The First Impossible Dream

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These are heady days to be a Dodger fan. I know. I've been a Dodger fan since I was a kid.

Last night, the Dodgers and the St. Louis Cardinals went 13 innings in Game 1 of the National League Championship Series. It was a tough loss for the Dodgers, 3–2, but Dodger fans are encouraged by the knowledge that their ace, Clayton Kershaw, is scheduled to pitch Game 2 tonight.

I'm not worried. This championship series has begun in much the same way the one in 1988 did.

The Dodgers haven't always lived up to my expectations — but, I will admit, my expectations are always high. I always expect them to compete for a berth in the World Series, and I have usually been disappointed. In my memory, the Dodgers have only played in a handful of World Series — and they've only won two.

The first time they won it all was marred by a strike that wiped out about one–third of the season and forced the major leagues to go to an unconventional playoff arrangement.

The second one came 25 years ago this month, and the victory that wrapped up the National League pennant came on this day in 1988 when the Dodgers won the seventh and final playoff game with the New York Mets.

When the National League Championship Series began, most observers thought it was a foregone conclusion that the Mets would win. They dominated the Dodgers during the regular season — and I do mean dominated. As I recall, the Dodgers only beat the Mets once that season.

But as they wrapped up the regular season, pitcher Orel Hershiser set a record for most consecutive scoreless innings pitched, and the Dodgers seemed to be gathering momentum.

Still, just about every baseball expert spoke of the N.L. crown as being destined for New York. Practically no one gave the Dodgers much of a chance of winning.

At first, it seemed they were right. After facing Hershiser for eight scoreless innings, the Mets rallied from a 2–0 deficit with a three–run ninth against reliever Jay Howell in the opener and took a 1–0 lead in the best–of–seven series. I remember watching that game. That ninth inning gave me such a bad case of heartburn I thought I would never get any sleep that night.

But the Dodgers won the second game the next night to even things up as the series moved to New York for the weekend.

New York won that third game, which was postponed by rain, then the Dodgers evened things up in the fourth game. At the time, I was making one of my whirlwind trips to Little Rock on my days off. The time would come when I couldn't do that anymore, but in October 1988, I still made trips back from Texas to visit my friends — and, when I did, I often stayed with my friend Steve.

He wasn't working that Monday, which may have been the reason why I chose those two days off for a trip. I really don't remember now. Anyway, the Dodgers and Mets were scheduled to play that Monday afternoon. The winner would go back to Los Angeles with a 3–2 lead needing only one more win to advance to the World Series.

Steve and I cheered as the Dodgers rolled to a 7–4 win — Steve was a Cardinals fan and, consequently, a devoted hater of the Mets — and I drove back to Texas that afternoon sorry (as always) to be leaving my friends but eager for the next night's game.

Unfortunately, the Dodgers lost that sixth game to the Mets, setting up a winner–take–all showdown 25 years ago tonight.

Hershiser was on the mound for L.A. and he went the distance, characteristically shutting out the Mets in a 6–0 triumph.

When the final out was in the books and the Dodgers had officially won the National League pennant, Hershiser did something I will never forget. He took a step, maybe two, and knelt for a moment of silent meditation before being swarmed by his jubilant teammates.

I made a video tape of that game, and I watched parts of it over and over again. But I probably watched those few seconds of Hershiser immediately after Game Seven ended more than anything else.

It summed up how I felt on that occasion.

It was an impossible dream that came true.

But beating the Mets was only the first impossible dream for the Dodgers. The next was, perhaps, even more formidable. It would require them to beat the mighty Oakland A's.

Gary Carter Dies

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I had mixed feelings today when I heard that Hall of Fame catcher Gary Carter had died.

I wasn't one of Carter's fans. Just the opposite, as a matter of fact. He played most of his career for teams other than the Dodgers — who have been my personal favorites since I was a kid.

Twenty years ago, as his 19–year career was nearing its end, he spent a season with the Dodgers. But he spent most of his career being a thorn in their sides.

