IF YOU REALLY WANT TO TEST YOURSELF, YOU PLAY AGAINST THE best. In 2011, during the regular season, the Phillies were setting the standard. When we faced them at their place starting September 16, they had already won ninety-seven games, eighteen more than we had to that point. We were at our season high of plus-thirteen. They were at plus-forty-six. I was really looking forward to taking them on. Eager doesn’t begin to describe how I was feeling when we arrived at the ballpark. I was also curious. At some point you have to find out if you’re good enough. The answer isn’t always the score; it’s how you go after it.
The opening game lived up to my early anticipation. We each scored a run in the second, and both pitchers were sharp. Garcia was making the start on his usual rest, but the additional days off he’d had earlier in the month was paying off through his good velocity and sharp control. He left after seven innings, having given up only five hits and one run. In the top of the eighth, Yadi, who in the previous inning had gunned down a runner trying to steal, hit a screamer down the line. We all jumped to the top step, willing the thing to stay fair, and it hit the foul pole for a home run. Albert went 4-for-4 in the game, but Yadi’s home run was one of those back-of-the-neck chills that make September so fun.
The bottom of the ninth proved to be equally chilling, but for the wrong reason. We put Corey Patterson in right field to give ourselves a better defensive player out there. For the same reason, Descalso was at third, Theriot was at second, and Shane Robinson was in center. Good glove men all of them. Motte was on the hill for us, and he got the first two outs on a line drive to right and a strikeout. One out away. That out was in the shape of Ryan Howard. He was pinch-hitting despite a leg injury that had kept him from starting. He had always been a dangerous hitter, and the righty-lefty matchup was in his favor. After a first-pitch ball, Motte got two strikes on him. One strike away from a tough 2–1 victory.
As Motte went into his delivery, I could feel my heart in my chest; when the ball launched off the bat, I couldn’t feel anything. Howard doubled to deep right and came out for a pinch runner. Okay, now it’s Motte versus Carlos Ruiz, a right-handed hitter who had improved at the plate every year. Strike one. Strike two. Again, one strike away.
On an 0-2 pitch, Ruiz was late on a fastball away and hit one down the right-field line. If Craig had been out there, he wouldn’t have even gotten to it. Patterson did, but the ball bounced out of his glove, and on a very tough play he got charged with an error. I heard myself say “crap” as I kicked the trash can. So close to a clutch win, and now we were facing extra innings. The advantage in this type of game goes to the home team—every time you don’t score in the top of an extra inning, it means you need to get at least six more outs to win. We kept our hopes alive when the Phillies went with a left-handed hitter, Ross Gload. Rhodes punched him out with three straight pitches.
The guys came in, and I could tell they were feeling like one got away from us. They immediately flipped the switch, knowing that the outcome was still up for grabs. After a scoreless tenth, we came up in the eleventh and got our leadoff hitter on base when Furcal doubled.
Now I was faced with a tough decision. Corey Patterson was up, with Albert on deck and the rookie Adron Chambers in the hole. Chambers had pinch-run for Berkman in the ninth. I figured that no matter what, Albert was likely to be walked intentionally. With Furcal on second, I opted to give up an out and advance a base. I wanted that runner on third with one out so that a sacrifice fly, a wild pitch, a balk, or whatever could score him. Patterson did the job. Albert walked. It was an unfair challenge to a rookie, but Chambers had demonstrated he was a fearless competitor. It was first and third and one out when Chambers stepped in. Down 1-2, following another ball, he fouled off two tough pitches, then took another ball. Full count. I was sitting there thinking this guy was having a hell of an at-bat whether he was a rookie or not. Working the process, cutting down on his swing with two strikes, just trying to put the ball in play, anything but a strikeout here. The next pitch was on the inside part of the plate, and he pulled it into the hole between second and first for a base hit. 3–2. First hit in his big league career. First RBI. Tyler Greene followed with a huge RBI double, so we got an insurance run. Salas worked around a one-out single in the bottom half, and the game was ours.
No happy flight yet, but a happy clubhouse. Even better, the Braves lost. We were three and a half games back with twelve to play.
None of the small things mattered the next night. We lost 9–2, and the Phillies’ Roy Oswalt looked like the Roy Oswalt of old the way he dominated for seven shutout innings.
And the Braves won. We were back to four and a half behind.
Game 3 saw another vintage pitching performance as Carp outdueled Cole Hamels in a 5–0 win. Carp has another gear that he can go to when he needs it, and it wasn’t like he cranked it up to ninety-seven or something. In the first four innings, he induced three double-play ground balls to kill potential rallies by throwing pitches with nasty movement down in the zone. Nothing is as demoralizing as seeing a potential scoring opportunity snuffed out by a double play—they don’t call them “twin killings” for nothing. Huge uplift for you and a huge deflation for the other side.
