Philadelphia Bulletin - October 22, 1980
A lonesome celebration for Carlton
By Jack Chevalier
It was 1:01 A.M., an hour and a half after the Phillies had become champions of the baseball world, and Steve Carlton had not yet made an appearance in the locker room.
The press corps had begun to thin out, the players' wives were sharing champagne and embraces all around and the party was starting to get wild.
Bob Walk and Dickie Noles, those hard-throwing young right-handers who led the squirting brigade in the raucous celebrations in Montreal and Houston, were firing beer and bubbly on everybody.
Players who had been surrounded by reporters finally got a chance to walk around and hug each other.
"Where ya been?" Pete Rose said as he gave Larry Bowa a big squeeze.
"Talkin' to my dad," said Bowa, whose father was watching the scene from inside the shortstop's dressing stall.
"As soon as we got in the Series," Bowa said, "Dad called and said he was coming. I wanted to have a good Series for him. I remember when he used to pitch to me in the back yard. I hit so many balls off the garage that he had to repaint it three times a year. I remember that as if it were yesterday."
Then Bowa spotted Manny Trillo, shook his hand and they sang "Nobody Does It Better."
Bob Boone walked by with a long black cigar and an ice bucket full of beer. Two kegs had been tapped in the trainer's room, where Carlton was still celebrating quietly.
Keith Moreland and George Vukovich practiced a "super high-five," jumping in the air and slapping palms at the peak of their leap.
Phillies owner Ruly Carpenter pointed to his yellow shirt and corduroy slacks and said, "I've already changed once and I'll probably have to again."
Dallas Green and Greg Luzinski met in a sincere embrace. The manager and the star he occasionally benched were near tears. Green's words were too soft to hear. "I understand," Luzinski answered.
Shaving cream was squirted around, too, and trainer Don Seger's red sweat shirt was all greasy. "Now I'm gonna find all those wives and kiss 'em," he promised.
By 1:25 A.M., general manager Paul Owens was wearing Bake McBride's uniform shirt and Bowa was saying he doesn't care who manages the Phillies next year.
"I'll play the same way, whether it's Dallas Green, Frank Lucchesi, Paul Owens, Ruly Carpenter or Danny Ozark," he said.
At 1:28, Carlton came out and walked toward his locker. He kissed a teammate's wife, shook a man's hand and saw the room was still half full. At 1:29, Steve Carlton disappeared into the exercise room and lay down on a table.
It was time for the press to stop waiting and go to work.
A record Series for Carlton, Tug
By the Associated Press
Steve Carlton and Tug McGraw, who combined to shut down the Kansas City Royals, 4-1, last night to give the Phillies their first World Championship, led a parade of new entries in the World Series record book.
Carlton, who won Game 2 as well as the sixth-game finale, became one of many pitchers to sport a perfect 2-0 record in a six-game Series. No pitcher has posted three triumphs in a six-game Series, although many have done it in Series of other lengths.
McGraw, meanwhile, became the first pitcher to post two saves in a six-game Series since the current save rule was established in 1969. Pittsburgh's Kent Tekulve holds the all-time Series save mark with three, set last year.
When McGraw struck out Willie Wilson to end it all, it marked the 12th time the Kansas City speedster had fanned during the Series, establishing a new all-time Series record. The previous mark of 11 was held jointly by Eddie Mathews of the 1958 Milwaukee Braves and Wayne Garrett of the 1973 New York Mets.
Other records abounded as well. The Royals' Willie Aikens became the sixth player to hit four homers in one Series. Duke Snider did it twice, while Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth, Hank Bauer and Gene Tenace all did it once. The Series high for homers is five by Reggie Jackson of the New York Yankees in 1977.
Dan Quisenberry of the Royals became the first relief pitcher to appear in every game of a six-game Series, breaking the mark of four appearances held by Larry Sherry and Gerry Staley. The all-time Series mark is seven appearances by Darold Knowles of the 1973 Oakland A's. Quisenberry also finished six games, tying Hugh Casey's all-time Series record.
Larry Bowa, the Phillies' 11-year veteran, set a new all-time Series record for shortstops by starting seven double plays. Phil Rizzuto of the 1951 Yankees held the old record of six.
Bowa also tied a six-game Series record with three stolen bases, matching the mark set by the Chicago White Sox' Eddie Collins in 1917. Lou Brock holds the all-time mark of seven steals in one Series.
Kansas City's U.L. Washington joined Wes Westrum, Roy Campanella and Brooks Robinson as the only men to hit two sacrifice flies in one Series.
Jose Cardenal endured a record wait before getting into his first World Series. The Royals outfielder appeared in 18 major league seasons before participating in the Series, tying a record held by Washington pitching great Walter Johnson.
The Phillies and Royals combined for a total team batting average of .292, breaking the six-game Series record established in 1953, when the New York Yankees and Brooklyn Dodgers hit a combined .290. The all-time mark is .300, set by the Yankees and Pittsburgh Pirates in 1960.
With Wilson accounting for a dozen strikeouts, the Royals fanned 49 times, tying the six-game Series mark held by the 1944 St. Louis Browns. The Oakland A's of 1973 hold the all-time Series mark by fanning 62 times.
By contrast, Kansas City also drew a total of 26 walks, tying a six-game Series standard also held by the Yankees of 1936 and 1951. The Yanks walked 38 times in 1937 for the all-time mark.
Symbolizing their ultimate frustration, however, the Royals left 54 runners on base during the course of the Series, a new six-game record. The 1935 Detroit Tigers and 1944 St. Louis Cardinals shared the previous six-game mark with 51.
The combined total of 16 Series double plays, eight by each team, established a new six-game standard.
The Phillies used 10 pitchers, tying the six-game Series standard set by the 1953 Brooklyn Dodgers. The 1946 Boston Red Sox used an all-time Series record of 11 pitchers.
For only the fifth time in history, both clubs went through the entire Series without getting a complete game out of their pitching staffs. That hadn't occurred since 1974, when both the Oakland A's and Los Angeles Dodgers had to call on their bullpens in every game.
After a 50-year wait, the city of Philadelphia could finally claim baseball's World Championship. The last Philadelphia team to win the title was the Connie Mack-led Athletics of 1930, who beat the St. Louis Cardinals in a six-game Series. Ironically, the Athletics moved to Kansas City for the 1955 season.
A relieved Boone: 25 men won it
By Jack Chevalier
The locker room was so jammed with television crews, security people, well-wishers and deadline-fighting sportswriters that the Phillies had no room to dance around, leap on each other and squirt champagne in the first hour after last night's World Series victory.
Each player was surrounded as soon as he got in the vicinity of his locker. Some sat on stools, some leaned on the edge of tables and others just stood and talked.
The theme was the same all around the room: The Phillies' first world championship was a group effort.
"It may have been the greatest 25-man team victory ever seen in this league," Bob Boone said as he sat in full uniform, sipping champagne from a bottle. "In the last six weeks, I think, everybody has contributed. The guys like John Vukovich, who didn't get on the field, were the loudest and most supportive on the bench.
"Right now, I'm just relieved. I wanted it to end tonight. Very badly. Just to get out of the pressure cooker we've been in the last six weeks. I haven't had time to reflect, but I'm sure this is something I'll savor at old-timers' games."
Boone hit .229 during the regular season and was a target of boobirds at the Vet for six months. Manager Dallas Green kept him behind the plate most of the way for defensive purposes, keeping Keith Moreland and his .314 batting average on the bench. Finally, in the last series of the regular season- when the Phils clinched the East Division title at Montreal- Boone regained his batting stroke.
"Ever since then, I've been relaxed and comfortable at the plate," he said. "In my mind, the troubles I had in 1980 ended in Montreal. The playoffs and Series were a whole new season for me and, fortunately, things went well."
Boone went 7-for-17 in his first World Series for an average of .435. That's a pretty good climb from .229. He started the Phillies' two-run third inning last night with a walk, then singled home the fourth run in the sixth inning. And he did it batting ninth because of the designated hitter rule in this Series.
"The bottom of the order picked up the gravy this week," Boone said. "Larry Bowa had a hell of a series. Manny Trillo got some big hits."
The catcher was asked many times about the pop foul hit by Kansas City's Frank White in the ninth inning. It came with the bases loaded and one out- and Tug McGraw pitching in an explosive situation. Boone got under the ball near the Phillies' dugout, but it popped out of his glove into Pete Rose's. That gave the Phillies the next-to-last out of the season.
"I got over there, but I thought it was Pete's ball," Boone said. "I kept waiting for him to call me off it. But I probably couldn't hear, anyway. So I lunged for it at the last second. I thought we'd crash and I'd outreach Pete. You know, I'd reach above him and catch it.
"But I was using my steel glove, I guess, and I'm happy Pete was right there."
Boone said Steve Carlton used a live fastball to cruise through the first seven innings and used a sharp-breaking slider "only in reserve."
Boone said McGraw also had good stuff, but the desperate Royals were taking pitches or being selective, looking for walks to get a rally started. That strategy worked, but McGraw hitched up his belt to retire White and Willie Wilson to end the season.
"Six weeks ago, I got the feeling we'd go all the way," Boone said.
We knew it would be a dogfight- in the division, the playoffs and the Series. But I felt all along we could do it.
"Of course, I felt that way in '77 and '78 about the playoffs, too. So much for feelings."
Bowa's stormy year has a happy ending
By Craig Evans
There was the pre-season salary dispute, the flap over a drug investigation and, in the closing week of the season, a furious tongue-lashing directed at the Philadelphia fans.