In 1981, when a strike wiped out about one–third of the season, Montreal faced Los Angeles in the National League Championship Series (which the Dodgers won, three games to two). Carter hit a blistering .438 for the Expos in that series.

Then, in 1988, as a member of the New York Mets, he came up a game short against the Dodgers again.

But, while there were many highlights in his career (which included 11 All–Star Game appearances and three Gold Gloves), Carter probably will be remembered most for the role he played in his only World Series, the 1986 Fall Classic against the Boston Red Sox.

It was the sixth game, and the Mets trailed, three games to two. In the 10th inning, the Mets trailed by two runs and there were two outs when Carter stepped to the plate. Boston got two strikes on Carter and was only one strike away from ending a title drought that was, at that time, nearly 70 years old — but then Carter got a hit and sparked a come–from–behind victory that is — justifiably — regarded by many as the greatest World Series game ever played.

The Mets went on to win the seventh game — and the Series — but that 10th–inning rally in the sixth game shifted the momentum irreversibly in New York's direction, and Carter was responsible for that.

There are still some Red Sox fans who will complain — loudly and at length — about Bill Buckner's infamous error, But if Boston had gotten Carter out, that error never would have happened, and Red Sox fans would not have been forced to endure 18 more seasons without a World Series title.

Any ballplayer can catch lightning in a bottle, of course, even on a stage as big and in a spotlight as bright as the World Series, and I would never suggest that Carter was the best player — or even the best catcher — I ever saw play the game.

But in just a few hours since I heard of his death, the thing I have heard mentioned the most about Carter — more often than the '86 Series or his All–Star selections or anything else — by sports writers and athletes alike was his infectious, ever–present smile.

"I cannot conjure a single image of Gary Carter with anything but a smile on his face," writes Tom Verducci for Sports Illustrated, and I must agree.

I did a little informal research and looked back at all the photos I could find of Gary Carter, both on the baseball field and off, and that smile was always there. It was contagious, in a way, capable of bringing a smile to the sternest of visages.

I think that was because Carter never came across as being insincere. He had been known as "The Kid" since, well, since he was a kid, and he always seemed to have that youthful zeal and exuberance.

"He was as genuine a person and as tough a ballplayer as you would ever want to come across," Verducci writes, and that certainly is true. He was a competitor. You don't spend nearly two decades playing catcher in the majors if you aren't.

They're remembering Carter with great fondness in New York, as you might expect. Mike Lupica writes in the New York Daily News that Carter is "dead much too young, the old Met they knew and we knew as Kid, the one who played the game with talent and joy and a smile."

And the New York Times, which has raised obituary writing to an art form, observes that "Carter's exuberance complemented his prowess at the plate." Considering that the Times is also mourning the loss of Anthony Shadid, its Pulitzer Prize–winning foreign correspondent, I think that's pretty generous.

In what may be the most impressive tribute paid to Carter, though, the writers in Red Sox country are being generous, too.

Ben Walker writes in the Boston Globe that "[h]is smile, bubbly personality and eagerness to excel on a ballfield made him a joy to watch at the plate and behind it."

In seven weeks, the 2012 major league baseball season will begin, and baseball fans will see every player who takes the field showing the kind of excitement that Carter showed every day of his playing career, even when his legs began to slow and his bat lost its pop. The enthusiasm fades for most ballplayers as the season progresses, but, for Carter, it never did.

Every day was like Opening Day for Carter. It was his default position.

Billy Buck's Boo-Boo

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At one time or another, I guess, most American boys play organized baseball.

And most probably fantasize about driving in the run that wins the World Series for their teams.

If that is the dream, then what happened to Bill Buckner on this night 25 years ago is the nightmare.

Buckner's Boston Red Sox were one out away from ending a World Series drought that had existed since 1918. In fact, the scoreboard in New York's Shea Stadium flashed a congratulatory message — briefly.

But that turned out to be premature.

The Mets, who had given up two runs in the top of the 10th, scored a run, then had the tying run on third and the winning run on first. Mookie Wilson was at the plate against a new pitcher, who threw a wild pitch, scoring the tying run and putting the winning run at second.