Gutty. Clutch. Whatever you want to call it, the guys just narrowed their vision and disciplined their minds to focus on the immediate task at hand and produce great results by not thinking about the results. I’m no Zen master and don’t understand the Tao Te Ching any better than I do the Dow Jones Industrial Average. I just know that when guys are going balls out and loving the competition, a lot of good things can happen.
Offensively, Albert got us going with a first-inning two-run homer. Then Craig topped him with two homers. Suddenly there was an extra edge to our excitement. Two of our leaders, Carp and Albert, had it going. Scoreboard watching let us see that the Mets rallied late to beat the Braves. We were three and a half back with ten to go.
A note on scoreboard watching. I do it all the time. I tell the guys that if watching how the teams close to you are doing will fire you up, then watch the scoreboard. If it’s too much of a distraction and gets you off your process, then don’t. We all say the same things after the game, and while it might sound contradictory, it is equally true that we can only control our focus and effort. We can only play one game at a time. But we’re human, and we’re complicated, and we have the ability to control our minds. Look up. See the score. Return to focus. That’s no different from guys having a social conversation on the bench.
Four-game series are tough for a lot of reasons. First, you face the majority of the other team’s starters. Second, winning a series means taking three out of four. You can’t split a three-game set, but you can a four-gamer. That’s obvious in terms of math, but how that affects your approach to the series isn’t. Would we have been satisfied with a split against the Phillies, especially considering that we were facing their ace, Roy “Doc” Halladay, in the final game?
Yes, but only if we conceded nothing and gave him and the Phillies our best competitive effort. It was a special challenge for Lohse. You have to pitch well because you know you won’t get much to work with. All that contributed to my feeling that this was a critical game. Win today. Win the series. Do that and the answer to the question if we’re good enough would be “Hell, yeah.”
The key to beating any outstanding starter is to have every hitter go to war from start to finish. Furcal doubled on the first pitch to lead off the game. A passed ball and a groundout plated a run. Albert went after the first two pitches while grounding out. Berkman took a ball and then homered on the second pitch. Have a plan. Execute it.
In the third, Berkman went after the first pitch and singled to drive in a two-out run. Perfect effort. Perfect execution. That was big league hitting, scouting, and the kind of disciplined approach that we stressed. That was why we had hitters’ meetings and why our hitters got together with the hitting coaches before each game.
Lohse responded to the Halladay and Phillies challenge with seven and a third innings of outstanding pitching. The ninth proved why the Phillies had so much success. They opened with three hard-hit balls off Motte for two runs and two outs. Rhodes missed the save when Chase Utley singled, but our other veteran, ready-for-anything Dotel, got Hunter Pence for the last out and the save.
The real excitement was yet to come. I was in my office after the game being interviewed. All of a sudden the clubhouse exploded with cheers. I was standing there with a puzzled look on my face when our director of travel, C. J. Cherre, came rushing in.
“Chipper lost a ground ball in the lights. Two out and he can’t make a play. Infante hits one out off of Kimbrel. It’s over!”
The clubhouse was in an uproar. Normally we don’t get too carried away, but this was cause for excess. We had just beaten the Phillies on the road, and then Santa Claus made a September visit. I just stood there, looking incredulous, like someone had just told me that the earth is flat, the moon landings were a fake, and Budweiser is really made in Milwaukee. That Braves’ loss turned a great victory into a movie-moment memorable one.
The bus ride to the airport was riotous with ecstatic “Happy flight!” chants and Motte being good-naturedly skewered for his efforts. “How can you throw when you’ve got both hands around your neck?” “You had two pitches working for you tonight—balls and base hits!” Motte laughed along with them, a good laugh, a winner’s laugh. As per usual, Laird was in the midst of the insults and was getting more than he was giving. Not a better sound in the world.
We were two and a half back with nine to play. Homeward bound.
On the flight, I sat there thinking, The what is how the hell did we get to this point. The why is too much to put into words. This road trip had originally held all kinds of danger for us. When we left for Pittsburgh, I’d wondered where we’d be when leaving Philadelphia. A 5-2 record meant that we were squarely in the middle of the type of comeback that becomes a part of baseball history—if, that is, we could keep winning. We had to enjoy the reality that two and a half back with three series left to play, two of which were at home, meant we had more than a real chance. I just wanted to sit there and soak it all up, every unpredictable moment of it. That didn’t last very long. We had our scouting reports for our next series against the Mets to go over, Dunc’s book to review, and matchups to think about.
Just how this whole thing had played out to get to that point still pleasantly nags at me to this day. With just nine games left, three three-game series, I’d never been more convinced that this was no fraud on our part. We’d earned this shot, and it was right there in front of us. I realized how much confidence this team had won from me and our staff. Ordinarily, getting too high is as dangerous as getting too low. It’s best to allow some of each, but not too much. Otherwise, you won’t be as ready for what’s next. But over and over, this team had enjoyed its successes and suffered its losses without letting their readiness for the next competition be affected, so we let them have their fun.