Always, it seemed as if shortstop Larry Bowa was bathing in a cauldron of controversy. He seethed and fumed and blasted the press and anyone else within range of his vocal cords. But ultimately, the fire that burned inside this man was transformed into brilliance on the field.
Bowa saved his best for the final act of this tragi-comedy known as the World Series. The statistics tell the story.
He hit safely in each of the six games as the Phils careened toward a championship. He finished with nine hits in 24 at-bats (.375), scored three runs and knocked in three.
And in the field, the 34-year-old inferno was no less brilliant, regaining the magic that appeared to be missing at times this year and starting a Series-record seven double plays.
"It was all worth it- everything," Bowa said, pouring champagne over announcer Harry Kalas. "Nobody can take anything away from us. We won the World Series. We are the best team in the U.S.A All the experts were wrong."
This was a moment for Bowa to savor, an opportunity to sneer at the critics, and he has never been one to withhold his feelings.
"The experts picked Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Montreal," he said. "Adios. They picked Houston over us. Adios. They picked Kansas City. Adios."
Bowa said adios to the Royals the same way he greeted them. He helped break open the game in the sixth inning, driving in Garry Maddox with a booming double to left, then scoring on Bob Boone's single.
But it is his October fielding that will be most remembered. If there were moments when Bowa's skills had appeared to deteriorate this season, they were wiped out by his sudden rejuvenation in post-season play. No one, perhaps with the exception of Royals second baseman Frank White, was more consistently sensational at his position. His double-play record is testimony to that.
"I didn't even know it until somebody told me," he said. "It's just a matter of being in the right place at the right time. I'm sure there are a lot of other shortstops, if they were given the opportunity, could do the same. I'd just like to say that Manny Trillo is the best second baseman I've ever played with."
Bowa set the uneasy tempo for his season during training camp by demanding a salary commensurate with that of Cards shortstop Garry Templeton. He later apologized to owner Ruly Carpenter.
And when a Trenton paper revealed that there was an investigation into alleged drug use on the Phillies, he declared war on the media. No one was safe from Bowa's venom and, in the last week of the season, he ripped into the Phillies' fans. The fans responded with deafening boos.
But those boos only seemed to accelerate the surge he had begun in August.
"Up until then," he admitted, "I wasn't worth a damn. I went into a defensive slump for the first time in my career and I didn't know how to cope with it. But from August on, I felt good, at the field and at the plate.
"I started putting it in gear and I don't know what I can attribute it to, except that I wanted something very bad.
"Everybody said the Phillies aren't any good, they don't have character, they don't have heart. Well, we had all of the above. All of the problem we had... I'm sure they were problems everybody had. I'm sure Kansas City had problems. I'm sure the Pittsburgh Pirates had problems. It's just that everything was printed here. Everybody's trying to sell papers."
But if the Phillies' locker room was a fish bowl, the players themselves were piranha, sinking their razored teeth into either their manager or the media.
In the hours leading up to last night's game, however, all that was forgotten and Bowa was a man of singular purpose.
"I'll tell you what," he said. "This was the first time I can remember being nervous before a game. I didn't want to talk to anybody. I didn't want to eat. I just wanted to get the game over with as fast as I could. About the eighth inning, my knees started shaking."
Less than an half-hour later, his knees considerably more stable, Bowa was still trying to fathom his team's accomplishments, gulping bubbly of incidental vintage and hugging teammate Garry Maddox.
"I'm so drained," he said, tossing his head back in one last grand show of defiance. "I'm gonna let it sink in. We were labeled chokers and it was tough to accept. We aren't chokers tonight. I think we proved that."
Feeling Crowd-ed Was Scary, Fun
By Phillie Phanatic
To tell you the truth, the Phanatic was scared to death.
First, it was because of the crowd. The Phanatic went out in the stands in the second inning, but never after that. It just wasn’t safe. The people were so exuberant, it was scary. The Phanatic had a guard with a billyclub, but it wasn’t enough. The people were just so hungry for the title, they were going crazy. In the second inning!
The Phanatic did do his dance in the seventh inning, though, and it sent chills down his back. Everybody was watching the dance, and after it ended the applause was thundering. It made me feel like I was a little part of the whole thing, and that was the greatest.
Then it was back to the clubhouse for the ninth inning, and more of being scared to death, watching on TV with Tug McGraw’s brother. We watched the last three outs on that TV, and we were dying. The Royals put those guys on base, and the Phanatic was thinking, “Geez, Tug, don’t do this to us.” It was like he was doing it on purpose.
And then it was over, and the feeling was like one huge sigh of relief that it was all over. There wasn’t that genuine excitement that we felt in Houston, just relief.
The locker room was a madhouse, with all the press and TV people. It was hard to see the ballplayers. The Phanatic popped a bottle of champagne and sprayed it on everybody coming in- that was fun. He told Bryant Gumbel that he’d buy him a new NBC jacket because he was probably going to get the worst of it, and he did.
The whole thing was a huge blur, but the Phanatic will take some memories of certain people from the clubhouse forever.
First, there was Steve Carlton. Right after the game, he got away from everybody and headed for the trainer’s room, which is off-limits to the press. He was just sitting there, with no emotion, peeling some tape off his feet. It was like he was a bystander rather than one of the main participants.
The Phanatic walked in there because he cut his finger opening a champagne bottle. He was there, kind of oblivious to all the celebrating going on outside, and when the Phanatic walked in there with the cut finger, it provided him with a link to the partying.
He’d just won his second World Series game, the whole place is going wild, and Steve Carlton is sitting there worried about the Phanatic’s cut finger.
“Hey, man, you’ve gotta be careful with those things,” he said. “Are you OK?”
“Congratulations on a great year,” the Phanatic said.
“Oh, thanks, thanks a lot,” was Lefty’s only reply. He’s such a professional.
As low-key as Carlton was, Larry Bowa was just the opposite. He was running around going nuts, screaming and hollering crazy things. He was so happy- out-of his-mind happy.
There are little snippets of other people in the Phanatic’s memory.
There’s Dickie Noles, running around, being just as crazy as Bowa.
And Tug McGraw. He didn’t come out for a while, but when he did, the thing I remember him doing was pouring a bottle of champagne all over Mayor Green.
Then, there was Mike Schmidt, so great with the press, always saying the right thing, not bragging, praising the Royals, real class.
And, finally, there was Dallas Green. The Phanatic will remember him the most. Standing on a chair, watching Harry Kalas do some interviews for TV, and Dallas Green freed himself from the mob and walked my way.
He didn’t say very much. Just, “Congratulations.” But the way he looked up at me, and shook my hand, I don’t know why, but it meant so very much to me.
That, above all, is something that the Phanatic will never forget.
Overall, this is the most excited the Phanatic’s ever been in his life.
What now? I’m praying for the Eagles.
Letter from the Editor
By Gil Spencer
I was talking to the sports editor a couple of weeks ago. I said something about the Phillies, and he gave me a look at combined pity, disgust and nausea.
“You’re talking like a fan,” he said.
He might as well have said that I was for sprinkling LSD in the milk of every other baby in Philadelphia.
To the people who live in the sports departments, acting like a fan is unprofessional, un-American and, when you get right down to it, unclean.
I said nothing. But through the playoffs and the Series I tried to do my rooting at home or in the car.
The car was perfect. I could yell and holler and slap hands with myself.
Yesterday, I got into the car and did my number. Then suddenly I knew- knew for a moral certainty- that they were going to lose.
I drove off the Expressway and onto Vine Street knowing the sixth game would be Kansas City’s. And the seventh.
Going into the Series, I had thought the Phillies were a lock. They were unlike anything in a baseball suit we’d seen around here in 50 years.
They won with their backs against wall after wall after wall. They came into the Series in a euphoric rage. And it was God help anything that got in their way. The more critical the shots they received, the more indomitable they became.
They returned from the corn country a game on top with one game to win for the world championship they had been denied since their birth 96 years ago.
The whole damn city was overdosing on baseball and hope.
And until I hit Vine Street yesterday morning, I was in the front ranks of the hopeful.
Nothing had happed to make me feel they had had it. I just knew they were going to get beat.
Now I am going to tell you what happened next, and you are going to tell me I am a liar. You will say that nobody can drive by the same street most every working day for five years and not notice its name.
Well, go ahead and say it. For that matter, sing it. But I’m going to tell you what happened anyway.
I drove up Vine to 16th, turned left and started up toward Callowhill, thinking the Phillies were dead.
Then I saw a street sign I had passed more than a thousand times. Saw it and read it for the first time.
Wasn’t hard to read.
When I walked into the office somebody said for the hundredth time: “What’d you think about tonight?”
“They’re home free,” I said.
I didn’t mention the sign.
Phyllis McGraw prays. I see signs.
And at 3 a.m. on October 22, 1980, I’m finishing this column and the city outside is howling. The fans are acting unprofessionally. And why not? The world is different today. Because a Philadelphia baseball team is on top of it.
Nerves get to Owens during his finest hour
By Mark Whicker
Through the fans, through the ushers, through the granite-faced policemen who were steeled to beat this Veterans Stadium crowd into order if necessary, Paul Owens kept walking.
Fortunately, at the end, no one was asking him for a play-by-play. No one even asked him for the final score. His eyes were red and every few minutes he excused himself to hug someone else in uniform. The general manager whose trades brought the Phillies from worst to first in only seven years was answering questions his emotions weren't ready to deal with.
"You know how I get at games like this," Owens sputtered. "I get a little nervous sometimes. I'd start muttering at my seat and I didn't want to say the wrong thing, so I'd start walking around the stands. Nowhere in particular, just walking.
