Life is made up of all kinds of moments. Big ones – graduations, marriages, births, promotions, unexpected adventures, special vacations, financial windfalls. And small ones. Sometimes simply random small ones. A day, a passing moment that becomes seared in memory for no immediately obvious reason but nevertheless memorable in its own fashion.
Bill Nack, longtime writer for Newsday and Sports Illustrated (among others), remarked in his ode to the great racehorse Secretariat that “The gift of reverie is a blessing divine, and it is conferred most abundantly on those who lie in hammocks or drive alone in cars.”
And also, I might add, to the older among us who, as we age, almost inevitably are prone to reflecting back on our lives and our own memorable moments – the big ones and, like this one I am about to relate to you, the random small ones. While we still have much to look forward to, candidly it is likely that we have much more on which to look back.
Recently, I was approaching a somewhat significant life milestone and, for fun, I decided to count down the days to that milestone, all along the way naming each day with some familiar reference for me – most of those being associated with sports. So, 67 days remaining became ’67 Red Sox, after the first year I followed baseball, a magical year when the perennial cellar dwelling Red Sox suddenly – and with near daily drama throughout the season – won the American League championship (only to fall in the World Series to the St. Louis Cardinals). In that vein, 8 days to go became Carl Yastrzemski Day for the straw that stirred that 1967 drink. Day 6 was Bill Russell Day, in homage to the 11 time NBA champion and champion human being, while Day 4 belonged to none other than the great Bobby Orr, hockey superstar whose career ended all too suddenly. Must I add that Day 12 was Tom Brady Day?
You get the picture.
Day 41? That was Dick Drago Day.
Wait…what? Dick who? Older Red Sox fans of the casual variety will recall “Yeah pitched for us for a few years…in the ’70’s, right?” Those more in tune with – or obsessed by – the franchise’s history will remember the bullpen stalwart with two different stints for the home team, nicknamed The Dragon.
But, again…Dick Drago? Among Red Sox alumni alone, Day 41 could have been named after the dynamic young outfielder on that 1967 team, Reggie Smith. Or, perhaps I could have honored some latter day world champions for the Fenway crew like John Lackey or Chris Sale with the title for Day 41.
So…Dick Drago?
Sunday, September 24th 1978 was a classic early fall New England day. The autumn sun just a bit lower in the sky, the air carrying just that little bit of crispness to it, temperatures in the mid to high 60’s. Perfect. A beautiful day.
The September, 1978 version of the Boston Red Sox up to that point? Imperfect. Ugly. Downright painful to watch, honestly. Having raced out to what ultimately became a 14.5 game lead in mid-July over the hated New York Yankees, the home team began to slowly fritter away that lead over the course of the summer, key injuries and absences piling up while the once healthy margin slimmed to a narrow 4 games when the Bronx Bombers arrived in Boston on Thursday, September 7th.
Thursday, September 7th…the beginning of the second Boston Massacre in history. Decidedly less significant than the March 5th, 1770 deaths of 5 Bostonians, fired on by British soldiers under siege from an angry mob but, from the long suffering Red Sox fan perspective, the sporting equivalent of being shot through the heart.
This second massacre unfolded with a 15-3 beatdown, paired with a Friday night 13-2 thumping of the hometown nine, followed by a 7-0 whitewash on Saturday. That Sunday, I sat in the right field bleachers and watched hopelessly inept manager Don Zimmer inexplicably decide to throw rookie Bobby Sprowl to the Yankee wolves instead of noted New York killer (and Zimmer antagonist) Bill Lee, he of the 12-5 lifetime record vs. the hated rivals. The beleaguered rookie Sprowl didn’t even make it out of the first inning, surrendering 3 runs in the 7-4 loss.
With that head-scratching decision Don “Water Buffalo” Zimmer took a blowtorch to what had been a promising career for the 22 year old Sprowl and delivered a kick to the nether regions for Red Sox fans everywhere.
What had been a slim but still somewhat reassuring 4 game lead to open the weekend was now a flat tie, with the Yankees soaring and the Red Sox reeling.
