THE 27TH OUT
“Baseball
is a cruel game.” I have heard
that venerable adage my entire life as a baseball player, coach and fan.
Usually the statement is spoken as a universal truth by a losing manager or
coach or by a player who did not succeed when success mattered most. I considered the phrase to be avoidance
of acceptance of personal failure:
if baseball indeed is cruel, then the Game must have caused the bad result,
not any personal failure by team or player. For me, baseball was a simple game with no inherent
cruelty: get 27 outs and score
more runs than the other team. One
of the defining moments of my baseball life caused me to reflect, however, on
heart-breaking events inextricably interwoven with the 27th out and to wonder
if there is truth to the adage that the Game itself is cruel.
On
May 19, 1967, the University of Texas Longhorns and the University of Houston
Cougars prepared to play the third and deciding game of the NCAA’s District Six
playoff series. To the winner
would go a berth in the College World Series in Omaha. The teams had met in the 1966 District
Six playoff, and Texas advanced after a 2-1 series win. For Texas, trips to
Omaha were commonplace, but Houston was a relative newcomer to NCAA playoff
baseball and had been to the World Series only once previously. To add to the significance of the day,
this game would be the final Austin appearance for Bibb Falk, the legendary
Longhorn coach who was retiring at the end of the 1967 season.
The
1967 Longhorns were not expected to be preparing for a playoff contest. Picked to finish in the second division
of the Southwest Conference, Falk told the media that he hoped for a .500
season. Gary Moore, a
pitcher/outfielder and the 1966 team’s MVP, had signed a professional contract
with the Dodgers. His defection
left the pitching to Tommy Moore, a hard-throwing senior righthander from
Austin, Gary Gressett, a soft-tossing senior lefty from Mississippi, and a
whole bunch of nobodies. I was one
of the nobodies and was headed into my senior season in 1967. Pitching was expected to be a serious
problem for Texas.
My
UT baseball career prior to my senior year can be described as bad luck and bad
pitching. I was a relief pitcher
in the eyes of the coach, and to understand the role of a relief pitcher on the
Longhorns in 1967, one must understand the rules governing SWC baseball at that
time. The small schools dominated
the Southwest Conference because, simply put, they could outvote Texas and
Texas A&M. Consequently, the
SWC did not allow fall baseball practice and strictly limited the number of
games any team could play. In
1967, for example, UT played 25 regular season games, and West Coast teams
often played more than 50. Because
of the limited number of games, Coach Falk would use three pitchers
predominantly—two starters and a reliever. If the reliever failed in his first appearance, he went to
the back of the line to wait his turn for another chance. Often, that second chance never came.
In
1965, I did well in my first opportunity, and I became the first pitcher to be
used out of the pen. After getting
a save against TCU, bad luck struck.
Coach Falk broke my jaw hitting grounders to our shortstop while I was
pitching batting practice, and although I did not miss a day of practice with
my teeth wired together, he did not put me in another game. Bad pitching struck in 1966. My first appearance was a disaster, and
I went to the back of the line to become a “little-used righthander” for the
rest of that season. My first
opportunity in 1967 was against Oklahoma with the bases loaded and no outs, and
I struck out the side without allowing a run. On the strength of that performance, I became the relief
pitcher, and I pitched well enough during the season to maintain my position as
the playoffs began.
Led
by senior pitcher Tommy Moore, who finished at 9-0 and received All-SWC and
third team All-America honors, the 1967 Longhorns surprised everyone by
finishing the regular season with a 16-9 record and a SWC co-championship with
TCU. By virtue of its 2-1 season
series win over TCU, UT advanced to the District Six playoff against
Houston. The Longhorns boasted the
SWC batting champion, first baseman Bob Snoddy at .392, and the team hit 24
home runs, which was the second highest total in Longhorn history. Gressett, the number two pitcher, had
an unlucky 6-4 record, but his 1.53 ERA, lowest ever for a UT starting pitcher,
provided effective support for Moore.
Four Texas players received All-SWC honors. UH had a hard-hitting lineup with several players hitting
near or over .300, led by junior left fielder Tom Paciorek. He was hitting well
over .400, had a school record for home runs, and was first team All-America.
Both teams featured two-sport stars, which was not unusual for the era. Texas
third baseman Minton White also played basketball, and Houston outfielders Bo
Burris and Paciorek and first baseman Ken Hebert were outstanding football
players.
My season, like
the player, was pretty good but not great. I threw a sinking fastball, which Coach Falk liked, and I
also had a good curve, an ok slider, an effective changeup and outstanding
control. Going into the Houston
playoff series, I had pitched the third highest number of innings on the
staff. UT baseball had not yet
discovered the concept of “closer,” and Coach Falk brought me into games to
protect a lead and into games in which we were behind. I had pitched as few as ⅓ inning and as
many as 4⅔ innings in our games. I
had given up about a hit per inning, but I had walked only one during the
regular season. I was happy and
satisfied with my role. I was the
relief pitcher for the SWC champs, and I knew I would pitch in important
games. I could neither ask for nor
hope for more.
