Three Nights in August Read online

But La Russa believes that in virtually all situations, human nature dictates results and that his role as a manager is to recognize the impact of human nature and take the best advantage of it. It sounds simple, maybe, but it isn't simple, because human nature isn't simple, and it's even less simple when applied to the twenty-five pieces of the puzzle. Some need to be left alone, some need a pat on the rump every so often, and some need a swift boot in the rear: fuzzy love or tough love or no love. To a certain degree, matchups are a compact reflection of the human psyche, in this instance the effect of confidence on performance. A hitter who has gained early success against a pitcher may simply continue to build on that. He believes he can see the ball better when it's thrown by that pitcher, even though there is no physical truth that he can. It's moot, immaterial; the octane of confidence itself is enough to propel him. It's the same with certain pitchers. Their curve may have less break, less tumble, less of that 12-to-6 plummet than their colleagues' curves, but they begin to succeed with it against a given hitter. They begin to feel, to know, that the poor little guy 60 feet and 6 inches down the road from them can't do anything with it. And it actually turns out that way.

  But matchups also tell the truth about skill—the numbers, like the needle at the start of a lie detector test, are just the beginning of what will be revealed. So when La Russa looks at the matchup numbers that he has been handed, numbers he is familiar with because the Cardinals have already played the Cubs nine times before, it isn't the numbers he cares about as much as the stories behind them: ways to find a remedy for a hitter who has consistently lousy numbers against a sinkerballer (start hitting the ball the other way instead of always trying to pull it and roll over the ball with weak grounders), or the anomalies of right-handed relievers who, against the grain of baseball, actually do better against lefties and how to make use of that (instead of the conventional wisdom of putting in a lefty pinch-hitter, go with a righty). Of all the hours spent preparing before a game, many of them La Russa spends searching for the explanations of these matchup numbers, a slice of seemingly buried narrative that during the season can single-handedly change the outcome of the four or five games that—in La Russa's estimation—a manager can change.

  The more La Russa scrutinizes these matchups, the less he likes them. Usually, they offer hope at some point in a series, but not this time. Over the next three nights, the Cards will confront three dominating pitchers. Adding to La Russa's anxiety, giving it the true crisp of darkness, is an acute animus: the Cubs.

  The rivalry between the Cubs and the Cardinals is probably the oldest and perhaps the best in baseball, no matter how the Red Sox and Yankees spit and spite at each other. That's a tabloid-fueled soap opera about money and ego and sound bites. That's a pair of bratty high-priced supermodels trying to trip each other in their stilettos on the runway. But the Cards-Cubs epic is about roots and geography and territorial rights. It's entwined in the Midwestern blood and therefore refreshing and honest and even heroic. It isn't simply two teams throwing tantrums at each other but two feudal city-states with eternal fans far beyond their own walls, spread throughout not only the Midwest but also deep into the South and the West. The Cubs started amassing their empire through WGN, its crystal-clear radio waves sweeping out of Chicago into Iowa and Wisconsin and the Dakotas. Until the Boston Braves moved to Milwaukee in 1953, no other National League team was in the upper Midwest.

  As for the Cardinals, they were for a period of time baseball's westernmost team, and its southernmost, too, until the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles in 1958. The Cardinals' retort to WGN was KMOX, whose fifty thousand watts fed millions starved for big-league baseball. Carried by its powerful signal, Cardinals games rolled south from St. Louis, across Missouri into Arkansas and Mississippi, and west into Oklahoma and Texas and even beyond, if the night sky was right.

  In Peoria and Decatur and dozens of smaller Illinois farm towns, factions developed, with half the population tuning in to WGN and half turning on KMOX. But the rivalry goes farther back than radio, deep into baseball's mythic youth.

  It might have originated on June 24, 1905, when the Cubs' Ed Reulbach and the Cards' Jack Taylor each pitched eighteen-inning complete games before the Cubbies won 2–1. The mutual contempt was only sharpened by more recent heroics, such as the nine showdowns in the late 1960s and early 1970s between the Cubs' Fergie Jenkins and the Cards' Bob Gibson. In seven of these duels, both men pitched a complete game, four were decided by one run, and two of them produced a final score of 1–0. Once, in 95-degree St. Louis heat, as terrible a heat as this hemisphere can muster, both pitchers went the distance undaunted by the departure of homeplate umpire Shag Crawford, who found the weather so insufferable that even he quit in the middle of the game. St. Louis fans also hearken back to Bruce Sutter's split-fingered fastball, perhaps the greatest contribution to pitching since Mordecai "Three Fingers" Brown refined the curve ball. Cubs fans exult in the memory of Ryne Sandberg's stroking that splitter for two back-to-back homers in 1984, a deliciousness made more delicious because Sutter had once been a Cub himself before going over to the dark side.

