked to Ernie Banks, Billy
Williams and other Hall of Famers who hadn't won. They told me they would trade
all their batting titles and honors for this chance. Now I appreciate it. That's
what a World Series means."
A 'little break' from life One hundred years is a long time. It is
a long time for a society that has changed again and again to crave a constant
occurrence for four to seven days out of every October. Yet we wait and watch
for it to come, like the maple's newest uniform colors at Martha's Vineyard.
This living storybook is a page-turner.
When you flip back through those pages, one
thing you can conclude is this: There definitely was room for two leagues in the
grand old game. Thanks largely to 26 world championships produced by a certain
pinstriped club from New York, the AL leads the NL, 58-40. There was no World
Series in 1904 because the NL's Giants felt they had nothing to prove, and a
1994 player strike only proved to hurt. But the tradition goes on, always
surviving the furies of peacetime or war, prosperity or depression, always built
upon the anticipation of a long regular season and playoffs.
It mirrors the world, and the world mirrors it. We succeed and we fail.
"Heroes" like Don Larsen, Bill Mazeroski and Joe Carter will emerge, as will
"goats" like Mickey Owen, Bill Buckner and Lonnie Smith. We love to see them
fill in the blanks, to see the emotion released by even-keeled professionals
when they win (think of Wade Boggs riding horseback), to feel a winning city
come together and to anticipate just how powerful it will feel when a Cub or a
Red Sox fan has his or her moment.
For a century we have waited breathlessly for it to happen -- following it by
telegraph, listening on the radio, watching on the first RCA televisions,
viewing it in color, now even watching it internationally via MLB.TV. And for the truly
fortunate, a ticket stub is a collectible for life.
Blasts from the past The World Series reaches all of your senses.
You see Lou Brock sliding safely for a record steal, and you see Roger Clemens
and Mike Piazza going mano a mano. You feel the earth shake at
Candlestick Park, and you feel the snow as it falls on you at Cleveland's Jacobs
Field before flying down to South Florida for a sweaty finish. You taste two hot
dogs and the Big Red Machine is still batting. You smell the leather of
your glove as you try to emulate what happened earlier that day when Brooksie
made an impossible dive and came up throwing to Boog.
And that sound! You hear the ThunderStix smacking against themselves in
Anaheim. You hear Sinatra's "New York, New York" after another World Series game
is won at Yankee Stadium. You hear the thunderous home run struck by Ruth in St.
Louis, first the crack of the bat and then the crash through your window at the
business across the street from Sportsman's Park. World Series noise is
delightfully deafening.
Twins manager Ron Gardenhire heard it while he was coaching third base in the
bottom of the 10th inning of Game 7 against Atlanta at the Metrodome. "Danny
Gladden was standing at third base when Gene Larkin was up. It doesn't get any
tenser. It doesn't get any more exciting and it doesn't get any louder. Unless
you're sitting in the back of a jet with the engines in your ear, it can't get
any louder than it was there. Danny couldn't hear a word I was saying. People
were screaming. It was pretty amazing."
Marlins coach Bill Robinson still can hear "all those Oriole fans" when he
came to bat for Pittsburgh in Game 6 of the 1979 World Series. "I had a 2-and-2
count against Scott McGregor. Man on second base. I was hitting cleanup. They
let out a yell that to this day was the loudest I've ever heard. I had to step
out of the box to maintain my composure. On the next pitch, I hit it five feet
straight up into the air, a pop to Rick Dempsey. But the next day, I had a base
hit, and then Willie Stargell hit a dramatic homer."
The World Series is the loud, exploding grand finale to a fireworks show, and
it is time to throw a party and another pitch. Yogi Berra played in more games
and collected more hits in this event than anyone, and his Yogi-ism is more than
cliche now: "It ain't over till it's over." It ain't over till the final ball is
tossed in the final game of the final event, and only then will the next chapter
be written in the living storybook.
Which Major League has the best team? Here we are, still deciding.
Long live the Fall Classic.
Mark Newman is a writer
for MLB.com. Correspondents Jason Beck, Adam McCalvy, Mark Sheldon and Paul C.
Smith contributed to this story, which was not subject to the approval of Major
League Baseball or its clubs.
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