Texas
and Houston had split the first two games of the playoff series. The Cougars routed Texas ace Tommy
Moore in the opening game in Houston; Moore faced nine batters in the first
inning, retiring only two, and gave up five earned runs before being
removed. The Longhorns fought back
to tie the score at 5-5 to take Moore off the hook for his first loss, but UH
quickly regained the lead on a home run by Paciorek. Houston pulled away to record an 11-8 victory. I pitched four innings in the middle of
the game but did not distinguish myself.
I issued my second and third walks of the season and, incredibly to me,
I walked in a run. I gave up three
runs, two of which were earned, but was the only Texas pitcher to retire
Paciorek…on a towering fly ball that our center fielder caught with his back to
the fence.
Two
days later, the teams played in Austin.
Coach Falk again started Tommy Moore, as everyone thought he would, and
with a second chance, Moore pitched a complete game and shut down the Cougars
on eight hits. The Longhorns won
5-1 to even the series, and immediately the media questioned Falk on his choice
of a starting pitcher for the third game to be played the next day in
Austin. “Moore’s it until further
notice,” Falk said, but in speculating which pitcher Coach Falk would select
for the deciding game, the Austin newspaper mentioned virtually every pitcher
on the UT staff except me. Gressett,
the logical choice, had left his last start early with what he described as a
sore shoulder. I was neither
surprised nor offended by not being mentioned. Coach Falk viewed me as a three inning pitcher, and I agreed
with the sportswriter’s omission of Raup as a possible starter. I joked at the time that even if I were
the only pitcher at the park, Coach Falk would start someone else.
With
this background, UT and UH prepared to decide which team would be the District
Six representative at the College World Series. During batting practice, I was engaged in my usual pre-game
activity of mindless chatter and shagging balls hit to the outfield when I saw
Coach Falk walking toward the group of players I was in. He came directly to me
and handed me a new baseball, which is the universal symbol to designate the
starting pitcher. Coach Falk
walked away without saying anything, and I was struck deaf and dumb by the
realization that I was going to be the starting pitcher in the most important
game of our season and of my life.
I immediately
thought of my Dad, who was traveling to Port Arthur to attend to his ailing
father and who would not see me pitch.
There were no cell phones in those primitive days, of course, and I
could not even tell him my exciting news.
My on-again, off-again girlfriend was mad at me, as she often was, and
was not coming to the game. Of
those persons closest to me, only my mother and my brother would be present to
witness whatever thrills or disappointment resulted from Falk’s unexpected
decision. Throughout his storied
career, Bibb Falk had defied the odds successfully with his unconventional
decisions, but none was more surprising than his choice of me as the pitcher to
start this game. I retired to the
locker room to compose myself for the biggest game of my life.
I
have never been more nervous than I was warming up in the bullpen prior to the
game. Nervousness sapped my energy
and made me feel weak and as though I could not get the ball to the catcher. Warming up was always like this for me,
but once I got to the mound and into the game, the nervousness disappeared
immediately. Coach Falk came into
the bullpen and stood by the catcher to watch me throw. I finished my warmup routine and
started toward the dugout to get ready for the game to start. Coach Falk approached me, and I
expected a “go get ‘em” or some similar words of encouragement. I should have known better. What he said was “Go as hard as you can
for as long as you can, and don’t embarrass anybody out there.” Then the game started, and I was on the
mound.
The
tricks the mind plays are funny.
As readers who stay with this piece will see, I can remember clearly
almost every pitch in the 9th inning, but I remember very few details about the
rest of the game. The Austin
newspaper called my game “one of the most magnificent pitching performances in
recent years by a Longhorn,” but I do not remember the game that way. I remember that I was not nervous and
did not think of the importance of the game once I began to pitch. I remember that I was just pitching and
getting them out. I remember that
I used all my pitches, as a starter does, rather than throwing sinker after
sinker as I did as a reliever. I
remember that I had uncanny control of all my pitches and that I believed I
could throw the ball through the eye of a needle. I remember a four pitch walk to a weak hitter that I could
not fathom and an umpire’s bad call at first base that robbed us of a double
play after the walk. I remember
that we scored three runs early and should have scored six or seven. I remember that I was in total control
of the game and that my dominance seemed like the most normal thing in the
world.
Then
came the top of the 9th inning.