  The inevitable implosion of the Cubs—the sad fury of their futility—only gave the rivalry an added extra, with nothing more fun for a Cards fan than to watch the Cubs self-destruct with their own special brand of pathos. Their knack for misfortune has proved itself thousands of times but rarely more eloquently than in "Broglio-for-Brock," a term synonymous in some circles with idiocy, absurdity, ridiculousness, and senselessness. Broglio-for-Brock was born in June 1964; at first, Cubs fans thought that they had gotten the better of the deal. They didn't mind at all when Lou Brock was sent to the Cardinals along with Jack Spring and Paul Toth in return for Ernie Broglio, Bobby Shantz, and Doug Clemens. Brock's statistics at the time were middling at best. He struck out often, got thrown out stealing nearly half the times he tried, and had an aggregate batting average with the Cubs of .255 over four years. Broglio, on the other hand, was a hard-throwing pitcher who had been 18 and 8 in 1963. The fact that he was only 3 and 5 in 1964, an indication of arm trouble, didn't seem to bother the Cubs' hierarchy.

  As a Cardinal, Brock became one of the greatest players in the history of the game, leading the National League eight times in stealing, finishing five times in the top-ten voting for most valuable player, and getting inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1985. After the trade, Broglio subsequently won seven games and lost nineteen before leaving baseball two years later. Whether it's true or not, and it probably isn't, it is still considered to be the worst trade that has ever taken place in baseball. Cubs fans have never forgotten it, partially because Cardinals fans will never let them forget it, and it makes every series they play touched by trauma.

  II

  THIS SEASON, La Russa feels a special competitive edge against the Cubs because they're for real. He pays particular notice to the two pitchers who embody the team's newfound swagger and success: those punk rockers Mark Prior and Kerry Wood. They're the best 1-2 in the game this year, with psychoses that complement their skill. They both throw nasty stuff, and neither is afraid to go way up and way in on a hitter if that's what it takes to prevail.

  Even more vital to the Cubs' resurgence is La Russa's counterpart, Dusty Baker. He's in his first season with the team; last year, he led the Giants to the National League Pennant. When Baker became available, La Russa was hoping that he would move over to the American League so that he might have to face him only in a World Series. But Baker dashed those hopes completely by settling in with the Cubs. Baker may not be the greatest strategist, but the way the sport and its players are evolving, La Russa also knows that how one manages during a game is becoming less important. What Baker is good at—superb at—is interacting with players. He can handle a ballclub as well as he handles the ever-present toothpick in his mouth; he knows better than anyone else in baseball how to manage the space between a player's ears. He is also masterful at deflecting attention to himself. He lets blunt and c
ontroversial remarks spill out of his mouth. But on closer analysis, they seem purposely designed to keep the media swarm buzzing around him. Better for him to get stung by clearly calculated outrageousness than his players.

  The upshot is that the Cubs haven't done their annual cuddly collapse in the Friendly Confines. And the Astros, buoyed by the oak-barrel reliability of Craig Biggio and Jeff Bagwell, haven't fallen back either. On this last Tuesday in August, the Central Division standings reflect a race that's neck and neck as it heads into the summer embers:

  ST. LOUIS 68-62 .523

  HOUSTON 68-62 .523

  CHICAGO 67-62 .519

  By winning two of these next three games, the Cubs can overtake the Cardinals at a pivotal moment. Beyond that general worry are a lot of smaller, more specific concerns. Aside from the punk duo of Prior and Wood, there's the dark horse Carlos Zambrano, slated to go against the Cards in Game 3. Although few outside of Chicago know much about Zambrano, he is pitching better than Prior and Wood. He has, in fact, been the best pitcher in baseball the past month.