Back home in St. Louis, I struggled to sleep, but it was the best kind of sleeplessness, because I was so eager to get to the ballpark. If I was churning over any thoughts, it was this: What should I say to the position players in the pre-series meeting? I ended up doing something that was somewhat B.S., but also challenged them in a positive way and offered a reward. I told them that we had three series left. If we won each of those, I guaranteed them that we would at least tie the Braves and have a one-game playoff. The guarantee was B.S.—unless I had a crystal ball, I had no clue what would happen—but it seemed to send a positive message. In truth, this was only a slight departure from the “win the series” mantra we always used, and the guarantee wasn’t worth the air molecules I disturbed in speaking those words. Didn’t matter. I put the prize right in front of them and told them that it was theirs if they just did what we’d been trying perfectly to do the last few weeks.
IN GAME 1 OF THE SERIES, WE TRAILED THE METS 6–5 GOING INTO the seventh, with two outs and no one on base. We then had the kind of rally that reinforced the belief that we had the magic. The middle of our lineup got it started, setting up the bases loaded for pinch-hitter Ryan Theriot. As he had done so many times, he came through to drive in two crucial runs. Up by one with the bases loaded again, Adron Chambers tripled for his second major league hit and three RBIs. Punto singled in the sixth run of our rally. We’re magical.
R-zep and Salas closed it out with only a walk in the last two innings, and we’d won eleven out of thirteen and stayed two and a half behind Atlanta, who also won.
Another night, another close one taken. Trailing going into the bottom of the seventh in game 2, we once again found some two-out magic. David Freese, who was really scuffling with only sixteen hits in his last eighty-three at-bats—a .193 average—stepped to the plate with Albert and Berkman aboard and belted a 3-1 pitch into the left-field stands. Another rally started with two outs and no one on. Another comeback sparked by a dugout of teammates for a 6–5 win. Human nature is a powerful force. When it works for you, it helps explain how you get two comeback wins.
The Marlins beat the Braves. We were one and a half games back.
I liked the script for the first two games. I wanted to send the one for the third game back to the writers for a major revision or just to trash it altogether. I would have told them that what they’d penned was too unrealistic. Things like this didn’t happen to teams like ours, but on that day they did.
I should have anticipated this nightmare; with so much adversity overcome through positive responses, we were bound to see the other side. Leading 6–2 in the ninth, I decided to go with Motte in a nonsave situation. Why not finesse it with some of the others? I figured I’d give them a night off after Jake Westbrook did a terrific job. Like the opening shots in a horror movie, the bottom of the ninth started harmlessly enough with a few hints that something was lurking.
Motte walked the first hitter.
With a four-run lead and three outs to get, we were still in good shape. When Motte got the next hitter to ground one to Furcal’s left, we were thinking tailor-made double play, but Furcal made a fundamental mistake: he looked up before he caught it. After that, he fumbled the ball. Instead of two outs and nobody on, it was now two on and nobody out. The rest is best left summarized: walks, bloopers, another error, two big hits, and six runs cross the plate. Final was an 8–6 loss. Where was the magic?
The clubhouse was silent. Morgue-like. Guys were staring vacantly at their lockers. Atlanta was idle, so we’d had a chance to be one game back with six to play. Instead, we were two back. I didn’t like what I wasn’t hearing and what I was seeing, so I walked in and started talking. I had three main points to make.
First: the kind of shell-shocked, zombie-like frustration they were expressing was how losers went about it. We weren’t losers. Instead of just letting this sense of despair suck the life out of them, they needed to be angry. Not with anyone on the team, but with the opposition, with the IRS, with whoever. Just get pissed off and be animated and don’t be the walking dead. We needed energy, not doom, to make this happen.
Second: we won the series. We were one-third of the way toward that playoff game guarantee I’d made. We hadn’t taken any steps backward in that regard.
Third: let’s look at everything we’ve done to this point to get to a place where we’re even thinking about the postseason. Every one of them contributed their talent and their will to win. Why dwell on the ninth inning of this past game? Think about all the fun and the satisfaction we’d enjoyed during this latest run.
When I started on my fourth point, a few guys laughed, realizing that I’d gone beyond my three points. The message was this: nobody said this was going to be easy. The more difficult it’d been, the better we’d performed. We liked challenges. We responded well to them. Enjoy a night away from the game and get ready for the Cubs. We control our minds.
After the meeting, some players and coaches commented that my message had struck the right tone. I was encouraged that they took it as a tough loss but not a crisis. What happened next took on a surreal tone. After going home and reviewing the game, I got a phone call from Albert.