The downward spiral continued and by the following weekend, what had once been a 14.5 game Red Sox lead was now a 3.5 game Yankee lead in the standings.
Slowly, slowly, as that excruciating September wound down to what seemed to be an inevitably painful conclusion Fenway’s favorites were somehow able to whittle the Yankee lead back to 1 thin game. But with just 7 games left in the regular season there was literally no margin for error. A single loss paired with a Yankee win would likely doom what had once seemed certain to be a triumphant season.
And now, it was Sunday, September 24th. A weekend spent away from college with my then fiancee celebrating her birthday at her parent’s house was winding to a close with an early Sunday afternoon dinner, followed by a ride with a classmate of ours and his father back to school at the University of Massachusetts, where I was a senior and my bride to be was in her junior year.
As I said, there was no margin for error. So when the game from Canada vs. the Toronto Blue Jays started out with our neighbors to the north taking a 3-0 lead after two innings before we even finished dinner, whatever slim hope we had to somehow avoid embarrassing vanquishment at the hands of those dreaded Yankees seemed to be disappearing.
Just as all was seeming lost however, the Red Sox capped a 3rd inning rally started by singles from Jack Brohamer, Rick Burleson, Jerry Remy and Carl Yastrzemski with a steal of home by Jerry Remy, knotting the score at 3-3.
Today, our options for following our favorite sports teams are myriad…cable, streaming, phones, personal devices, apps…you would have to work very, very hard to not be able to ascertain at any point in time from any place on the planet the in game status of your rooting interest.
Back then – like a lot of things – like everything! – it was very different. Piling into our classmate’s family car, we headed out through the northern tier of Massachusetts on scenic Route 2, prisoners of notoriously finicky AM radio, the signal at times waning on some hilly, curving stretches as we made our way west to Amherst.
Bats on both sides were quiet until the top of the 6th inning when Captain Carl, Carl Yastrzemski, the man we call Yaz homered and gave the Red Sox a 4-3 lead.
That lead held until the bottom of the 8th inning when Red Sox starter Mike Torrez began to tire and the bullpen help from Bill Campbell and Bob Stanley was anything but. The 4-3 lead entering the bottom of the 8th became a 6-4 deficit with just 3 little outs separating the Red Sox, and we somber fans in the car, from ignominy, knowing that back in Amherst we would have to face the derision of New York area Yankee fans, who comprised a not insignificant percentage of the student body population.
But then…well…count on your fingers the number of times you’ve seen or heard about rallies that include box score minutiae in a single half inning like wild pitch, balk, pinch hitter, pinch runner and you are likely to be holding up one lone digit. And that one game would be this one on this September afternoon. It got wilder still as pinch runner Frank Duffy was thrown out stealing home trying to put the Red Sox back in the lead.
Speaking of rarities, you’d be holding up the same number of digits as referenced earlier if you were to count the number of times you saw the Red Sox of that era attempt a steal of home twice – in a season, never mind a single game!
Nevertheless, huge, unexpected sighs of relief reverberated in the car as the Red Sox had pulled a baseball rabbit out of the cap and tied the game up.
In an uneventful bottom of the 9th the Red Sox bullpen recovered their equilibrium and sent the game into extra innings.
Red Sox bats went quietly in the top of the 10th after an opening walk to Jim Rice. In the bottom half of that frame Red Sox left-hander Tom Burgmeier was pulled after retiring Willie Upshaw for the first out.
Enter The Dragon.
Initially drafted by the Detroit Tigers in 1964, he struggled early in his minor league career but then made steady progress to their Triple AAA club until being selected by the Kansas City Royals in the 1969 expansion draft.
Given his chance, he became a reliable starter for the new franchise, averaging more than 30 starts a year for the team, even compiling a solid 17-11 record in 1971, with an earned run average of 2.98.
His stint with the Royals was memorable enough that a Royals fan site ranked Drago #35 of the top 100 Royals of all time in a 2009 post.