  La Russa worries about how he will counter this trio with his own trio: Garrett Stephenson in Game 1, Woody Williams in Game 2, and Matt Morris in Game 3. It's not a shabby trio by any means; nor is it accidental that they'll be pitching in this three-game series. More than a month ago, La Russa and Dave Duncan mapped out their rotation all the way to the end of August to ensure that these would be the pitchers who went against the Cubs now. La Russa and Duncan purposely decided to backload the three-game series, sending the weakest of the three pitchers out first. As one of the many philosophies they have developed during two decades together, they would rather finish the series strong than begin it strong.

  La Russa likes this rotation, but he doesn't love it. Each of his pitchers is hauling baggage. Stephenson has some kind of bipolar disorder on the mound. Williams, the staff workhorse, has hit a winless trough after an All-Star first half and may be mentally exhausted. Morris is still recovering from a recently sprained ankle that could well prevent him from pitching with any sustained effectiveness.

  La Russa also frets over his hitters, particularly the top of the lineup, with two unpredictable neophytes. He's worried about Rolen's shoulder and neck, which have been hurting him ever since he slid headfirst into home plate at Fenway Park two and a half months ago. The injury restricts his mobility to get to certain pitches, not to mention that it's also painful. La Russa needs to give him a day off. But he can't give Rolen a day off, at least not for this series, anyway; even with a bad neck and shoulder, Rolen at third is still better than any other third baseman in the league, both defensively and offensively. La Russa is worried about Edmonds in center, whose shoulder has been cranky ever since the All-Star game in Chicago when he apparently did something to it during the Home Run Derby. La Russa is worried about Renteria at short, who collapsed in the shower with back spasms the previous game and will definitely be scratched from Game 1. La Russa worries too about the Cubs' lineup. There are Sammy Sosa and Moises Alou, the obvious game breakers, but he's even more worried about three exPirates who have given the Cubs enormous value down the stretch: Aramis Ramirez at third, Randall Simon at first, and Kenny Lofton in center.

  As La Russa refines the little cheat-sheet cards in his tiny hieroglyphic handwriting, he spies a glimmer or two of possibility. The Cubs' starters make a lot of errors, and maybe it's an Achilles' heel he can exploit by bunting more than usual. And Prior, despite his prowess and his puffed-up attitude, still has never beaten the Cardinals. But La Russa takes little relief in any of this. Like most managers, he lives by adages and aphorisms, and the one he applies here resounds with his trademark joy: Hope for the best; prepare for the worst.

  2. Locked In

  I

  WITH BATTING PRACTICE and the meetings that take place before every new series still a good hour away, the players mill about the clubhouse with an ease born of privilege. They pad across the carpeted floor in white slippers. They pass a little round table where a red batting helmet, destined for an army sergeant in Iraq, awaits their signatures. They tend to their bats, examine them for scuffs and imperfections, or in the case of Eddie Perez, strum the barrel of them like a banjo to ensure that they have the right pitch.

  Other players scan a whiteboard just inside the entrance to see where their names are for batting practice, the groupings carefully constructed in terms of who gets to bat when and with whom, Pujols and Rolen getting to go last in the final embers of the afternoon, when the glare of the sun isn't so severe. At the opposite end of the clubhouse, past the little facsimile locker containing Stan Musial's itchy uniform and shoes that seem too small and flimsy for someone that fierce and good, players cluster around an oversized sheet that shows each team's lineups for tonight. Before game time, bench coach Joe Pettini will remove the sheet—now taped to a whiteboard—with a curator's care and retape it to the far corner of the dugout where La Russa resides. During the game, as players enter and exit, the sheet will precisely reflect their movements so La Russa can keep track of who is available and who has been excommunicated. By the last out, it will reflect a frenzy of activity: crossouts, write-ins, cold diagonal lines through the first letter of a player's name, meaning that he's been rendered unavailable. But for now, the sheet is clean and pristine. It exudes hope, the vain suggestion that everything will proceed with ease and order.

