One Last Strike: Fifty Years in Baseball Ten and Half Games Back and One Final Championship Season Read online

  ONE

  LAST

  STRIKE

  Fifty Years in Baseball, Ten and a Half

  Games Back, and One Final

  Championship Season

  TONY LA RUSSA

  with Rick Hummel

  Dedication

  To Elaine, Bianca, Devon, and our four-legged family

  You made it all possible

  To the ARF staff, volunteers, sponsors, and donors

  You created the ARF season and pushed the dream

  way beyond our original goals

  Also, to all those special people I’ve met over the years

  who have become friends. The closer the bond,

  the greater my appreciation

  And finally, to all those involved with professional baseball,

  especially everyone associated with MLB

  and our teams in Chicago, Oakland, and St. Louis

  Contents

  Dedication

  Foreword

  PART I

  Chapter One: Going the Distance

  Chapter Two: Spring Starts at Zero

  Chapter Three: Opening Day

  Chapter Four: The Surge

  Chapter Five: The Storm

  Chapter Six: Buyer or Seller

  Chapter Seven: Tough Decisions

  Chapter Eight: Sliding

  Chapter Nine: The Comeback

  Chapter Ten: The Big Close

  PART II

  Chapter Eleven: Seeing Things in a New Light

  Chapter Twelve: Turning Pages

  Chapter Thirteen: Split

  Chapter Fourteen: Hanging in There

  Chapter Fifteen: Brothers in Arms

  PART III

  Chapter Sixteen: Hold ’Em Right Here

  Chapter Seventeen: The Right Kind of Bull

  Chapter Eighteen: Making It Happen

  PART IV

  Chapter Nineteen: Back Again

  Chapter Twenty: Run Not Hide

  Chapter Twenty-one: The Middle on the Road

  Chapter Twenty-two: You Had to See It for Yourself

  Chapter Twenty-three: We’re History

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Appendix

  Index

  Photographic Insert

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Foreword

  ABOUT A DECADE AGO, WORD FILTERED DOWN THAT TONY La Russa was looking for me. I had never met him, but given his high profile in the game, I felt as though I knew him. He managed the Cardinals, my team, and for that reason alone he rated pretty high. We eventually hooked up by phone and had a long talk. Tony is a voracious reader and had just finished A Painted House, my highly fictionalized childhood memoir and a story brimming with Cardinal baseball. I told Tony that being a Cardinal fan was in the blood. My father, grandfather, and everybody else in the family had followed the team for as long as anyone can remember. Growing up in small towns in Arkansas and Mississippi, the highlight of our day was the nightly broadcast on KMOX out of St. Louis with Harry Caray and Jack Buck on the radio. Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, Curt Flood, Orlando Cepeda, Tim McCarver—those were my heroes, and I knew their statistics, birth dates, and hometowns. My grandfather’s team had been the Gashouse Gang with Dizzy Dean, another Arkansas farm boy, and my father revered Stan Musial.

  Satisfied with my credentials, Tony graciously invited me to come to St. Louis, watch a game, hang out with the team, and have a late dinner. I collected my dad, Big John, and away we went. It was a memorable visit, the highlight being Big John and Stan the Man sitting together for two hours watching the Cardinals and reminiscing. Leaving St. Louis the following day, my dad informed me that he had now reached the pinnacle, his life was complete, and he was ready for the hereafter. Thankfully, he’s still around and doesn’t miss a Cardinal game on television.

  A friendship was born, one that Tony and I have maintained over the years. On many occasions, I’ve visited him at spring training, in St. Louis, and even on the road. Long after the games were over, we dined for hours and solved many of the world’s problems. He always wanted to talk about books and writers, while I preferred to get the gossip on players and managers. Over the years I have marveled at his passion for the game, his dogged pursuit of perfection, his commitment to his players, his endless quest to learn even more, his determination to win, his complete inability to accept defeat (even in spring training), and his breathtaking knowledge of the intricacies of baseball. Every baseball fan thinks he or she is an expert on the game, but an hour with Tony and the average fan would feel like a T-baller.

  Through Tony, I’ve been lucky to meet and spend time with Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, Ozzie Smith, Mike Shannon, Red Schoendienst, Jack Buck, and Stan Musial. He’s a tireless networker and relishes friendships with other great coaches. I once walked into his office in Florida after a spring game and was introduced to Bobby Knight and Bill Parcells, two of his old chums. Tony pushed the right buttons, got the two bickering over something, and for the next hour I laughed until I cried. During a long dinner at Nick’s Tomatoe Pie, one of his favorite restaurants in Jupiter, I listened as the great John Havlicek regaled us with stories of his days with the Celtics.

  Over the years, Tony challenged me to write a baseball novel, and I said I planned to as soon as I found the right story. I challenged him to write a book that would dissect the game and reveal its many layers of complexity. In 2005, he worked with Buzz Bissinger on Three Nights in August, a masterful analysis of a crucial three-game series with the Cubs.