“Skip,” he told me, “Rafael is in a bad way right now. He thinks he cost us a shot at the playoffs.”
“How bad is bad?”
“He’s talking about hanging them up. He’s planning to quit.”
Albert and I talked for a few minutes, sharing our thoughts about how wrong Rafael was to be blaming himself. He was the “happy flight” man, the guy whose enthusiasm and passion were at the very heart of what we were doing.
I called Rafael and got his voice mail. I left a message asking him to call me back. I didn’t hear from him, so I called again and left another message telling him that I wanted to see him as soon as he got to the stadium on Friday. I needed him to talk with me before he made any decisions. My heart went out to the guy. Those kinds of physical errors under the harsh spotlight of a playoff race can be rough. This wasn’t a Bill Buckner error, a Bartman foul ball grab, or any of those other legendary mistakes that have taken on mythological proportions over the years. I could have gone through the game and that inning and pointed to any one of a number of plays that could have turned the tide the other way. That’s the nature of the game, and people love to play the “would have, could have, should have” all the time.
The final Mets game was an afternoon game, so I had the evening to enjoy dinner and my best friend, a book. Rarely do I allow anything to interrupt my book date, but the loss was a stunner and the consequences too unpredictable. Mostly, I tried to think through how to personalize my conversation with Furcal. Whatever he and I exchanged in our talk, I knew our players and staff would reach out to embrace him.
When I saw Rafael the next afternoon, I closed the door and the two of us sat down in my office. I was struck by the difference in his demeanor. This was like seeing those drama masks, the comedic smiling-faced one now turned into the tragic frowning sad one. Only these weren’t masks—this was a real human being just torn up over a mistake.
“Look,” I began, “the truth of this is that if it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be anywhere near having this opportunity to compete for a wild-card spot. We just wouldn’t. Whether it was what you were doing on the field, in the dugout, the clubhouse, the bus, the planes, whatever, we absolutely would be facing the Cubs in a rivalry game that had no other implications beyond bragging rights. The reason why these games meant so much, the reason why that error, a part of the game, hurt you so much, was because of all you’ve done to make those games matter.”
I let that sink in for a bit before continuing. “We have a good relationship, and I’m counting on you to believe what I said in the meeting before the Mets series. We win three of three sets, and we get a shot at a playoff game. We need your toughness, and there will be plenty of opportunities for you to contribute. I want you to get your mind right, take it easy a bit, so you can come back fresh later in the weekend to really help us out.”
I backed our concern for him by giving him the game off. The fact is, the majority of the days off given are prompted by a desire to give a player a mental refresher. This was the classic example. I felt as he walked out that he knew his teammates were behind him and that he’d be ready for game 2.
I couldn’t have known when I said them just how true my final words to Rafael were going to prove to be. The guys all knew how miserable he was feeling. Before the game, I saw a number of players go up to him, drape an arm around his shoulder, and tell him, “We’ll be fine,” or, “Hang in there.”
The last of those words had another meaning. For us to hang in there with two series to play, you had to figure for us to win the series we had to win the first game. Except, the first-game was a crushing loss. Carp was outstanding, allowing only one run over seven innings, but the game’s hero belonged to the Cubs. Alfonso Soriano’s eighth-inning, three-run home run was the difference. Afterward, at dinner with John Grisham and friends, I explained that my postgame Mets meeting wasn’t a bestseller but a bomb. The Atlanta win meant we were now three games back with five left to play.
The next afternoon against the Cubs, we were down to our very last out, about to lose 1–0. There is no way to exaggerate the seriousness of the situation. We could not afford a loss. If they got the three outs, I thought we’d be done. Our playoff chances would be virtually nil. We then pulled off one of the most improbable and dramatic rallies that any of us had ever seen. As we came to bat, our dugout exploded with enthusiasm and encouragement, an emphatic expression of our will not to lose. I have been around many great dugout moments of support, but never anything like this.
Kyle Lohse was outstanding in giving up just the one run through seven innings, but on the other side, Rodrigo Lopez and his bullpen mates were shutting us out. In the past seventeen innings against the Cubs, we’d scored a total of one run, going into the bottom of the ninth.
Carlos Marmol, the Cubs’ closer with electric stuff that moves and darts around like nobody else’s, entered the game. We’d seen Marmol a lot, since the Cubs are division opponents, and that worked to our advantage in a less than obvious way. Berkman led off and lined out to center on a well-hit ball that had us all screaming either get down or get over him. Neither happened.