  A bit of adventure is always involved as the players scan the lineup sheet to see who is in tonight for the Cardinals, whether La Russa's analysis of the matchups has produced any last-minute surprises. Dusty Baker's not quite as itchy, but it's still an opportunity for the players to see whether he has any tricks of his own:

  Tonight, for Game 1, the Cubs' lineup is straightforward. Sammy Sosa and Moises Alou, batting third and fourth, form the center of gravity, with forty-nine homers between them. Sosa's had a split personality this season, almost helpless the first half and now hitting with venom the second. Alou in particular is a Cardinals killer, so much so that Dave Duncan believes that they need to completely rethink how to pitch him: Simply stop feeding his first-pitch addiction. Alex Gonzalez, in the seventh hole, has seventeen homers. He strikes out a lot: 105 times already. But he likes to be a long-ball star, and he is the kind of dangerous low-end-of-the-lineup hitter who will kill you if you get lazy with him and let him be too comfortable, give him something too fat on the outside of the plate, something he thinks he can simply reach over and loose a swing at. Paul Bako, in the eighth spot, can't hit a lick: .213 coming into tonight. He's played with so many teams already in his brief career—this is his fifth in four years—he might as well keep his belongings in storage rather than risk the disappointment of setting down roots. He's in for his defense, a tough and uncompromising handler of pitchers that the Cardinals starter Brett Tomko distinctly remembers from their days together in the minors when he called time and came out to the mound to have a word with him.

  "Are you really trying out here?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Because your stuff is horrible today and if you don't try a little harder, you're not going to make it out of this inning."

  The three Pirate expatriates—Lofton and Simon and Ramirez—have been equitably interspersed in the one-, five-, and six-holes, and it isn't pretty: A look at the matchups makes La Russa briefly wonder whether they'd been brought over from Pittsburgh specifically to torment Garrett Stephenson in Game 1. Against him, the three players are an aggregate 19 for 42—almost .500—with two home runs.

  LOFTON 6-12-1

  SIMON 8-18-1

  RAMIREZ 5-12-0

  As for the Cardinals' lineup, it's a patchwork because of injuries. Still, it features Pujols and Edmonds and Rolen in the thick of it, the best-hitting threesome in baseball right now. They have ninety home runs among them through 130 games, and each of them may well drive in more than a hundred runs. Despite a recent bout of the flu, Pujols has been in the stratosphere all season, contending for the Tri
ple Crown and fresh off a thirty-game hitting streak. Edmonds has had stratospheric moments as well. If his shoulder hadn't turned cranky, he could have forty home runs instead of thirty-two, and he continues to play center field as if he's at the nastiest Texas Hold 'Em table at Binion's, betting the pot on every catch. Rolen, who is from a small farming town in southern Indiana and likes to draw as much attention to himself as you would expect from someone who is from a small farming town in southern Indiana, is humming along with typical incandescence. In the field, he doesn't have the gambler flair of Edmonds. Rolen's far more self-effacing, his style gritty and as determined as a linebacker without a single whiff of hey-look-at-me; it's easy to forget that he's already won three Gold Gloves and in all likelihood will win a fourth this season. As for his performance at the plate, he's once again on his way to another year, his fourth of seven in the major leagues, in which he will hit more than twenty-five homers and drive in more than a hundred runs.

  These three players provide meat in the middle, but La Russa also likes danger at the top: a hitter in the one-hole who can get on base whether by hit or walk, followed by a hitter in the two-hole who can uncork power. He's felt that way at least since the early 1980s when Carlton Fisk came over to the White Sox from the Red Sox. In 1983, La Russa started putting Fisk at number two even though he was a prodigious home-run hitter. For virtually all his career, Fisk had hit in the three-, four-, or five-spot, and he didn't like the change in stature much at first, shunted into the space universally reserved for the little get-on-base piccolos. Given his immense New England pride, he didn't appreciate La Russa for much of anything at the beginning of the 1983 season. When the White Sox brought up catcher Joel Skinner from the minors without telling him, La Russa and Fisk started screaming and yelling at each other during stretching exercises before a doubleheader against the A's in June. But there were other frustrations. He was hitting under .200 at the time, and it was shortly afterward that La Russa, in trying to figure out something to get him unblocked, put him second in the order. He did it because of his thirst for power in the two-spot. He also did it because he knew he could, with his lineup strong enough in the middle to still pack pop. Fisk started blossoming at the plate afterward. He ended up hitting twenty-six home runs, his career high at the time. Placed ahead of Harold Baines, Greg Luzinski, and Ron Kittle, the foursome became an unorthodox murderers' row in the two- through five-holes, combining for 113 home runs, 380 RBIs, and 309 runs scored as the White Sox ran away with the division by twenty games.