"I even went back in my office on the fourth floor and shuffled a few papers around, just to be doing something. In the eighth, I went downstairs and told my wife, Marcelle, to go on up. I went down and waited."
Then he winked. "There was only one real anxious moment to this whole thing," he said. "That's when we started the season."
A journey's significance is defined by its starting point and, for the Phillies, the vertical climb began Aug. 10, when they limped out of Pittsburgh six games behind both the Pirates and the Expos. That was the day Dallas Green highlighted the usually tedious interim between doubleheader games by blistering the Phillies' ears with the familiar accusations about quitting.
"I had my doubts, sure," Owens said. "I didn't know if we'd come back from that Pittsburgh thing. But I knew Dallas would hang in there and keep it all together if he possibly could. I thought we had the kind of team that could do that.
"Last year's team, you couldn't really get too upset about. We were decimated by injuries, stuff that wasn't Danny Ozark's fault, even though I had to do that thing last summer (fire Ozark and hire Green on Aug. 31). The difference was Dallas. He came down knowing that he couldn't get fired- unless Ruly (owner Carpenter) fired me first- and he did the things he had to do.
"And this isn't the end of it for this town. With all due respect to the people of Pittsburgh, I think Dick Vermeil and the Eagles are going to win their thing, too, and then the Flyers are going to win again. We'll be the City of Champions before it's all over."
The question is, who is going to manage and general-manage these particular champions when they defend in 1981. Champagne deflected the answer.
"I haven't talked to Dallas about it at all," Owens said. "The way I feel right now, I have too much work to do. I'm behind three weeks in my homework. I wasn't coming to work today at all until the game, but at about 1 P.M., I came in. I was too nervous."
Green said approximately the same things, which means the front-office shuffle will come in the next few weeks or not at all.
"Personally, I think the Pope (Owens) is going to stay in there because this is the kind of work he loves best," scout Hugh Alexander said. "I don't know about Dallas, but he did a great job this year."
If Owens goes into semi-retirement and Green becomes general manager, the new manager will likely be either longtime coach Bobby Wine or former Texas manager Pat Corrales, a former roommate of Green's with the Phillies. Even though the Rangers fired Corrales, they have offered him a front-office position, with the stipulation he can leave if he gets a manager's job.
Rarely has a manager put his own personal stamp on a world champion like Green did this year. He was the 30th manager of a franchise that has enjoyed only 30 winning seasons this century, but he also became the third former pitcher to manage a champion (after Eddie Dyer of the '46 Cardinals and Bob Lemon of the '78 Yankees) and the fourth rookie manager to do it (after Bucky Harris of the '24 Senators, Dyer in '46 and Ralph Houk of the '61 Yankees).
Testimonials piped up from the same corners that fired cold stares at Green all summer.
"I hate to admit it and you know I hate to admit it, but Dallas was probably the thing that kept us together," Larry Bowa said with an unabashed grin.
"He just wouldn't let us quit. After the Pirate series, I honestly didn't think we'd win. Maybe it would have been different if we'd trailed only one team, but this was two and we had to really come a long way. He came in there and chewed us out and we started winning. We didn't all like it, but that's the way it happened.
"Dallas was a consistent manager. That's one thing nobody can deny. He was on everybody all year. He didn't play favorites and he made it stick for everybody. For instance, he come in here before a game against the Cubs or the Mets and he'd tell us to turn the damn football game off the TV and go take infield. We grumbled, but we did it.
"I personally didn't feel that I needed it. I thought I had the kind of makeup that would go out there and get it done by myself. But other people needed it. And when you're going to be a disciplinarian, you'd better discipline 25 guys at once, not just a few."
Nearby, an animated Garry Maddox was letting victory guide him to conciliation, too.
"We had some problems during the year and they were serious problems at the time," he said. "We didn't see eye-to-eye. But I try not to let myself get carried away with pride. If I see that I'm wrong, I try to admit it. Sometimes, when you have a disagreement, you have to find a way to solve it instead of fighting it. I have to respect him for going out there day to day and trying to find a way to keep winning.
"I was a little disturbed this week to see that some of the national press thought we were the nobodies and bad guys. I thought most everybody in this room tried to communicate our feelings with all the press, more than we have in a long time. But some of them thought differently and it kinda took the edge off this whole thing. Then, again, if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you don't judge a whole group by a few people."
Walking to his locker, his red mane awash with bubbly, Keith Moreland tried to assess the contribution of this remarkable rookie class of '80, the one that will try to repeat this championship someday.
"Lonnie Smith should be Rookie of the Year for all he's done, the way he can dominate a game from the leadoff position, and you saw it tonight," Moreland said. "But I think all of us played our part."
"On Memorial Day, we had a fight with the Pirates (which began after Bert Blyleven brushed back Mike Schmidt, when Kevin Saucier drilled Blyleven in the hip). I don't say fighting is the way to play baseball. I don't think it's necessarily part of the game. But I really thought that brought everybody together. The young guys were right in the middle of it and, from that day on, I think we were unified. No more veterans here and rookies there. We were a team and we understood each other."
There were a hundred other snapshot scenes. John Vukovich- 32, the agitator on the bench who points out, "I also like to remember that when Schmidt was hurt, I played third base for 11 games and we won seven"- hugged his wife and splattered champagne.
"World champs," he repeated. "Just think- that's Japan, Mexico, China..."
Ramon Aviles, who spent eight years in the minors and just wanted a World Series check so he could build a new house, sat alone at the bottom of the interview platform, unable to speak through the tears.
Mayor Bill Green searched for his namesake manager and cried, "Uncle Dallas!"
And Paul Owens dredged his victory-addled memory to remember his immediate schedule. "Yeah, I gotta go to the general manager's meeting in Florida in a few days," he said.
He shook his head in mock shame, adding, "I'll be the damndest unprepared general manager you ever saw."
A great day as crowd hails the victorious Phils
Jubilant fans jam Broad St. parade
The Philadelphia Phillies celebrated their first World Series victory like a conquering army this afternoon, riding in a parade past thousands of jubilant fans crowded into the streets of center city to an official ceremony at JFK Stadium.
After popping the cork on a victory party last night, the fans didn't have the chance to develop a hangover- arriving early this morning along the streets of center city and at the stadium in South Philadelphia.
It was the team's first series title in its 97-year history and the first time a Philadelphia team had won the series since Connie Mack's Athletics did it by beating the St. Louis Cardinals in 1930.
More than an hour before the parade stepped off at 11:30 A.M. fans were lined three and four deep along the parade route, from 18th and Market Sts. east to City Hall and south on Broad St. Even without a parade, the crowd cheered and blew horns at anything that passed, from garbage trucks to a pickup truck carrying high school students.
At the corner of Broad and Ranstead Sts., across from City Hall, Barbara Lubell, 29, a "gainfully employed artist" from Germantown was dressed in a Phillies cap and red shirt and playing a violin.
"I've been playing the old standards, mostly 'Take me out to the ballgame,' " she said. "It's pretty hard to compete with these horns and screams. It's an existential experience.
"I'm here to earn money," she added as she stood above a violin case full of coins, "but I probably would be down here anyway just to see what the crowds were doing."
A Yankees fan originally, Ms. Lubell said that "living in Germantown the last six months, it's pretty hard to avoid being a Phillies fan."
Although public schools were in session today, it was obvious where the students were. Buses, trolleys and subways were jammed to capacity with passengers, many of them students not at all unwilling to admit that they had cut classes to see the Phillies.
At University City High School, at 36th and Filbert Sts., officials reported students leaving classes in twos and threes. Two 17-year-old seniors there, Kim Gleaves and Rhonda Hoard, just walked out the front door.
"The monitors just said, 'See you, ladies,' " Ms. Graves said. "They could've stopped us, they didn't give us any trouble at all."
Police who had worked until 4 A.M. today patrolling the revelers throughout the city returned to work at 8 A.M. to find crowds already entering JFK Stadium.
Police Sgt. Edward Kohlman said the crowd of about 300 at the stadium was in a festive mood, partying and dancing accompanied by music from radios. Kohlman said police experienced no problems.
The crowd included many family groups, including William Houser, 39, his wife Anna, 35, and their son Mike, 14, who had traveled all the way from Lebanon, Pa. for the celebration today, even though they couldn't obtain World Series tickets.
"I've waited 30 years for this. I wasn't going to miss today's celebration," Houser said.
Although the celebration last night was generally peaceful, police were still kept busy. Police arrested 266 persons in Philadelphia for offenses related to the victory party. Charges included disorderly conduct, intoxication, robbery, aggravated assault and vandalism.
The Philadelphia Fire Department reported that between 11 P.M. to 4 A.M. today, 138 street box alarms were pulled, 112 of them false, 101 phone calls reporting fires were made, 29 false, and 137 rescue calls were reported, 10 of them false.
In Runnermede, N.J., six persons were arrested early today and several others sustained minor injuries when a crowd of about 500 Phillies fans celebrating outside a local tavern on Black Horse pike became unruly and began throwing bottles, cherry bombs and other explosive devices.
About 40 police officers from departments in eight neighboring communities, Camden County Park Police and state police were brought in to control the crowd.
One fan was murdered during a celebration in North Philadelphia. Two state stores were looted. Scores of cars were damaged and streets were littered with party leftovers- broken bottles and smashed cans.
Philadelphia Police Commissioner Morton Solomon said, "it was an exuberant party, and although there were some who got too exuberant, most enjoyed themselves. There were few arrests, but apparently not much damage.
"All in all, we prepared for the worst, and the people showed us their best," Solomon said.
Solomon would not disclose the number of police assigned to guard the city and its image. But police contingents were assigned to virtually every spot in Philadelphia where celebrating baseball fans might congregate.