Matt Holliday was back in the lineup for the first time since Pittsburgh. He was having a tough 0-for-3 day, but worked to an advantageous 2-1 count before singling to right-center. Tyler Greene came in to run for him, and we had a little life. When we had a runner at first, the way we’d handle signals was this: the bunt or hit-and-run signs would come from the third-base coach as a relay from the bench. The steal-a-base sign or the green light would come from the first-base coach as a relay from the bench as well. The same with the red light—don’t run. The last option was that the run sign would come directly from the bench. Our players are taught to always look at the bench as they return to the bag after a pitch or an attempted pickoff. The sign could come from me, from our bench coach Joe Pettini, or from the trainer. I’m the one who has to make the call.
Now, Marmol is either slow or quick in getting the ball to the plate, and that works to our advantage if we guess right. He also throws balls with so much movement, particularly down, that it makes it tough for the catcher to get a decent pitch to throw on. We also had a huge asset in Greene, who had speed and acceleration.
Our offense had been struggling, so getting the runner to second where one hit could tie it was better than having to wait for multiple hits. On the other hand, if Greene got thrown out, then it would be two out and nobody on and we’d be facing almost certain elimination if we didn’t score. I decided the risk was worth it. Our first-base coach, Dave McKay, gave Greene the check-the-bench sign. On the second and third pitches, we gave him the “run if” sign. That means, if he gets a good jump, then go. On neither of those two pitches did he feel like he got that jump. On a 2-1 pitch, he got the good-to-run sign, with an additional gesture to push it, and he took off. I was watching him, watching the pitch, and willing him to second. Not only did he get there safely but the ball hit him and rolled into the outfield. Runner on third and one out. The pitch was a strike. Freese had a 2-2 count.
Just hit something deep and into the air, put it into play somehow. Freese went down swinging. Two out.
One out away from what I felt would be certain elimination.
I love this game—not just this game, but this game. Yadi and Schumaker both walked. You could feel the “cut it with a knife” tension, but I knew that Marmol’s stuff was so hot that command could be a problem. We sent up Theriot, as disciplined a hitter with as great a strike-zone sense as we’ve got. Childhood fantasy time rolls around. He worked the count to 3-2. Two outs. Bottom of the ninth inning. Bases loaded. For the second time in the rally we were down to our last strike.
I’ve been in the game thirty-three years, and I don’t think I’ve ever scrutinized a pitch with as much intensity as the one that Marmol delivered next.
A slider high and a little tight. You have to be confident in your ability to judge a pitch in order to lay off, but Theriot does and we are tied. As Theriot trots down to first and Greene touches home, I’m thinking that Marmol could do it again. I see our third-base coach, Jose Oquendo, whispering to Adron Chambers, the speedster and pinch runner for Molina. I know what he’s telling him. With a left-handed hitter at bat, the third baseman will be over toward the hole a couple of steps. You can add the steps to your lead in case the pitch is bounced. Get a good walking lead and make sure he has his momentum going toward home as the pitch is delivered. Marmol’s movement could lead to something wild. Two pitches later, that reality is a game-winner. Marmol unleashes a wild one, a pitch that nearly kneecaps Furcal before going to the backstop. Adron Chambers comes in with the winning run.
You would have thought we’d won it all. The guys in the dugout sprinted out onto the field, but not before exchanging high-fives, low-tens, hugging, humping, and someone accidentally planting a shot to my jaw from somewhere as wild as Marmol’s last pitch. I didn’t care. I felt like we’d been struck by lightning, the air in Busch Stadium was so electric. The fans and our dugout cheerleaders had been rewarded by a near-miracle of a comeback as part of our larger comeback. That celebration carried on in the dugout, into the clubhouse, and was heightened when we learned that the Braves had lost. We were two games back with four left to play.
One way to explain how we scored two runs with only one hit that inning was that we willed it to happen. The guys were so into it, so fired up, that they refused to give in. Certainly it was part of the answer, but there is another part to the explanation. Once we activate the will and it generates effort, we need to add winning execution. Holliday’s rally-starting single, Greene’s base-stealing ability, and three great at-bats were necessary to produce the result. Yadi, Schumaker, and Theriot, with our season on the line, had to balance their aggressive attitude to make something happen with terrific strike-zone discipline.
Rafael was smiling and laughing. Little did he know what the baseball gods had in mind for him the next day.
Clichés are born of truth. You’re never out of it until you’re out of it. You can’t win if you don’t try. Put it behind you and live to fight another day. Every bit of that Cubs series was like listening to the most boring speaker in the world go on and on mouthing platitudes, except for one major difference: it was all actually happening right in front of us, and it had you on the edge of your seat instead of nodding off.