Wilson then hit a slow grounder in the direction of veteran first baseman Bill Buckner, who seemed sure to make the play. But the ball took a strange hop just before it got to Buckner and rolled into the outfield, allowing Ray Knight to score the winning run from second.

The cameras almost immediately zeroed in on home plate, where Knight was scoring the winning run, but they lingered for a few seconds on Buckner after the ball got away from him, providing the image I will always remember from that night — Buckner standing forlornly at first while his teammates scrambled to retrieve the ball in the outfield.

My instinct would have been to run after that ball, even if I knew deep in my heart that there was no way I could reach it before one of the other players did — and, even more importantly, before Knight could score that winning run. My mind wouldn't let me accept that the die had been cast, that it was over.

But it was as if Buckner realized, in that split second when the ball took its inexplicable jump, that it was over, and he was resigned to the abuse that he knew would come his way.

Actually, it wasn't the end of the Series. The Red Sox brought a 3–2 lead to New York and needed to win either Game 6 or Game 7. The game that was played 25 years ago tonight was only the sixth game. The Red Sox could have won the seventh game and been world champions, but the pitching staff fell apart, as it had been inclined to do against the Mets.

As it did in Game 6 when that wild pitch allowed the tying run to score.

It wasn't Buckner's fault that Boston lost that seventh game, either. He went two for four at the plate and committed no errors in the field. In fact, Buckner even scored a run in Boston's comeback attempt in the late innings, but it simply wasn't enough.

Besides, the Mets were favored to win that Series before it began — and they weren't slight favorites, either. The Mets were heavy favorites that year.

The fact that the Mets won it was no real surprise. What was surprising was the way that title was won.

I knew it was a bitter experience for Red Sox fans — to be so close and see it slip through their fingers — and I empathized with them. But that did not excuse how they treated Buckner when the Series was over.

One would have thought he was a latter–day Shoeless Joe Jackson — except Shoeless Joe at least got the gamblers' money. As far as I can see, Billy Buck got nothing but abuse.

Say it ain't so, Billy Buck. But it was so. It just wasn't intentional.

What happened 25 years ago tonight had to be one of the strangest finishes of any game in World Series history — and it was almost immediately taken to be the latest confirmation of the existence of the "Curse of the Bambino" — the superstitious belief that, when the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees, a "curse" was put on the franchise, preventing it from winning a championship.

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I always felt it was unfair for Buckner to be subjected to the abuse of the frustrated Boston baseball fans — just as I always thought it was unfair when the fans of another long–suffering baseball franchise blamed their team's 2003 postseason defeat on a fellow fan's innocent reach for a foul ball.

Team sports are precisely that — team sports. On extremely rare occasions, a team's loss is clearly the fault of a single player or an official's bad call; on even rarer occasions, a loss is the fault of an innocent bystander.

Most of the time, though, it is the result of a team effort. Teams win and lose as teams.

Whether such a thing as the "Curse of the Bambino" ever really existed, the Red Sox, who had won several titles before selling Ruth to the Yankees, went on to lose the 1986 World Series to the other New York team.

The Sox did not win another title until 2004. The Yankees, meanwhile, became the most successful franchise in major league baseball after acquiring the Babe.

I don't know if that was a curse, but 25 years ago tonight, Buckner probably would have told you that it sure wasn't a blessing.

Anyway, after the perceived "curse" was gone, the Red Sox were just another team again, and they were free to play ball without the weight of all those years on their shoulders.

A few years later, they won another title, and no one, as I recall, said anything about a "curse." As he watched the Series, Buckner (who, ironically, played for the Cubs before coming to Boston) may have thought about it and reflected that 21st century ball players don't know the meanings of the words pressure, expectations and superstition.

But the following spring, Buckner participated in the unfurling of the world championship banner at Boston's Fenway Park. The fans gave him a standing ovation, and Buckner later spoke of a sense of closure that came from being in the ballpark on that day.

"I really had to forgive, not the fans of Boston, per se, but I would have to say in my heart I had to forgive the media for what they put me and my family through," he said.

And now, Billy Buck's boo–boo is a part of baseball lore.