But the city-wide party did claim a life. Christopher Colon, 21, of 1711 Mt. Vernon St. was shot about 2:30 A.M. on N Broad St. near Wallace St. after he argued with a carload of people celebrating the series.
Colonwas taken to Hahnemann Hospital where he was pronounced dead at 2:40 A.M. of a single gunshot wound to the forehead.
Detective said they had no suspects. The shooting occurred while pedestrians and motorists were still streaming into center city to celebrate.
In the Feltonville section of the city, five youths celebrating the victory on Roosevelt Blvd., near C St., were injured when they were struck by a car. Four of them were admitted to hospitals in serious or critical condition and police are investigating the accident.
Hospitals in South Philadelphia, center city and Frankford reported an unusual number of emergency-room patients for cuts and bruises. A spokesman for the southren division of Frankford Hospital said 10 persons were treated in the hospital's emergency room. The normal number would be two or three, the spokesman said.
At least 17 persons identified as having been at the game were treated for minor injuries at area hospitals.
The party started promptly at 11:29 P.M., when relief pitcher Tug McGraw burned the final strike over the plate past the bat of Kansas City's Willie Wilson. The overflow crowd of 65,838, already on its feet, shook the walls with applause.
As if someone had flipped a switch, auto horns began to blare and fans spilled into the streets throughout the city.
Shrieking fans in center city crowded the streets, drinking beer and climbing poles. They mounted light standards around the south side of City Hall, removing some Phillies pennants.
One man, naked except for a Phillies' cap and a pair of sneakers and a can of beer, streaked through the crowd outside the Fairmont Hotel at Broad and Walnut Sts. and then quickly disappeared.
The City Hall switchboard lit up as hundreds of sports fans from around the nation telephoned congratulations. Some of the calls came from as far as Texas, operators said.
Carol DiBattista stood at Frankford St. and Cottman Ave. and shrieked. "They won," she explained to a startled bystander. "What else is there to shout about?"
At one point, police said, an estimated 10,000 crowded into the few blocks on Broad St. between Snyder and Oregon Aves., near the stadium in South Philadelphia. Looking South on Broad from City Hall, the street appeared to be wall-to-wall people and creeping cars.
One police officer looked at the empty beer bottles at Broad and Snyder and shook his head. "I'm glad the Phillies won the World Series, but I hope it doesn't happen for another 97 years," he said.
At Broad and Spruce Sts., two Philadelphia policemen leaned against their patrol car and watched a crowd of 1,500 take over the intersection.
"It's just me and him," said Officer Gary Brownsdorf, nodding toward his partner. "We're all that they have here."
Brownsdorf wasn't expecting trouble. "Everyone is so united," he said. "You got black, you got white, you got gay, you got straight, everyone all together. It's a shame the world can't always be like this."
But if Brownsdorf didn't have trouble, other officers did. Not long after the final out, police said they had scores of troublespots.
A Philadelphia policeman was injured about 1:15 A.M. on the south side of City Hall and his revolver was stolen when he was attacked by a group of about 15 youths after the officer went to the aid of a woman whose gold chain had been snatched from her neck.
The officer was one of four policeman treated at Hahnemann Hospital for minor injuries.
Firemen were kept busy dousing small fires at intersections.
Some youths leaped onto the hoods of slow-moving cars on S. Broad St. and dented hoods. At least one youth kicked in the windshield of an auto.
Two State Stores, one at Broad St. and Wyoming Ave. in Logan and the other at Broad St. and Erie Ave. were looted shortly after 12:30 A.M., police reported.
Police Officer Joseph Fishkron of the 26th district was struck on the head with a bottle at Kensington and Allegheny Aves. shortly after midnight. He was treated at Northeastern Hospital for a head cut.
Broad St. and Snyder Ave. in South Philadelphia, described by a police chief inspector as "a key spot of celebrating," was mobbed within five minutes of the final play.
By about 3 A.M., the crowd had dwindled to about 60. The celebration seemed to lose its steam shortly after 2 A.M. when neighborhood bars closed.
The thousands of sports fans who filled the South Philadelphia neighborhood during the Flyers' two Stanley Cup victories of 1974 and 1975 and when the Phillies clinched the National League pennant against Houston 10 days ago thunderously reappeared, spilling from two bars and nearby houses. Thousands gathered at other points in the area.
The same scene was repeated in North Philadelphia, where police detoured traffic off Broad St. at Diamond St. as thousands of fans took to the streets.
North Broad St. was jammed with cars, while people stood on every corner, shaking hands and singing, "Ain't no stopping us now, we're number one." Everyone seemed headed south toward center city.
Other major gather points in the city included 5th St. and Olney Ave. in the Olney section, where an estimated 5,000 gathered, and Kensington and Allegheny Aves. in the heart of Kensington, where an estimated 3,000 got together.
Phillies put city on top of world
By Jack Chevalier
In our hearts, we believe Philadelphia is No. 1 in symphony orchestras, but they don't play a best-of-seven series against New York, Boston or Pittsburgh- so we can't prove it.
In our hearts, we believe Philadelphia is No. 1 in hoagies and cheese steaks, but the American Heartburn Association has never awarded an official citation- so we can't prove it.
In our hearts, we believe Philadelphia is No. 1 a hundred ways- Art Museum architecture, golf courses with character, City Hall clocks, rock concerts, sports facilities, daily newspapers, Phanatics- but we can't prove it.
On this brightest and sunniest of Wednesdays, however, there is a category in which no doubt remains. The doubt has been erased with bats and balls and gloves. The truth has been charted with runs and hits and errors. It's written down in black and white for posterity.
The 97-year wait is over. The Philadelphia Phillies are No. 1 in baseball at last.
They made it official with the class and style of champions last night. They did it with pitching, hitting and defense in a 4-1 victory over the Kansas City Royals that wrapped up the World Series, four games to two.
They did it before 65,838 fans, the largest baseball crowd in Veterans Stadium history- a standing, shouting, horn-tooting throng that couldn't wait for the final out so it could begin to party.
We may never know which city has the best French restaurants, the best-looking secretaries or the most daring cab drivers. That stuff is hard to measure.
But when it comes to sports, you just keep playing until there are two survivors, then let 'em go head-to-head 'till the world discovers which is the boss team. And in Baseball 1980, the boss team is the Phillies.
For most of last night, it seemed the champs were going to cooperate with the fans behind the plate who carried her request on a large sign: "Phillies please, win with ease; My heart can't take it."
The Phillies were rolling with ease- and a 4-0 lead- until Steve Carlton tired in the eighth inning. He walked John Wathan, yielded a single to Jose Cardenal and departed (after 109 pitches) to a standing ovation.
Then it was Tug McGraw time and the man who spent yesterday afternoon at Penn's Landing, having a tugboat re-christened in his honor, prolonged the suspense by walking Willie Wilson and allowing a controversial infield hit by George Brett.
It was a 4-1 game and Kansas City had the bases loaded with Hal McRae up. The tension that made the Phillies' East Division pennant struggle and the National League playoff series so unforgettable had returned for one final time.
McGraw fell behind McRae, three balls and no strikes, then fought back to a 3-2 count that was underscored by several foul balls. McGraw finally retired McRae on a bouncer to Manny Trillo and the Vet heaved a giant sigh of relief.
The ninth-inning scene was incredible. The 65,838 fans were standing and chanting, splitting their attention between the game and the massive force that had moved into battle position.
The Philadelphia police had given an unprecedented display of strength during the seventh-inning stretch when 10 officers on horseback rose across the outfield warning track.
Then, with two outs in the ninth, six police dogs were led onto the field by their trainer-officers. Three of them lined up in front of the K.C. dugout- and the Royals again had the three tying runs on base!
I haven't seen such a weird sports scene since a dozen guys skated around the Buffalo hockey rink with bedsheets to fight off heavy fog during the 1975 Stanley Cup playoffs.
A Phils triumph that began like clockwork was finishing like "Clockwork Orange." Was Frank Rizzo lurking in the bullpen?
Willie Wilson tiptoed past the canine picket line and stepped into the batter's box. The man who began this World Series by striking out didn't want to end it the same way. But who can hit with six sets of German shepherd fangs bared behind his back?
Alas, poor Willie. He proved to be the seventh dog in the field. He whiffed for the 12th time, a new Series record, and the Phillies became champions.
The world also knows today that Philadelphia is No. 1 in police muscle and No. 1 in partying. After the final out, those two powerful forces began a confrontation that continued through the night and all day today.
The city and the suburbs were ready for the grandaddy of all block parties and the police were ready to make sure everybody's joy stayed within reasonable and legal bounds. At last check, the police were winning. City Hall and the Vet remained unscathed.
And there's one more category in which Philadelphia is tops- without a doubt. It's a mortal lock, even though nobody takes an official survey. This town really knows how to put on a parade.
Philadelphia is No. 1 on New Year's Day, when the Mummers strut up Broad St., and No. 1 on those rare and glorious afternoons when our sports champions ride down Broad St.
Today's parade was watched by millions, either in person or on TV, who were united by a common feeling: "I'm proud to be a Philadelphian."
In baseball's official records, the Phillies are No. 1. In our hearts, the city is the same.
Phillies rule the world
McGraw, Carlton finish off Royals
By Mark Whicker
A party, yes. A properly deafening salute to Tug McGraw's last tango of 1980, yes.
An orgy, no.
The Phillies won their first World Series, four games to two, last night, shoving the Kansas City Royals' head under water early and enduring some fitful splashes until they drowned, 4-1.