Edwin Jackson and Randy Wells both pitched their asses off in the final game of the series. Players on both sides were rising to the occasion. The Cubs broke a 1–1 tie by scoring in the top of the seventh. We trailed 2–1, but Yadi, who was in the midst of a big offensive month, hit one out in response. In the bottom of the eighth, Rafael Furcal, he of the 108 home runs in his twelve-year career, led off with a long bomb to right field at least a dozen rows in that put us up 3–2. Fewer than seventy-two hours before, Furcal had been so devastated that he was considering walking away from the game. Now he’d redeemed himself in the most dramatic way possible, to lead the team to a win, a series win, and, thanks to the Braves losing, a one-game deficit with three games left. All the clichés we mouth about never giving up on yourself, believing in yourself, bouncing back from adversity—they’re all true. That was just the most recent example of those truths. Hearing the guys chanting, “Happy flight,” in that dugout and seeing Rafael make a quick jump up to the top step of the dugout to acknowledge the fans’ request for a curtain call still excites me just thinking about it.
You know, we also often say that life isn’t fair, that sometimes it’s not meant to be, but sometimes we make it fair for ourselves by taking control of the moment. That’s what Rafael did. What we had done was to gut our way back from ten and a half games back to a single game, and all I could do was smile.
THE GUYS PUT ON THEIR HAWAIIAN SHIRTS FOR A VERY, VERY HAPPY flight to Houston, maybe because Houston is as close to Honolulu as they were going to get. On paper, you had to like our chances versus Houston over Atlanta’s against the Phillies. After we’d beaten them, the Philadelphia club had gone into a tailspin, losing seven in a row. They were too proud and talented to accept that struggle. We knew they wanted to get things in order going into the playoffs. Prior to the first game of our series, the Astros had already lost 104 games, while the Phillies were trying to get to 100 wins at least and maybe tie for a club record with 102. We don’t make up the schedule, we just play when we’re told, where we’re told, against who we’re told.
In reality, Houston was a dangerous opponent. Brad Mills and his staff had done well not to give in to their struggles. In one sense, they had nothing to play for, so that made them very relaxed. On the other hand, these guys were professionals, and they had great integrity. They owed it to themselves and to the game to play hard. Spoiling another team’s chances is as good as it gets at the end of the year when you’re out of the running.
All that added up to a 5–4 game 1 loss in ten innings. It seemed we weren’t done taking the hard way to the finish line. To that point, we’d been doing all the little things right, but the game has a way of evening things out. Against the Astros, we had plenty of chances but didn’t take advantage of them. In the second, with runners on first and second with one out, we didn’t score. In the third, we scored a run, but had a runner thrown out at the plate on a close play. In the fifth, bases loaded, no one out—we didn’t score. In the seventh, first two runners on, then a sacrifice bunt. Runners on second and third and one out. We didn’t score.
In the eighth, we were down 4–2. Once again, Berkman came up with a big two-run double to tie it after we pulled off the double steal with Holliday and Albert, a total surprise move. Following Berkman’s double, with no outs, we got a walk, but we didn’t score any additional runs.
The Astros beat us on a gutsy call by their manager with a squeeze bunt in the tenth. All we could think about was those wasted opportunities. The clubhouse was quiet. The guys knew that we missed one that night. We took consolation in only one thing—Cliff Lee and the Phillies beat the Braves 4–2. One game still separated us. Unlike the atmosphere following the disaster against the Mets, this kind of quiet was okay. We tipped our hats to the Astros and vowed to even the series the next day.
The way the next game started, I was thinking that we were going to need some magic to pull this one out. Jake Westbrook was having an off day. We were trailing 5–0 going into the top of the fourth in a must-win game. The stakes were suddenly at crisis level. If our backs weren’t up against the wall, then our shadows were.
The whole bench was up and saying some variation on just one theme: Let’s go! We’re not going to get beat! Then they went out and did something about it, with a five-run inning of our own. Mitchell Boggs, R-zep, and Eduardo Sanchez all did a good job letting the Astros tack on only one additional run. We went into the seventh trailing 6–5, and the kind of sustained two-out offense that we next produced was one of the hallmarks of this team. Getting on base and then not trying to be a hero with the long ball paid huge dividends for us. Counting down the outs—seven to go with a one-run deficit—we got a crucial bloop base hit from Berkman. Craig hit one to the wall in right for a double that scored Berkman. 6–6.
Yadi walked. We had Theriot hit in place of Schumaker. The snow-globe-exchanging, plaid-coat-wearing, lost-his-starting-job-but-never-complained Theriot gapped one to the wall in deep right-center and wound up at third. 8–6. The Shredder doubled him home. 9–6.
We added to the lead and we won 13–6, with Dotel and then Edwin Jackson, in a rare relief appearance so that we could keep the rest of the pen fresh for the next day, getting the last six outs. Our team heroics were getting harder and harder to believe; if we hadn’t been living them, I don’t think any of us would have thought they were possible.