  In late spring of 2011, I called Tony and told him I finally had an idea for a baseball novel. The central plot involved a beanball and baseball’s unwritten code of dealing with it. Talk about a hot-button topic. Nothing torments Tony like a hit batter. Was it intentional? Do we retaliate? If so, when? And who do we hit? In his dugout, he makes the call, and by doing so takes the pressure off his players. Other managers refuse to touch the issue, instead allowing their players to handle things. More than once I’ve heard Tony describe how a perfectly civilized baseball game can change in an instant by a fastball up and in.

  In August of last year, Tony called to check on the novel. The Cardinals were ten games behind the Brewers and the season looked rather bleak. Typically, though, he had a plan to win the wild card and he was optimistic his team was buying into it. I had my doubts, though I kept them to myself. The odds of closing from ten games back with only thirty to go were slim. He reminded me that I had not been to see a game the entire year, beginning in Florida in February, and hinted there may not be another season, at least not for him. Shortly after that conversation, the Cardinals slowly came to life, and the Braves, their wild-card rivals, began to fall apart.

  When I arrived in St. Louis on Friday, September 23, the Cardinals were two games out with only six left, and they had blown a win the day before against the Mets. The fifth-place Cubs were in town, but win-loss records mean nothing in that rivalry. Statistically, the Cardinals were still alive, but the mood in Busch Stadium that night was far from festive. Someone forgot to tell the team they were still in the hunt. They lost 5–1 to the Cubs and went to the locker room down three games with only five to go. It would take a miracle.

  In St. Louis, the postgame dinner was always at a wonderful Italian restaurant called Tony’s—no connection other than great food. It’s downtown and a short walk from the stadium. Mr. La Russa had his
table there, regardless of the late hour. He invited some of his St. Louis pals, all rabid Cardinal fans, and we set about the task of trying to cheer him up. Dinner after a win was a celebration, but after a loss, especially to the Cubs, it was another matter. The mood was generally upbeat, though everyone at the table knew the season was practically over. We talked about beanballs, retaliation, baseball’s codes, headhunters, famous brawls, and the like. There was no discussion of the playoffs or the World Series.

  No one at the table, including Tony, could have foreseen the magical and memorable ride the Cardinals were about to take. Their gutsy run from ten games out had come to an end with two straight bad losses. It was time to think about next year.

  There was no reason to suspect the miracle was just beginning.

  After the Cardinals beat the Rangers in game seven, Tony announced his retirement. He had made the decision weeks earlier and had quietly informed the ownership. Like all his friends and fans, I was saddened by the end of an era, but I was also proud to see him walk away on top.

  Almost immediately he began talking about a book, this book. He was eager to tell the story of his team, of a close, familylike bunch of players who coalesced and pulled themselves up from the mat, believed in one another and their coaches, followed their leader, and refused to lose.

  Here is their remarkable story.

  John Grisham

  July 23, 2012

  Part I

  One more game.

  Those three words had been going through my head since the moment I’d awakened in my Houston hotel room.

  Game 162 loomed, and finally—unbelievably—we were tied with Atlanta in the National League wild-card race. How did we pull this off? Barely a month ago we’d been ten and a half games back in the wild card. Now, on Wednesday, September 28, we had our fate in our hands. Win tonight and, at the very least, we’d be in a one-game showdown for the wild-card slot in the playoffs. A series of tough and dramatic wins and losses the final weeks of the regular season had us on the brink of joy or despair.

  An impressive come-from-behind win on Tuesday, coming on the heels of Monday’s tough loss, simply demonstrated the formula that had come to define our season: when faced with a serious adversity, the team always found a positive response. I’d seen that pattern so many times throughout the season. Those kinds of wins never feel routine, but this season, each time we pulled it off it felt better than ever, another jolt that had me thinking, “Hey, we can do this.”

  I’ve always liked the drama of having your magic number at one or two games and walking to the ballpark knowing you could be a champion. That’s a helluva motivator.

  Normally I don’t look back. I keep my focus on the one ahead. Yet, on this morning, as I prepared to head over to the stadium, the emotional surge of it all was too much, and I broke one of my golden rules.

  You take that pause to think back or look too far ahead and suddenly you’ve lost focus. Save that for after the game, and look back to learn from your past wins or losses. I’ve heard it said don’t break your arm trying to pat yourself on the back. Well, don’t break your neck looking behind goes right along with that.

  I’d always stressed this with our players, telling them that the second they started being content with what they’d done, they weren’t focusing on what they were going to do. You can’t truly savor what you’re doing while you’re doing it. Our goal every day was to enjoy the experience of dedicating all of our mental and physical efforts to the next game’s competition. In fact, the most enduring impression I have from the 2011 team is the give-it-all attitude the players brought to the games. The fame and fortune would be by-products of the winning. The real fun was how we competed.