And when McGraw's last pitch thudded into Bob Boone's mitt to give the unfortunate Willie Wilson an all-time World Series strikeout record, he did his patented Tylenol Trot, just as he had when he clinched the division in Montreal 17 days ago and the pennant in Houston nine days ago.
The players jumped and hugged, Dallas Green leading the charge from the home dugout, and then they disappeared into a clubhouse that would become, in 30 minutes, as comfortable as a Manhattan subway stop at rush hour.
Then, in a few minutes, they reappeared. The exuberant Kevin Saucier was the first to return, then Green and Pete Rose, brandishing their champagne bottles, Green holding both fists aloft to the crowd. But they were gone in a blink, sucked back into a drain of horses, attack dogs and blue helmets the likes of which haven't been seen since "The Blues Brothers" movie.
You heard a lot about "the Phillies' first world championship in 97 years," but to the guy in the 600 level, that didn't mean much. He doesn't remember Recreation Park at 23rd St. and Ridge Pike, where the Phillies' freaky history was hatched. You heard a lot about '76, '77 and '78, especially '77, when the Dodgers' Vic Davalillo and Manny Mota sent the townspeople moping into the subway stations, but these Phillies had already superseded that disappointment in the climate-controlled pressure cooker of Houston.
That was a struggle. So was the weekend they clinched the division in murky Montreal. So was the melodramatic homestand before that, when they verbally whipped their manager and their fans while beating the Cubs four straight.
But this, even though the Phillies had their recurring problems with George Brett, Amos Otis, Willie Aikens and Hal McRae, was a relatively peaceful coda to their stormy symphony. And Game Six- at least, until McGraw fulfilled his puckish wish "to keep people from getting bored out there"- was the closest thing to a routine win since Steve Carlton two-hit the Cubs on Oct. 1.
Steve Carlton won his 27th game last night. He was 2-0 so far in the post-season with a no-decision and the Phils had won all three games, but the innings had pounded the sharpness out of his slider, robbed the fastball of its menace.
But last night, Carton dropped a calling card to the Royals and to the baseball-record Veterans Stadium crowd of 65,838 with his first three pitches, all strikes to Wilson. He ran a three-ball count to U.L. Washington and stuck him out, too. He got Brett on a bouncer to Manny Trillo. Every pitch was at the knees or below. The night was already half-won.
As he waded through the light-blue lineup as if it were a discarded pile of Kleenex, the offense chopped at a 6-foot-7 redwood named Rich Gale until he fell in the third.
Bob Boone, one of a cluster of runner-up MVPs to the all-conquering Mike Schmidt, led off the Phils' third with his fourth walk of the Series. Lonnie Smith's speed then began tipping the scale. When he dribbled a grounder to second, Frank White and the mob around him knew a double play was off the boards. So White flung a careless throw at Washington covering the bag. Boone slid in and Washington executed the "neighborhood play," stepping on a locality near but not on the bag.
American League umpire Bill Kunkel sounded the siren, calling Boone safe and bringing K.C. manager Jim Frey, whose decisions polluted the Series, out of the dugout. But everyone was safe and all Gale had to do was stare down Rose and Schmidt.
Rose had only six hits in the Series but continually kept his hand in the Kansas City cookie jar. Here, he faked two bunts, making the infield jiggle like Jello. He got to 3-1, which is where the Royals decided to have Brett hold third and Washington guard second in case a popup-double-play possibility arose.
"If it had been Lonnie on second, they wouldn't have tried it, but Boonie's slow afoot and they thought they might turn something," Rose said.
So Rose dropped a feather of a bunt a few feet down the third-base line. Brett might as well have been at the Stadium Hilton. Gale never got there and everyone was safe.
Schmidt was next, stubbornly standing off the plate as everyone, from broadcaster to teammate, had urged against during his August slump. But this way, he never jams himself and he is free to do whatever he likes with the occasional inside pitch. Gale threw him one and Schmidt cracked it into right-center. And even though Smith pratfell again going around third ("Lonnie's so fast, he outruns his feet," Keith Moreland explained quaintly), he still scurried across the plate behind Boone. Gale was gone and Carlton had his runs.
Carlton kept pumping and the Phillies kept scoring. He struck out Wilson to strand White in the third and fanned Otis and Aikens in the fifth after both had stalled him into first-inning walks. When Washington singled in the fourth, Bowa swallowed up Brett's grounder, stepped on second and threw to first- the seventh double play he started, setting a World Series record.
In the sixth, Wilson was reduced to dropping a white-flag bunt at Carlton and Washington struck out looking to end that. By then, the Phillies had moved mechanically, ruthlessly to a 4-0 lead.
One run was a Smith invention in the fifth. He poked a base hit into center field and, taking McRae's example from Game Four, ran right into second before the throw ever reached the bag. When Rose flied to center, Smith churned into third. Schmidt walked, which brought in Paul Splittorff to relieve Renie Martin, and Bake McBride's 100-foot pull eluded Splittorff and became a groundout- but also an RBI.
Garry Maddox's second hit, a crisp single to left on a fastball, began the Phils' sixth, but Trillo erased him with a double-play ball to Splittorff. Then the Royals swung right field for Bowa, forgetting their scouting reports again. Bowa produced popcorn from the left side but becomes a Gatling gun from the right and this time he pulled a double well to Wilson's right. And Boone faithfully singled up the middle to get Bowa home and into the dugout, where he went into a high-fiving frenzy.
Going into the eighth, Carlton had faced 24 batters and retired 19, but here came the wear and tear of his many innings again. He walked John Wathan, who had hit two balls hard, and Jose Cardenal singled to left.
Green never scratched his head. He walked out, cap tilted back, and pointed into the right-field bullpen as the crowd issued panicked sounds. The fans liked Tug's record but not his suspense and they brayed loudly into the night for Carlton, who strode into the dugout with his head down, finally touching the bill of his cap for acknowledgement.
McGraw did not make a clean kill that inning. He popped up White but walked the virtually unwalkable Wilson and, when Washington flied to Maddox, Wathan trotted home. Then McGraw struggled with Brett, whom he fanned twice Sunday, until Mr. .390 drove a bouncer to the first-second hole. Trillo was giving him a wide berth, playing deep. Rose couldn't get to the bag when the throw came and the bases were loaded again.
But when McRae dribbled to Trillo, ending what had been a luminous Series in a 1-for-11 rut, the Royals were out.
The climactic inning combined elements of "The Great Escape," "My Friend Flicka," and "Rin Tin Tin."
McGraw screwballed his way to a strikeout of the difficult Otis, but then walked Aikens as the crowd began to swallow its cheers. Wathan sliced a single to right. Cardenal, the victim of McGraw's strikeout in Game Five, singled to center on 2-2.
By that time, the mounted police were ringing the sidelines, the gendarmes were camped on the dugout and the dogs were at bare-teethed alert. 'Who wants to run into a horse?" White complained. "It just didn't seem like baseball any more. I've never seen anything like it, except in Venezuela."
"I'm glad they didn't hit a popup over in my direction," Schmidt said. "I had my eye on those dogs."
What White did was pop one up in front of the Phillies' dugout, where Rose and Boone communed in apparent harmony for long, screaming seconds. "It was my ball and his ball, too," Rose said. "But with 65,000 people screaming, sometimes you don't always get it straight."
Boone lunged at the last second and the ball hit a hard place and bounced out... and before anyone gasped, Rose was flicking his glove out to take the deflection. "We practiced that play," Rose explained.
"It was just another pitch I didn't have to throw," said McGraw, who punched the clock in 12 of the Phils' last 15 games.
McGraw then struck out Wilson and the Phillies had won.
Reasons? Well, Kansas City did not exactly bring its lunch- at least, not its running meal tickets. Wilson, an exquisite player who should have no problem living down these six games next season, hit .154 with four hits and scored three runs. Those figures were .326, 230 and 133 during the regular season. He reached first base with second base unoccupied four times during the Series and the Royals scored eight runs in those innings.
He got precious little help from White, the American League Championship Series MVP, who hit .080 with one steal, and Washington, who hit an unobtrusive .273.
The Phils also banged around reliever Dan Quisenberry, who at least gave this Series some one-liners, if nothing else, because they had fought Kent Tekulve, a harder-throwing submariner, for three years now. The one pitcher they could not solve was Larry Gura, but Frey solved that by jerking Gura out of two games too early.
Rose pointed out before Game Six that the Phils struggle most painfully with junker left-handers like Randy Jones, Tommy John and even Cardinals rookie Al Olmstead, who beat them twice in September. Gura fit that bill and Splittorff almost did. Instead, Frey slavishly went with right-handers Gale and Dennis Leonard, who got shelled for 27 hits in 16 innings.
The Royals let a big inning beat them in Game One, watched Quisenberry dissolve in Game Two and left the bases loaded in the ninth and let Trillo throw out Darrell Porter in the sixth of Game Five.
In the end, it all went back to September, when Kansas City's problem was dividing playoff shares and the Phillies were pinned in the division trenches. Once they emerged, they were ready and, at the end, they cruised to their conquest.
Playing with the designated hitter and their pitching rotation out of whack, the Phillies came together. They got a win out of Bob Walk, two big hits out of Del Unser, a save out of Ron Reed. They also got a whisker pitch in Game Four from Dickie Noles that knocked down George Brett and, some say, made the Phils aggressors again following a five-run Kansas City first.
"It was 25 guys doing it, the team winning, the team winning, the team winning," repeated an emotion Schmidt, who hit .381 with seven RBI, two homers and two game-winning hits. "I've had enough individual success. I don't give a damn how many trophies are on the wall or how many homers I get. This takes care of everything."