The Longhorns were ahead 3-0, and over the first eight innings, I had
given up two hits, walked two and struck out four. No UH baserunner had advanced past first base, and I had
faced only 28 batters. As I began
my warmup pitches, the announcer reminded the overflow crowd that Bibb Falk was
coaching his final game in Austin, and the announcement was the first I had
thought about his retirement. None
of us on the UT team believed this would be his last game, and we were in the
College World Series as soon as I got three more outs. I was not tired, and I knew I would get
those three outs as easily as I had gotten the first 24. When I finished my warmup pitches, I
was relaxed and merely pitching a baseball game as I had been doing since I was
nine years old.
Ken
Hebert, the Cougars’ first baseman, tried to bunt his way on, but I threw him
out for the 25th out. George
Cantu, the third baseman, popped up to our shortstop, and I had 26 outs. Tom Paciorek, the hitting terror of the
series, would make the 27th out that would send us to Omaha. He had come into the game with seven
hits in nine at bats, but he was 0-3 as he stepped in.
I
can see the 9th inning pitches as though I have them on video in my mind. Paciorek was taking a strike, and I
threw a fastball right down the middle for strike one. Down in the count 0-1, he lifted a
high, lazy foul fly down the right field line. Our right fielder, George Nauert, was a catcher but played
the outfield because of his hitting.
Coach Falk did not use defensive replacements, and Nauert could not get
to the foul fly from his alignment in right centerfield. Paciorek’s would-be third out fell
harmlessly to the grass, but the count was 0-2, and I had him.
My
next pitch was a slider that was maybe an inch or two outside. The plate umpire was John Mazur, a
local postman who had called balls and strikes for my games since Little
League. When he called the pitch a ball, I thought “Mr. Mazur, after all these
years, you owed me that pitch.”
The count on Paciorek moved to 1-2, and I still had him. Our catcher
called for a changeup, and I made a mistake in my approach to the pitch. I loved his pitch selection because I
had fooled Paciorek badly with a changeup during an earlier at bat, but when I
accepted the sign, I thought “Just don’t bounce it.” Of course, with that negative thought, I bounced it at his
feet. Paciorek was fooled and out
on his front foot, but the pitch was too bad to swing at. The count was 2-2.
James
Scheschuk, our catcher and my senior classmate, called for an up and in
fastball, and I put the pitch exactly where he called for it. The pitch jammed Paciorek severely, and
he fisted a slow roller down the third baseline that I could not field. Our third baseman, Minton White, was an
outfielder playing third base to get his potent bat into the lineup, and he was
playing very deep behind the bag. His all-out charge to make the play was too late, and
Paciorek beat the throw for an infield hit.
At
the moment the umpire signaled Paciorek safe at first, I remember an immediate
but brief feeling of fatigue.
Perhaps the spell had been broken, but the 27th out was still there to
get in the person of Bo Burris, the Cougars’ lefthanded hitting right
fielder. After a swinging strike,
Burris lined a single to left field moving Paciorek to second base. Ronnie Baker, the second baseman, moved
into the batters’ box. Baker, a
righthanded hitter, wasted no time. My first pitch was a slider headed for the
outside part of the plate, and he leaned over the plate and hooked a low liner
down the left field line. Paciorek
and Burris scored easily, and as I returned to the mound with a one run lead to
protect, Baker was on second, and Falk was on his way to me.
My
first thought was “No! You cannot
take me out of this game now!” He
could and he did, although for a brief moment I thought I had talked him into
allowing me one more hitter. I
received a standing ovation as I left, but that was no consolation for me at
all. Moore and Gressett both were
warmed up and ready, but Coach Falk inexplicably allowed the pitching coach to
send in for the save a reserve third baseman who had a great arm but who had
pitched only 8⅓ innings all season.
On a 3-2 pitch, the reliever walked the Cougars’ shortstop, Art Toombs,
who was hitting under .200, and again on a 3-2 pitch, gave up a two-run triple
to the next hitter. Gressett came
in to retire the side with one pitch, but I had a no decision, and we were down
4-3 with only three outs to go.
The Longhorns rallied valiantly in the bottom of the 9th, but our 27th
out was the tying run thrown out at home plate to end simultaneously the game,
our season and Bibb Falk’s coaching career.
Unlike
the smack-talking and disrespect that today’s athletes direct toward opponents,
the 1967 Longhorns and Cougars met in the center of the field to congratulate,
commiserate and wish each other well.
Several of their players were gracious to me in victory; Paciorek put
his arm around me and told me that he was happy to win but sorry to have ruined
the great game I pitched. I
appreciated their sportsmanship, but our loss crushed me. The game was my last as it was Coach
Falk’s last. I grew up in Austin
dreaming of playing some sport for the Longhorns, but now with the opportunity
to put my team into the College World Series, I failed to get the 27th out with
but a single strike to go. I had
only thrown three pitches following Paciorek’s infield hit, and now my time as
a Longhorn pitcher was over. The
suddenness and finality were shocking.