I SAT IN THE CLUBHOUSE AS THE GUYS SHOWERED, THEN GOT OUT OF there and thought through the next day’s game. Atlanta had lost, and we were now tied. I needed to repeat that to reassure myself that after thirty-one games, we had chopped off a ten-and-a-half-game deficit. We were actually tied for the wild card with one game to play. I still believed that there would be a playoff with Atlanta. They were too good a team to get swept with so much on the line. And given how much we had at stake, I felt great about the decision I’d made to work backward from the last game of the season to set up Carp as the starting pitcher on the final day.
I had one other secure thought on my mind that night. Dunc was going to be back with us in uniform. About a month before, Jeanine had undergone surgery and come out of it as well as could be expected. Since then, Dunc had been by her side, faithful as ever. His obvious priority was her health, not my decision to retire. Right after I told my family, I would have shared my decision with Dunc about the time I told Bill and Mo. But with so much on their minds, it didn’t feel right to add my situation to what Dunc and Jeanine were going through. But now, with only a couple of weeks left in the season and Jeanine handling her challenge so well, I’d finally told Dunc that I was done after this season—win or lose. I’d then carefully explained that no doubt Jeanine was the priority, but if there was a way, I hoped he could be in uniform for my last game in Houston.
A few days later, he let me know that their son Chris and his wife, Amy, would be with Jeanine and he would be in Houston. I wasn’t surprised when he expressed reluctance, because we were making this winning push and he didn’t want to interfere. I honestly assured him that he was with us. We were working his process as best we could. We were managing to survive, but he was sorely missed. And when the players learned that he would be there for game 162, they were all excited too.
The night of our comeback win, I went out to dinner with Rick Carlisle and Keith Grant of the world champion Dallas Mavericks, and some of our coaches. We were sitting and talking when I got a text message. It was from Dunc. He wasn’t coming because he didn’t want to be a distraction.
I immediately walked outside and called him. As much as I wanted him to be around for that final regular-season game because of the possibility that it might be my last game, I also wanted him there for Carp and for all the rest of the guys. I know that Dunc didn’t want to hear it, but it was the truth. We were all in that position—one game, one win, away from what turned out to be a history-making comeback—with his help. When Derek Lilliquist—who by the way did a good job in Dunc’s absence—had sat down with the starting pitcher before a game, he would open Dunc’s book and consult all the facts and figures that Dunc had stored there. I don’t know if you could call it an encyclopedia of pitching, or what. To me, it was more like the secret formula that could turn lead into gold. But only Dunc could then turn that gold into victories.
We were working his process the whole time he was gone, but we couldn’t work his magic, didn’t possess the same quiet confidence he had, the command of his craft and of himself that made believers out of nonbelievers. I don’t know if I was able to make Dunc understand this, but just as our team had earned the right to be in the position to control its own destiny and get into the playoffs, he’d earned the right to be there that final game. No. Doubt. About. It. I was so pleased when he reluctantly decided once again to join us.
When Dunc walked into the clubhouse the next night, the team all gathered around him, telling him how much they’d been thinking about him, asking how he and Jeanine were doing. Dunc stood there taking it all in—polite and composed as ever. Still, he and I have known each other for too long for me not to be able to spot the subtle differences in his composure. The tendons in Dunc’s jaw and neck were pulsing, and not with the usual twang that signaled Get the hell out of my way, I’ve got business to take care of that I’ve seen in him hundreds of times over the year. He was struggling to hold it together, to keep his calm at the ready.
I’ve been asked if winning that game turned out to be anticlimactic for us after our first five hitters in the top of the first got on and we scored five runs by the end of that frame. Usually you’re a fool to think so. But by the time the late innings rolled around and we were up 8–0, we felt very certain that the Astros would run out of outs before they scored nine runs. It wasn’t so much the score that gave us confidence—it was the fact that Carp was so into it, competing as hard as possible on every pitch with complete command of all his weapons.
Only when the last hitter, J. D. Martinez, hit a comebacker to Carp, did I see anything approaching relief spread across the big man’s face. Waiting by the dugout to congratulate him and the rest of the guys, I knew that this wouldn’t be the last time I’d have that opportunity. The last inning, I was really emotional: we had clinched at least a tie, and there would be at least one more game. The score allowed me the rare luxury of enjoying every one of those last moments.
IN THE END, I WAS ALSO ENORMOUSLY GRATEFUL FOR AN OPPORTUNITY to participate in what many people say will go down in history as one of baseball’s greatest nights. So much will be written—and already has been—about the events around both leagues that I won’t go into it here. Just know that since that night, I’ve watched and rewatched the highlights of those last games of 2011. A baseball life like mine just thrills to sights and sounds like these. The tension and compelling finishes to the games in Baltimore, Tampa Bay, and Atlanta will be talked about forever. Extra inning games, long rain delays, a team coming back from a 7–0 deficit, the integrity of the competition, especially with teams like Baltimore and the Yankees battling so hard with nothing to gain but pride, are further evidence of just how great this game is and how memorable the 2011 season was.