"I haven't been around for 97 years, but I've experienced six years of Phillie frustration," McGraw said. "I know the peaks and valleys and the other phrases people use. So I know the feeling of giving a world championship to Philadelphia."
"W.C. Fields probably wishes he was out of the grave now. And Ben Franklin, boy, he's probably turning over in his grave and having a few drinks, although he'd probably feel bad because then he'd get a relapse of the gout, six feet under."
The only hangover the Phillies will feel now is the sweet, ethereal feeling of winning a championship the way champions are supposed to win them... decisively.
Philly enjoys magic moment
By Sandy Grady
There was only one word for it: Bee-YOO-ti-ful!
Somebody should freeze all the clocks in Philadelphia at 11:31 P.M., Oct. 21, 1980, and cast them in bronze.
That was the moment the Phillies beat the Kansas City Royals, 4-1, in the sixth game of the World Series to become the baseball champeens of the cosmos.
That was the moment the Phils drove a stake through the heart of a lot of ghosts. No wonder the 65,838 fans nearly levitated Veterans Stadium like a spaceship and car horns, sirens and firecrackers made a jubilee cacophony from Manayunk up to Moorestown, from Fishtown to Flourtown.
It sounded like Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture" with a soft pretzel-and-hoagie accent. It sounded like 65 years of frustration, blown pennants and sour Phillies memories being joyfully dynamited.
And down in the frothy, tearful insanity of the clubhouse, the Phils were blowing their image of being all that stuff sportswriters have called them- cool, egotistical, unemotional robots.
Jimmy Carter telephoned Dallas Green and said he was proud of the Phillies and mentioned that he'd played a little softball himself and Dallas Green gave the President of the United States a crackling one-liner.
"Come to Philadelphia, Mr. President, and we'll teach you to play hardball."
Presidents don't count for much at such moments. Dallas Green had so much Great Western champagne poured on his graying head, his hair won't sober up for a month. And around the clubhouse went the manager in a giddy circle, embracing owner Ruly Carpenter, a weeping general manager Paul Owens, old scouts, coaches, ushers, wives- but especially the players with whom he had spent six screaming, struggling, snarling months.
Green put a bear hug on Larry Bowa and said to Bowa's father, "Over the last month, this was the best ballplayer I had."
And a wet-eyed Bowa said to Green, "You gave us what we needed, boss. I didn't always think so, but you gave us the discipline to win."
That was too much for Green, who waved a bottle of champagne in the air and roared at his players, "Champions of the world, guys! Not too shabby, huh?"
Then Green was yelling, "Where's Schmitty?" And he was hugging Mike Schmidt and saying in his ear, "MVP, big boy, and you deserved it."
Schmidt cracked, "Yeah, and I did it without taking infield practice."
Green laughed and turned to put a crushing hug on Pete Rose.
"I want you back next year, boss," Rose said with a lopsided grin.
Green blinked- everyone knows he's had his fill of managing this club- and joked, "Pete, my boy, you can have this job."
But Green saved his most heartfelt embrace for Tug McGraw, the mop-haired matador who bailed him out of so many heart-stopping jams, including the bases-loaded messes in the eighth and ninth innings last night.
"Boss, I was out of gas," McGraw said softly as they hugged. "I told myself, if I can't get this last bleeper, I'm gonna tell you to take me outta there."
"Tug, what a heart," Green said. "What a year you gave me."
McGraw, stumbling for words, said, "Listen, you and I understood each other. I know you've got decisions to make (about 1981) and so do I, but they'll never take this away from us. Hell, I love you."
Larry Christenson, standing nearby, broke everyone up by saying, "Hey, you two guys want to use my hotel room?"
Then Green turned to grab his red-haired rookie, Keith Moreland, the ex-Texas halfback, and yell, "Hook 'em Horns!"
With mock solemnity, Moreland said, "Sorry, Dallas, I'm announcing my retirement to run back punts for the Eagles."
While Green laughed, Moreland roared the phrase that the manager had been repeating since spring training: "Grind it out!"
Green was on a roll. He couldn't stop the love feast. He hugged the mayor, Bill Green, who said, "You're giving the Greens a good name in this town. Lord, how I love the way you hung in there and took the hard knocks and won, Dallas."
Green hugged old Hugh Alexander, the Phils' chief scout, who had known the manager since he was a kid pitcher 25 years ago. He hugged Garry Maddox, whom he had benched in some key games, and Greg Luzinski, who had once taken a shot at the manager's "Gestapo tactics," and Bake McBride, the sore-kneed, introverted right fielder who had balked at the manager's screaming tirades.
"You gave me the best baseball year of your life," Green told McBride. Then startled, he roared, "Damn! What's that you got on?"
"Let's see," said McBride, swigging Great Western. "I'm wearing the mayor's necktie and the Pope's (Owens') coat and I think I'll have his pants next."
In the bedlam, an out-of-town sports columnist said to Green, "Dallas, are you really going to walk away when you're just nine short of Casey Stengel's record (for managing pennant-winners)?"
Green turned somber briefly.
"I don't want to think about that (quitting) right now," he said. "Bit I haven't really changed my mind. I did this my way. At first, only a few of the guys- Rose and Boone and maybe Mike (Schmidt) in a deep, inward way- understood. The secret was bringing kids in who had guts and fire and getting a competitive bench. It brought our cool guys to life. We became a real ballclub. We put a lot of ghosts to rest."
It was 1:15 A.M. The horns were still blowing up and down Broad St. The Phils' bubbly, mind-blowing party was picking up steam. Green went in his office. His coach and friend, Bobby Wine, was there and so were Paul Owens and Green's wife. On the manager's desk was the championship trophy that Bowie Kuhn had presented on national television.
Dallas Green leaned over and stared at the ornate gold trophy, the token he had chased across a stormy summer, and he traced the inscription softly with his hand.
"World champions," Dallas Green said. "Damn, Pope, can you believe it? Can you believe what we've done?"
Nobody in the room said a word. It was a moment when time seemed to stop. He was right, the ghosts were all gone.
Phils look for gate to grow
By Mark Whicker
The Phillies already have the design of their Series rings picked out, with the player's last name and a likeness of the championship trophy on one side and a large "P" set in the middle of Veterans Stadium on the other.
The commissioner's office sets aside $800 a ring for 35 rings, about half the number the Phillies need for players, field personnel and administrators.
Giles estimated the Phillies got enough money from the Series to meet expenses through the first four games and stood to make about $200,000 per game after that. The team took in approximately $1 million during the playoffs.
That does not include extra parking and concessions income or the possible windfall coming out of the woodwork from songs, T-shirts, mugs and a special commemorative record album that the Phillies have already planned.
"But where you really get the benefit is from the residual carryover, which means next year's ticket sales," Giles said.
He hopes the hangover will bring the Phils 20,000 season tickets next year- 1,000 more than 1980 and 2,000 more than 1979. There will be more groups, higher rates for some advertising because the competition will naturally drive the price up and maybe a shot at becoming the first East Coast team to break three million in attendance.
How can a team win a World Series when its best hitter swings a Marv Thorneberry bat?
George Brett wasn't aware of that legacy until last night, when he noticed the "T-85" stamp on his bat and asked a manufacturer's representative to explain it.
"T-85 is the code for the mold in which the bat was originally made and that belonged to the old Lite drinker and Mets pratfaller himself, Marv Thorneberry.
Brett hit .375 for the Series, anyway, although he struck out twice late in Game Five as the Phils came back to win.
"I didn't do that all year," he said. "You know, beating the Yankees in the American League playoffs was really important to us. They had caused us three years of disaster and heartbreak before. When we finally did it, it was like winning the World Series."
Brett and 15 teammates went to Bookbinder's on Monday night- "right beside that street Rocky used to run on in the movie." When the party left, the players were surrounded by 500 kids, all with pads and pencils.
"I was wearing my Phillies hat to make sure they didn't attack me," Brett joked. "It was unbelievable. They had to call the police to make sure I got to my car.
"Really, this is a great town. Everywhere I've been today and yesterday, I see Phillie pennants, Phillie hats, people partying and going crazy. It's been so long, I guess. They've had generations and generations of baseball fans, which is the main difference between here and Kansas City.
"Plus, the stadiums are different. This one holds in the noise. At our open stadium, the noise goes out over the fountains and onto Interstate 70. Half of it goes to St. Louis and half of it to Topeka. But here it stays with you. I've got to admire these fans for giving it all they got like this."
Victory-tasting fans arrived at Veterans Stadium last night and found Stalag 17 instead.
Worried over the destructive tendencies of Phillies fans celebrating a world championship- a problem, after all, they haven't had before- the Phillies' security force was at its drawn-bayonet best.
"I'm really not expecting a big problem," executive vice-president Bill Giles said late yesterday afternoon.
Then he explained that 400 extra city police were on hand, along with a fleet of attack dogs kept at the bottom level of the Vet in case things got really ugly.
Rose does repeat of old trick in ninth
By Frank Bilovsky
It was the top of the ninth and Pete Rose and Bob Boone were converging on a pop foul in front of the Phils' dugout. They also were converging on a very large German shepherd attached to a Philadelphia policeman.
Rose said the canine security reminded him of his Winter League days in Venezuela, but that had nothing to do with what happened next.
What happened next might have saved the game, the Phillies' first World Series championship and the sanity of the entire city.
Bob Boone called Rose off the ball, even though it was Rose's play. Boone said he did it because he couldn't hear a thing. Besides, Bob Boone never drops a popup. Boone himself said he couldn't remember dropping one ever since he started playing the game.
"Normally, I would peel off and cover home plate because Bob is such a good popup catcher," Rose said. "This time, I stayed. I saw it squirt out and pop up a little bit, and I was able to grab it.
