Summer of '68: The Season That Changed Baseball--And America--Forever by Tim Wendel

Julian Javier couldn’t corral and Los Angeles had men at the corners.
    Next up was Ron Fairly, who usually hit well against Gibson. Johnny Edwards, the Cardinals’ backup catcher, who was giving McCarver a rest that night, decided to stay away from Fairly’s power. Edwards set up on the outside corner, signaling for a fastball. Even though it was early in the game, Gibson had exhibited good control, so Edwards wasn’t prepared when the next pitch sailed inside, handcuffing him.
    The ball glanced off the tip of Edwards’ glove and bounced toward the backstop. That enabled Gabrielson to sprint home, where he raised both fists in the air as he crossed home plate.
    Now it was up to the official scorer to decide if Gibson’s scoreless streak would remain intact. If the play was ruled a passed ball, the run would be unearned and the streak would be safe. But if it was ruled a wild pitch—in other words Gibson’s fault—the scoreless string would be over.
    As the Cardinals’ ace stood on the mound, his initial thought was that the pitch would be recorded as a passed ball. After all, it had hit Edwards’ glove. But then he realized where he was—in enemy territory, at Dodger Stadium, where Drysdale’s record was still fresh in so many minds. That’s when it hit him that the play would be ruled a wild pitch, ending his run at Drysdale’s epic streak. And that’s exactly what happened.
    The strange way in which the world sometimes worked wasn’t lost on Gibson. It had taken a controversial call to preserve Drysdale’s streak. Now another controversial call had ended his attempt to surpass it.
    Gibson tried his best to have the last laugh—defeating Drysdale 5–1 that evening for his seventh consecutive victory. In addition, it was his 135th career win, moving him past Dizzy Dean on St. Louis’s all-time list.
    Still, this one stung—plenty. Afterward, in the visiting clubhouse, the press asked Gibson about the only run he had allowed.
    “You saw it,” the winning pitcher replied. “[He] missed the ball.”
    The room grew quiet until Gibson added, “Hey, that’s the way it goes.”

PART III
    Eager for a Second Chance
What does a town that’s been to hell and back know about the finer things in life? Well, I’ll tell you. More than most. You see, it’s the hottest fires that make the hardest steel. Now we’re from America. But this isn’t New York City. Or the Windy City. Or Sin City. And we’re certainly no one’s Emerald City. . . . This is the Motor City.
    —“IMPORTED FROM DETROIT,”
CHRYSLER COMMERCIAL
     
     
    To a man, the Detroit Tigers arrived in Lakeland, Florida, in the spring of 1968, believing they had been robbed the season before.
    “We had a strong belief, shared by just about everyone on that ballclub, that we should have won the pennant in 1967,” second baseman Dick McAuliffe recalled. “Not doing it when it’s right there for you, to have it slip away is something you never forget.”
    The previous season had ended with four teams—the Boston Red Sox, Minnesota Twins, Chicago White Sox, and the Tigers—in contention for the American League pennant entering the final days. On October 1, 1967, the last day of the regular season, the Red Sox and Twins played each other at Fenway Park, with the winner clinching at least a tie for the title. The Tigers were a half-game back, needing a doubleheader sweep of the visiting California Angels to force a one-game play-off for the right to advance to the World Series.
    The Red Sox edged the Twins 5–3 that day with Carl Yastrzemski going four for four and staff ace Jim Lonborg on the mound. In Detroit, the Tigers took the first game 6–4, thanks to seven strong innings by Joe Sparma. But with the season on the line, Detroit’s pitching, considered by many to be the strength of the team, didn’t come through. Due to rain-outs earlier in the week, the Tigers and Angels had played a doubleheader the day before, too, splitting that