  I risk having to call B.S. on myself. Memories of the season and what our team had endured to be in this position snuck through my defenses. I figured there had to be an exception to the golden rule when a team played through the kind of season that we’d had. At seemingly every point, we’d experienced setbacks—pitching problems; injuries to essential players; our bench depth replacing injured regulars, who then had to be covered by our minor league depth when they were hurt; slumps; falling ten and a half games back. You name it, we faced it. We never really got down, despite the fact that there were several points when we were nearly out. We’d been written off by just about everyone but ourselves at one point or another. After Adam Wainwright’s season-ending injury in Florida, the consensus was that we were a second-division team watching a two-team race between the Brewers and the Reds. Every season each team faces challenges. I’d been managing for thirty-three years and part of two World Series Championships, but I’d rarely seen a team or a season like this.

  I glanced over at the clock on the dresser and silently counted the minutes until it was time to leave. I was proud of what we’d accomplished to that point. Who wouldn’t be? That’s not bragging, it’s just telling it like it is.

  But then I added heresy to rule-breaking: I knew we were going to beat Houston. Atlanta was going to win as well. We’d see them at our place on Thursday in St. Louis, winner take all.

  My prognostications aside, I knew the game had to be played, and anything could happen. The baseball gods punish you for not respecting the game and your opponents—I’ve learned that the hard way. My hope was that maybe on September 28, 2011, when three other games around the major leagues had playoff implications, the gods would be distracted enough to let my sins go unnoticed.

  Still, there was another potential distraction, one I’d been better at controlling because it belonged to me alone: if we lost and the Braves won, this would be my last game managing in Major League Baseball.

  Several months before, in the middle of the summer when no one, especially me, had any idea what was going to happen with our year, I had decided that after thirty-three seasons in the major leagues, this was going to be my last as Cardinals manager, or manager of any team.

  I’d been preaching the importance of focus for years. I’d been expecting our players to tune out some of the most important things in their lives so that their play would stay at a high level. Could I practice what I’d preached? If the season began to go downhill, if we fell out of playoff contention, would I be able to maintain my focus, or would I get caught up in memorializing each moment?

  The funny thing is, I never had to answer those questions. Not long after my decision was made, our comeback began. As we climbed back into contention, the elephant in my room grew smaller. As we closed in on the wild card, it had been reduced to a barely audible mouse’s squeak.

  Now, on the verge of game 162, I had a lot of questions, but anxiety over the end of my career wasn’t one of them. I knew we would continue to enjoy playing the game that night because there was something special about this team: they liked it when the stakes were high, and I’d seen a lot of the players deal with situations like this one before. “Take it one game at time” is something you hear players and coaches alike spout almost daily. The thing is, these guys actually had fun doing that. They knew how to deal with the game they had in front of them. They knew not to think too far ahead. After all, that’s pretty much the only way a team can claw back into the playoff race from ten and a half games back.

  I knew a moral victory wasn’t enough for them; they’d come too far to settle. They wanted to finish the Astros and finish the comeback. In a few hours, I would remind them of what I believe they already sensed: that our regular season made for a very good story, but only a win, followed by several more, would make it a great story. You always want to be great.

  One more game. That’s all you can ever ask for.

  Chapter One

  Going the Distance

  FOR A PROFESSIONAL BASEBALL MANAGER, THE ONLY THING WORSE than driving home 2,000 miles in October with your season over is having a 2,000-mile drive home when your season ended like ours did in 2010—a legitimate contender falling short. It’s not the distance; it’s the disappointment.

  As i
t turned out, the distance was a plus; it gave me an opportunity to sort out 2010 and examine my uncertainties about 2011. On September 28, 2010, we’d been officially eliminated from a playoff berth. The excitement of counting down your “magic number” as the front-runner is replaced by the despair of seeing your “tragic number” being reduced to zero and elimination. The word eliminated is very appropriate—it feels like the whole season has been flushed down the toilet.

  This was not my first postseason trek. My wife, Elaine, and I along with my daughters, Bianca and Devon, live in California. Following the 1996 season, my first in St. Louis, I’d made the same drive—three and half or four days—back home. In 1996, I was excited yet exhausted. That year had been the most difficult I’d ever had as a manager. We hadn’t made it to the World Series, but we’d won the National League Central, swept the San Diego Padres in the Division Series, and gone to the National League Championship Series, where the Braves beat us. The loss to the Braves just shy of the World Series stung, yet there was plenty to be satisfied with, especially given where we’d been at the start of the year. We’d begun the season as twenty-five players and eight staff members wearing the same uniform, but we weren’t really a team. After some very difficult challenges, some our staff had never before dealt with, we’d become a single unit. If we hadn’t, we wouldn’t have advanced as far as we did.

  The drive in ’96 had been the perfect bookend to the season—I was dog tired when I got into my car, but when I emerged on the West Coast I felt refreshed and inspired by what lay ahead.

  I knew before my foot had even touched the gas pedal that this drive would be different, because 2010 was not 1996—not on the calendar and not on the field or in the clubhouse.

  If I compared the story of the 2010 season to a drive back home, the difference between what I saw and what I’d hoped to see was slight. It wasn’t like I’d viewed war-torn cities, derelict houses. Instead this city was one where the neighbors had let their lawns grow shaggy, hadn’t pulled all the weeds, and maybe the kids had left their bikes outside in the grass.