"It wasn't a mistake; it was a tough play for Bob. But everybody did the right thing. Tug (McGraw) covered home. And it would have been a great play to get a double play on. Nobody would have known that the game was over.
"I did it once before, but it was in the outfield. In Atlanta. I'm not sure what year. I was in center field (for Cincinnati) and Alex Johnson was the left fielder. Henry Aaron hit the ball over the fence- a home run. But Alex slapped the ball back out and I caught it.
"The reason I remember it is because we lost he game in the ninth inning when somebody hit a line drive to Alex and it hit off his glove and dropped to the ground. The winning run scored. We're running off the field and Alex says to me, 'Where were you on that one?'"
When he ran off the field last night, Pete Rose knew where the 65,838 fans who were shouting their lungs out were. In baseball heaven. The Phillies were world champions for the first time and Pete Rose knew the feeling because he remembered 1975, when the Reds outlasted the Boston Red Sox for the Series title.
"They say that was possibly the best Series ever played in baseball," Rose said. "That was my first one and I won it in my hometown.
"I'm proud to be a Phillie, but I'm happier for Bowa and Luzinski and Maddox and Schmidt and Boone. This is their first trip through this little bed of roses."
Pete Rose Jr. was trotting through his own little bed of Roses. His daddy had a second bottle of champagne hidden in his locker. He got it out for himself and gave his half-drained first bottle to Pete Jr., who quickly took a long drag.
"Aw, he don't have to go to school tomorrow," Pete Sr. said with a shrug.
The Phillies were finally winners, just as Rose promised they would be when he signed his four-year contract two Decembers ago.
"This team learned a lot in the last two months," he said. "It matured and learned how to approach a big series. We backed ourselves into a corner, but when you are backed into a corner, it separates the men from the boys. If you watch a person long enough, you'll fall into the same habits. I happen to think I have good habits on the baseball field."
Rose said he wasn't surprised by his so-so Series at the plate (6-for-23) after he had gone 8-for-20 in the National League playoffs.
"If you just analyze what I did," he said, "it follows a pattern. I hit the ball good against (Larry) Gura the second time and I hit the ball against the guy tonight (Rich Gale) when I saw him for the second time. I have a history of hitting good in the playoffs and mediocre in the World Series because I know the National League pitchers and I don't know the American League pitchers."
But when the game and the Series was on the line last night, Pete Rose was, as you would expect, the youngest 39-year-old in America.
He had three hits, including a perfect bunt in the third that loaded the bases and set up the first two Phillies runs. In the Royals' eighth, he climbed the tarp in foul territory in right field going for a popup. And in the ninth, he was where he shouldn't have been, making a play he shouldn't have made, near an animal that would have liked nothing more than a chunk of Charlie Hustle's leg.
"It was like Winter Ball in Venezuela, except that I noticed that the police didn't have machine guns," Rose said.
Schmidt wants to share honor
Mike Schmidt, whose two-run single in the third inning gave the Phillies all the runs they would need for their first baseball championship in history, ended a spectacular year last night by being selected Most Valuable Player in the World Series.
Schmidt, whose selection was by unanimous vote of a nine-member press panel, seems destined to repeat Willie Stargell's performance of last year be winning MVP honors for both the regular season and the World Series.
"I'd like to chop it (award) up into at least 25 pieces and give some to all the other guys," Schmidt said in the raucous Phillies dressing room last night.
"It hasn't set in yet. Maybe in two weeks I'll start to truly realize what happened.
Schmidt said he would donate the $5,000 scholarship that goes with the award to his alma mater, Ohio University.
Told that the award also carries with it a $9,000 engraved gold watch, the power-hitting third baseman said, "You mean I don't get a car? I've already got a watch. Heck, I'll just trade it for a car."
Although Schmidt's selection was unanimous, the award could have gone to any number of Phillies- Larry Bowa, Bob Boone, Steve Carlton, Del Unser and Tug McGraw among them.
For the series, the 31-year-old Schmidt hit .381 with eight hits in 21 at-bats. He scored six runs, drove in seven and hit two home runs.
Among the highlights of his performance were an eighth-inning double that drove in the Phillies' winning run in Game Two, a home run in Game Three, a two-run home run in the fourth inning of Game Five, a single that ignited the winning rally in that game and his two-run single last night.
That's what Tug McGraw said he was going to drink last night.
And again last night, that's what he meant to the Phillies.
Just as it had in the ninth inning of Sunday's fifth game, McGraw's incredible ability to create theater on a baseball field manifested itself in the final two innings of the Phillies finest hour.
In relief of Steve Carlton, McGraw saved the Phillies' first baseball championship. He did it by escaping bases-loaded jams in the eighth and ninth. And as he had done in Houston and Montreal, he did it with a strike out.
"The last inning, they (Kansas City) had me so shook up I can't remember anything," McGraw said.
Series locker rooms are a real eye opener
By Ron Goldwyn
The baseball writers have their perks and the First Amendment.
The players have their champagne and their silence.
On championship night, spurts of bubbly turn into weapons. You can't beat the press. Might as well douse 'em.
A longtime baseball fan's introduction to World Series locker rooms, in both Philadelphia and Kansas City, is an eye-opener. The scene offers perspective on- if no alibi for- the Phillies' endless battles with the press and their widely publicized image of arrogance.
A major league clubhouse has little in common with the musty, steamy place of popular imagination.
For one thing, there are no lockers. Not of the slam-it, lock-it variety, anyway. Each player dresses beside a cubicle opening into a large, carpeted room. (No click of spikes here).
A buffet replete with beer and soda occupies the middle. The shower and the training room offer hiding places for any player trying to avoid playing "Meet the Press."
The only sporty odors come from the bat rack, where bat handles reflect each player's special mix of resin and tar, and from an occasional unbathed writer elbowing to the front of a pack of interviewers.
Imagine you're a front-line player who has just played nine tough innings, enough to work up a sweat, enough to drain the emotions.
Five minutes after the game, the doors opens and the herd thunders in.
The stars and the talkers- a Schmidt, a Rose, a McGraw- quickly draw perhaps 15 or 20 men- and a few women- who push microphones and tape recorders within inches of today's hero/ goat. Moments later, the brief embargo on television cameras is lifted and the numbers swell.
It's a tough way to get undressed.
Most members of the club are ignored. Some, like Bake McBride (often) and Steve Carlton (always), rebuff interviewers. Others watch the scramble either bemusedly, forlornly or grateful to be excluded.
Some interview targets, loathe to be considered overly cooperative, turn their stools or director's chairs toward the cubicle, away from inquisitors. Some, like Keith Moreland after Sunday's fifth game in Kansas City, are forced inside their cubicles as if conducting a press conference from a bedroom closet.
Win or lose, the answers come out toneless, matter-of-fact. The player rarely looks his questioner in the eye and seems to attach no significance to his words. The interviewer rarely identifies himself. There is no banter.
It is as impersonal and cliché-ridden as a politician's airport press conference, except the interviewee is partially or completely disrobed.
"A game of inches," Mike Schmidt said after the Phils' Game Three loss. "Not an ounce of frustration in this clubhouse."
As fresh reporters joined the circle, Schmidt gave up on undressing and repeated his low-key answers. Pete Rose, nearby, had his own press knot, one that parted, as if on signal, so he could walk to the buffet table.
If the quotes seem to come from teammates who never talk to each other, that is because the interviews themselves often prevent it.
The baseball press forms a human wall that would discourage, say, Garry Maddox from crossing the room to stop by Schmidt's locker for a chat. Even reserve John Vukovich, the team holler guy, who dressed between Schmidt and Rose in Kansas City, made no attempt to talk to his famous teammates.
By the time the players caucus in the shower room or on the bus back to the hotel, the writers have retreated to the press box to file their stories.
The writers- for the World Series, at least- have quite a setup themselves.
Every few innings, a publicity staff cranks out play-by-play summaries. Immediately after the game, box scores, composite statistics and "newsy notes" are forthcoming. So are verbatims of interviews with the managers and star players in the locker rooms or a separate "interview room."
In the press box and adjoining rooms, the flow of beer, booze, sandwiches and hors d'oeuvres is steady, from three hours before game time until two or three hours after the final pitch.
Sparky says presence of Rose and experience made difference
By Craig Ammerman
The painful experience of the failures of the 1970s and the addition of the ultimate winner, Pete Rose, made the difference between the champagne of the world championship and the sour grapes of a near-miss for the Phillies in 1980.
That is the view of Sparky Anderson, who managed four Cincinnati teams into the World Series in the 1970s, the last two of which came up winners in 1975 and 1976.
"The difference for us (between winning and losing), and for the Phillies, was simple," Anderson said in an interview Tuesday night. "It's experience."
The Phillies of 1976-1978 failed when they had the chance. This time it was the Royals who led in every game but one, the Phillies who refused to be denied.
"Just go down the roster. Rose. Carlton. McGraw. Schmidt. Boone. Bowa. Those guys know how to win," Anderson said.
This difference, this intangible manifested itself in many ways. For Kansas City it showed up in people like Frank White and Willie Wilson, who between them were six-for-51, their failure to get on base sounding the end of the Royals running game before it could get started.
When the Series was on the line, it was White and then Wilson who time and again failed, including consecutive outs with the bases loaded in the ninth inning last night.
For the Phillies this mysterious difference, this different road that indeed made the difference, was evident throughout the lineup. Two of the best examples of those who had seen the past failures and this time delivered were Larry Bowa and Bob Boone, the bottom of the Phillies lineup.
Four times in this Series Boone led off an inning. Four times he got on base. Three times he scored.