While the guys were in the clubhouse watching the Atlanta game play out, I was in my office with Rick and Keith. I’d look up every now and then when I heard the guys ooh and ahh over the changing fortunes of that thirteen-inning thriller. I had one eye on the TV screen, but mostly I was going over the lineups and matchups for what I continued to feel certain was going to be the next day’s game against the Braves. Visiting teams rarely win extra-inning ball games. There’s so much pressure on a bullpen to keep a team from scoring, especially when you know that you don’t get another turn at bat if you give up a run. Along with that, the Phillies bullpen, very much like ours early on, was going through some things.
When Hunter Pence, a former Astro, fisted a flare into right field to score the lead run, the clubhouse erupted in noise that echoed off the Arch and back to Houston. At that point, we were all riveted to the screens. The collective moans when the Phillies’ David Herndon walked Dan Uggla with one out were soon followed by another ricochet of riotous joy as a double play ended the Braves’ chances. Just like that, we were in.
I’d never been so glad to be wrong.
Later, after a celebration that in retrospect outdid the three others in 2011, Rick Carlisle, who had just coached an NBA Championship team and had been on a championship team as a player with the Celtics, said to me, “This was the most exciting moment I’ve experienced in sports.”
This was special because the guys who did it were special. I can’t compare the feelings I had to what I’d experienced with the ’83 White Sox, with the ’88 to ’90 Oakland clubs, or with the previous winners in St. Louis. I can only say this: the 2011 team had as good a frame of mind as any club I’d ever been around. Remember that simple formula? Our team. Their team. Competition. Keep score, so try to win. In terms of the purity of the competition, I don’t think we could have tried more perfectly than we did in that stretch of games when we went 23-8.
Three hundred wins. Five thousand games managed. All these milestones matter in some very real and important sense. They provide you with one kind of satisfaction. I’m not equating managing with pitching or playing. There is no comparison. Baseball is a player’s game for the fans. I’m only making a point about longevity and trying to do what you’ve learned right. Doing the small things right—that sticks with you too; those small things imprint themselves in your mind and provide another kind of satisfaction. As a coach, your goal is to get a team to where the Cardinals arrived in the late stages of 2011. All the parts working together harmoniously.
That’s why we play a team sport instead of an individual one. Seeing us overcome so many obstacles, even that last week. When Rafael was just gutted by his failure to do something, mostly because he felt like he let his teammates down, he rose to the occasion days later because his teammates were behind him. That’s why we call it “picking somebody up.” Whether you boot a ground ball, drop a fly ball, fail to drive in a run, groove a fastball, or whatever, your first thought is this: Somebody pick me up. And your first thought as a teammate should be: I’ve got you.
We exhibited that attitude all year and it got us to the point where we were playing the Phillies in the postseason. That’s why it was so important for us to have Dunc back with us—to let him know, even though he committed no error, that we were all engaged in picking him up.
As I’ve said, ultimately it is the players who accomplish the feat. We just enjoyed watching them enjoying their effort, facing the uncertainty of the final result, and then, thankfully, celebrating the result. For our fans, our organization, and everyone with our team, the most excitement we could experience in professional baseball awaited us—unbelievably, we were actually going to the playoffs.
Late in the season, I knew that our chances of getting in hadn’t been good (only later when I was told about coolstandings.com did I know how long those odds were), but numbers tell only part of the story. In the post–Moneyball era, numbers (or to use the buzzword metrics) have attempted to take on increasing importance. The Cardinals created a metrics department in order to stay ahead of that curve, and I appreciated the enthusiasm and affection for the game the members of that department brought to the task. From providing evaluations for potential draft picks, players to sign and trade for, and useful measurements to hone the development of players in the organization, they can have some use. They also believed that they could aid our efforts to write a better lineup, increase our effectiveness with game strategy, including bunting, stealing, defensive positioning, and utilizing the bullpen.
To a limited extent, they were right. Metrics are useful pre- and post-game analyses. What those numbers don’t do as effectively is to successfully predict in-game scenarios and how they will play out. No number can adequately account for human nature and how it affects performance. That’s why you need to observe and react, moment by moment, in game after game and series after series, to evaluate the human, as well as environmental, factors.
Doing that helps you to answer this essential question: How does this individual play the game? Preparation and personalizing are my passions, but only the second of those can really help you make the determination about an individual and his capabilities. The best example of that is how tough a player is mentally and physically. There’s no metric that can adequately measure the size of a guy’s heart.
We had the appropriate ratio of preparation to heart—lots of preparation but tons of heart.
I allowed myself that brief reverie, and then I had a bus to catch. That’s the great thing about this game. You don’t have to wait too long for your next chance to possibly make some history, to pick somebody up, to get across that finish line together.