The
teams parted and went on to their respective destinies. UH lost badly in the first game of the
double elimination College World Series, but as they did on May 19, the Cougars
fought their way back in the tournament before losing to Arizona State in the
championship game. UT’s baseball
season ended that day, and I and the other seniors graduated and began our futures. My future was high school coaching initially
and then law, and I have been reasonably successful in both careers. Tom Paciorek, my chief protagonist, had
an 18-year career in major league baseball as a player and then 19 more seasons
as a broadcaster. No doubt we both
are satisfied with our lives after our brief encounters with one another, but I
wonder if he ever thinks about the deciding game in 1967. I certainly do.
With
the perspective of forty years that included many years in coaching, I realize
that Coach Falk made the correct decision to take me out. He never expected me to be in the game
in the ninth inning, and Houston had just gotten three consecutive hits to
narrow our lead to 3-2. There are
many “what ifs” to ponder without that decision being one of them,
however. I could have and should
have had Paciorek out three times in his final at bat. What if the umpire had given the
hometown pitcher the benefit of an extremely close pitch on 0-2? What if Coach Falk had made a defensive
substitution in right field to start the ninth inning? What if I had not had the negative
approach and had not bounced that changeup? What if our third baseman had been playing behind the bag
but not with his heels on the outfield grass? What if after Paciorek’s hit, I had reverted to my customary
role of reliever and had thrown nothing but sinkers?
The
biggest “what if” of all is what if Coach Falk had used one of our top two
pitchers to get the 27th out instead of an infielder who had a great arm but
who rarely pitched? I never will
understand why a Hall of Fame coach who had 477 career victories, 20 SWC
championships and two national championships would allow a pitching coach to
make the most important pitching change of the season. Coach Falk did, though, and he later
provided the 1967 Longhorn team its epitaph with his final comment to the media
as UT’s coach: “Some days you try
things and they work; other days you try and they don’t work.” He never spoke to me about this game,
either in the locker room after the game or in the many times I talked with him
before he died, so I will never know what he was thinking that day as he walked
to the mound to get me.
So,
readers who are still here, is baseball a cruel game when a team is so near
victory in a crucial game but cannot get the 27th out? After much serious reflection, I do not
think that it is. Certainly what
happened to the Longhorns and to me in the UH game was cruel, but what happened
to Tom Paciorek and to the Houston Cougars was wonderful. Our opponents refused to give up and
forced us to record all 27 outs to
beat them. When we threatened to
steal their victory with our rally in the bottom of the 9th, they got the 27th
out. I was the one who could not
get that 27th out, not some malevolent Game that cruelly denied me a victorious
finish. I failed when success
mattered most, and accountability for that failure must be with me, not
attributed to some inanimate Game.
If one’s best is not good enough, congratulate the winners and move on;
do not wax philosophical about a cruel Game.
With
the perspective of years and experience, I think I gained much from the UH game
that initially brought me intense pain.
I learned that sometimes a player can be at his absolute best, but his
best still is not enough to overcome the opponent. I learned to respect opponents who fight their hardest to
avoid defeat, no matter what the final outcome may be. I learned that no one is entitled to
victory or to success, no matter how much he may want to win or how hard he may
try to succeed. I learned that
losing is every bit as much a part of the Game as is winning and that the final
outcome does not diminish the accomplishments of those who competed.
Most
important, I learned and believe earnestly that there is no disgrace or
dishonor in failure if one has tried his hardest to succeed. Disgrace is giving less than one’s best
effort or allowing failure to kill one’s will to compete. True success lies not only in victory
but also in picking oneself up after a gut-wrenching loss and in striving to be
better the next time. If sports
fans could understand how difficult victory is to attain and how much
competition requires of players’ bodies and minds, appreciating a team and its
players for the quality of the competition will be more rewarding than focusing
on final scores. Perhaps then despicable epithets like “choke” to describe a
losing effort never will be uttered.
No,
baseball is not a cruel game, despite the occasional elusiveness of the 27th
out. On the contrary, the Game
allows both teams an equal opportunity to win and requires the winner to get
all of the 27 outs. The Game
rewards those who do more when victory or defeat hangs in the balance, and the
Game penalizes those who fall short in those situations. Whether one succeeds or fails when all can
be won or lost is the essence of competition. The Game benignly provides a stage to determine a contest’s
outcome, but the Game does not guarantee any player success or compel his
failure.
We lost on that
fateful May day in 1967, but the Game was not to blame. Today I recall those events with
twinges of regret and disappointment but with great pride in my
performance. I failed to get the
27th out, but that day I was the best I ever was. On May 19, 1967, the stakes were high, and the competition
was magnificent. The Game promises
no more, and I was fortunate to have been a part of that competition.