His two doubles and a single made him the hero of Game 1; he walked to start the eighth inning rally in Game 2; he walked to start last night's two-run second inning, and he singled in Bowa for the Phillies final run in the sixth.
For the Series Boone hit .412, got four walks and played flawless defense.
Bowa, meanwhile, was nothing short of sensational.
He singled to start the winning rally in the first game; he singled in a run during the winning rally in the fourth game; he doubled and scored the crucial insurance run in last night's clincher.
Bowa also handled 23 chances in the field without a mistake and started a World Series record seven double plays. He hit .371, got a hit in every game and stole three bases.
"The 1975 and 76 Reds knew exactly how to handle World Series pressure and the Phillies have learned that, too," Anderson said.
He gave much of the credit for the difference- the wide gulf which always seems to separate two evenly-matched teams- to Rose, who had meant so much to his Cincinnati teams.
"He (Rose) may not be hitting, but don't kid yourself. Him being here has meant a lot to this team.
"They (Phillies) are an outstanding team, and they finally found the difference."
But as if to point out that others have gone farther, Anderson added:
"Now the Phillies will find out that the toughest thing they've ever had to try to do is repeat."
As if winning once wasn't enough.
… We Are The Champs
By Julia Lawlor
The White brothers of Fairmount- Kevin, Bob and Bill- stood on the corner of 25th and Aspen streets last night- blessed-out, booze-full, bleary-eyed, and not quite sure what had hit them.
The Phillies won the World Series.
“I’m 22, but I waited 30 years for this,” said Kevin White, beer from Maxwell’s corner bar in hand. “Now we’re waiting for Butch.”
Butch, as it turns out, was barreling around the corner, sprawled across the hood of an old blue car with only a Phillies shirt, sweat socks and sneakers to protect his fair skin from the mid-October night.
Was it the full moon, perhaps, hanging out of the clouds like a Fairmounter’s beer belly, that inspired the steaker-on-wheels to hop off his perch and join the crowd on the sidewalk?
Maybe. But could be Butch was just living up to his rep. “This is not the first time,” offered Butch Riever, 33. “I do this when I’m in the mood. Last time was July 4th.”
From Fairmount to Frankford, from the Northeast to Foxborough, the city was a mass of honking horns punctuated by police sirens; red and white crepe paper tinged with a bit of squeezable Charmin; families sitting out on front stoops, giving the “We’re Number One” sign to any passing vehicle; street after street of kissing, hugging, dancing, rip-roaring rowdy fans.
Police reported several violent incidents occurring throughout the night, including one fatal shooting.
The historical hysteria began at Broad Street and Pattison Avenue, minutes after the infamous third out in the ninth inning, bases loaded. One man conducted Tug McGraw’s First Horn-Blowing Symphony atop a 1972 Chevy van, Eugene Ormandy-style.
Meanwhile, along a two-mile stretch of Ridge Avenue from Manayunk to Andorra in the blue-collar neighborhood of Roxborough, drivers were surrounded by fans at each intersection and forced to “slap ‘em five” before being allowed to go on their way. Police blocked off Ridge Avenue at three different locations at about 2 a.m., causing thousands of fans to gravitate to the intersection of Parker Avenue at Ridge. Three to four dozen police contained the crowd there until after the bars had closed at 2- no incidents were reported.
There, among the firecrackers and broken beer bottles, was Rocko Delmonte the Third, a Roxborough youth with a slightly damaged ego and a badly mauled drum.
“Some old lady stepped on my drum,” grumbled Delmonte, a member of the Crean string band. He said he had survived three different falls off the top of a Dodge Coronet as it careened down Ridge Avenue last night.
Inspector James Martin reported that about 1,000 young fans gathered around 5th Street and Olney Avenue about midnight, where there was a heavy police presence. Minor fighting broke out, but there were no serious incidents, he said. The highlight of the night proved to be a youth who climbed up a 40-foot light pole and dropped his pants for the benefit of a largely young- 16 to 25- crowd.
The intersection of Frankford and Cottman avenues in the Northeast, scene of much pandemonium in the past when the Flyers won the Stanley Cup, was well-policed last night with more than 40 helmeted officers and mounted policemen. Ken Duffy, 34, of Englewood Street, had counted on the Phillies winning in seven.
“I got tickets for tomorrow night,” he said, “but I don’t care now that they’ve won.”
Even the hollowed, ivy-covered walls of the University of Pennsylvania last night were hotter than Smokey Joe’s bar at freshman rush. The highrises in Superblock (dormitories at Locus Walk between 38th and 40th streets) looked as if they had been torn inside-out. Notebook paper, torn newspaper, computer printouts, university time cards, soap suds, water balloons, beer and an occasional shot of Jack Daniels were thrown out windows, bottles were smashed on sidewalks, and otherwise sane students took to the streets.
Finally, in honor of the force that surely was with us all the way from Montreal to Houston to Kansas City to Philadelphia, student hung glowing “Darth Vader” swords out their dorm windows, swaying them in time to the song- “We Are the Champs.”
Yes, It WAS Philly Fans Night
By Bob Schwabach
When Mike Schmidt singled home two runs in the third inning, the price of a program went from $2.50 to $5.
When Tug McGraw struck out Willie Wilson to put the game away, the price jumped to ten. Everybody knew they were going to stick this one in the scrapbook.
Game 6 was Philly Fans’ night, and somehow they knew it from the opening gun. Scalpers outside the Vet were selling tickets in the 600 section, up near the gods, where they use Sherpa guides for ushers, for $125 a pair- and they were moving.
Sheila Cheifetz of Huntingdon Valley was up there gasping for oxygen. She had the worst seats in the house. She couldn’t see right field and she couldn’t see the scoreboard. “I don’t care,” she said. “It’s the World Series.” She was right on target.
It was the World Series and a circus sideshow. For some of the fans the game was just a backdrop: A guy with a Muppet monkey doll was busy trying out standup comedy routines, another fan paraded around in nothing but his long johns. Who cared? The Conehead, the Sheik, Uncle Sam, Santa Claus and the skinny one in a Raggedy Ann costume were fighting for a beer, and a guy from Norristown with a trumpet was playing the theme from “The Lone Ranger.”
Prohibition was in effect all over the stadium, and the guards and ushers were checking for the booze. But you can’t stop a Philly fan that easily; a number of people were wearing Mexican “botas,’ little leather wine bags around their necks. Some were bombed by the seventh inning stretch.
Down around back in the first aid station a fat lady from Virginia was saying she just couldn’t stand it anymore, the noise was driving her crazy. “Hey, whataya expect,” said nurse Joan Rosney, “This is the World Series.” “Call me a cab,” said the fat lady.
She should have stuck around. Things were just getting into gear. In the 300-level seats, Joe Furtak and Ellen Leinenback, both from the Northeast, were hanging a banner over the railing. “Sit on it, George Brett,” it read. (This ain’t Boston, you know.)
Bill Daniel, a Kansas City Star reporter, already had figured that out. Dejected and roaming the stands, he was the moving finger on the wall, knowing the truth and trying to figure out how to write it for the fans back home.
“They had their chances,” he said, meaning the Royals. “They beat the Yankees. I think people back home pretty much got what they wanted when they beat the Yankees. That was such a sublime experience it’ll have to suffice for the time being.”
Down the pike a few rows, eight guys from Kansas City were laying odds on everything that moved. Like:
“Hey Foley, I got two to five on a dollar that it rains by the ninth inning.
“OK Brodie, I say this guy gets on base with the count two and two.”
“I got $10 says the Goodyear Blimp flies by within two minutes.”
“Hey Foley, I say McGraw has a black glove. How about $5?”
They needn’t have worried about the glove- McGraw was coming in with a black hand. The eighth was rocky and the top of the ninth was looking like the last remake of “High Anxiety.”
Lee Sekker, a 26-year-old fan from around 20th and Lombard, started calling on “Our Lord Pete Rose” to save the situation. At this pregnant moment Bob Boone circled right for a high foul pop and saw it bounce off his glove. Rose was there to catch it before it hit the ground.
Dekker began bowing toward Rose like a pilgrim toward Mecca and then started to recite the 23rd Psalm: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”
The Lord may have been a lot of people’s shepherd if they knew. Circling up above and circling very warily were a couple of TV helicopters, and inside they were thinking how quickly this Series could have become one that the world would remember and not happily.
It was last week, during the first two games, that KYW-TV newsman Walt Hunter and the pilot almost got zapped by a rocket from the scoreboard fireworks. The rocket zipped right by the stabilizing rotor on the copter’s tail. Had it hit, the copter would have flipped on its back and its main blades would have sucked it down onto the playing field in a booming fireball to spread over the diamond.
Even as McGraw struck out Willie Wilson the copter stayed clear. Hunter and the pilot wanted to come in for a shot of the fans pouring onto the field to mob their champions, but they daren’t risk it. That would have put thousands down there in the target zone if the unlikely should happen.
But they never did pout out onto the field. The police figured this was coming and ringed the playing area with mounted cops.
A kid with his daddy in an expensive lower box reached out with an apple to feed the horsey. “No, kid,” the cop said, “we can’t let them eat. These animals do things when they eat that are murder to try and get off on AstroTurf.”
But the horse got the apple anyway. And sure enough the cop was right. But not till later, not till the game was over and the cops were out in the parking lot. Then the horse did it.
And Flip Ashley, 23, from the Rittenhouse area, stepped right into it. He look at his shoe and he looked down at the pile, and then he raised his hands skyward and shouted at the top of his voice: “I don’t care! We’re No. 1!”
It sort of symbolized the Phillies’ season.