Nevertheless, his workhorse innings, averaging over 200 per season in his 5 years with the Royals, began to take their toll and, finding himself at odds with Royals manager Jack McKeown, the right hander was traded to the Red Sox in the 1973 offseason.
His initial stint with the Red Sox, now in the role of reliever, included being a member of the 1975 American League champions, memorably retiring future Hall of Famers Joe Morgan, Johnny Bench and Tony Perez in the top of the 9th in the Game 6 classic of that year’s World Series while also being the pitcher of record when Dwight Evans triggered an incredible double play in the top of the 11th.
Thinking they were just “a player or two away” from continued contention Boston traded Drago to the California Angels in the off-season for the baseball equivalent of three lawnmower wheels and a bag of donuts. In 1977 the Angels traded Drago to the Baltimore Orioles. At the conclusion of that season Drago took advantage of the free agency option ushered in by the decision of arbitrator Peter Seitz regarding the cases of Andy Messerschmidt and Dave McNally, re-joining the Red Sox to again add firepower to their bullpen.
At that point in the 1978 season, the multi-inning specialist had appeared in more than 30 games for the hometown team, while pitching more than twice that number of innings. A trend that was about to become more pronounced on this day.
An extra inning game, late in the season in a tight pennant race. A heavy weight placed on a relief pitcher’s shoulder, not to mention the weight of Red Sox fans hopes and fears. Fears additionally stoked with the knowledge we now had that the Yankees had won their game that day vs. the Cleveland Indians. A comeback from a Red Sox loss that would put them 2 games behind with merely 6 left to play in the season loomed an improbable feat, especially given the team’s performance for much of that ninth month.
Of course, in extra innings the home team can seal the outcome with one simple swing of the bat. We were…hanging…on…every…pitch.
Jim Woods and Ned Martin, the erudite pairing of home team broadcasters, never ones for useless chatter anyway certainly understood the gravity of the moment so much of the between pitch waiting was filled with…silence. Other than the crackling of the maddeningly intermittent AM radio, the same silence hung heavily in the car between action as we passed through Acton, Littleton, Shirley and Leominster. My bride to be, no sports fan she, knew enough about me and enough about how I felt about the Red Sox to remain quiet while we three males pensively awaited the narration of the action from the broadcast team.
If you have ever had the good fortune to ride along Route 2 as the fall foliage season begins its transition to peak you know you will be greeted with looming palletes of vibrant yellows, rusts, reds and browns as the leaves near the end of their annual life cycle.
This season of hope seemed to be aging, cracking, yellowing just like the foliage but the beauty of the landscape was undeniable…sunbeams poking through the leaves waving in slight breezes in the rolling countryside around us, the difference in the fall air, even from inside the car, as obvious as the noticeably lower angle of the sun foretelling the eventual turn to bare trees and, ultimately, to winter.
A winter of…what? Our discontent? Of heartbreak? The outcome seemed inevitable and yet, of course, hope, as the saying goes, springs eternal. Even on a fall day where the outcome seems destined to end in teary regret.
Each sound from the game…the pop of a mitt, the crack of a bat, the whoop of the crowd provoked, in turn, a heart pounding “maybe” or a stomach clenching “uh oh”…could they? Would they pull it off? Or was this the moment when it all came crashing down? When the dreams of summer turned into an autumnal nightmare?
The Red Sox put two runners on base with two out in the top of the 11th but Jerry Remy was unable to drive either runner home.
In the bottom of the 11th against Dick Drago the Blue Jays opened with a single and, following a Tim Johnson strikeout, another single put men on 1st and 2nd with just the one out. Drago induced a pop fly foul for the second out but manager Zimmer then gave the sign to intentionally walk Roy Howell, bringing pinch hitting and home run power threat Otto Velez to the plate, obviously hoping to be able to induce the final out of the inning at any base.
At the same time, any hit, any hit batsman, any walk ended the game, ended the season, ended a dream. Miraculously, or so it seemed as a particularly bright ray of the sun shone through the windshield, Drago induced a ground out, ending the threat and producing a collective “Whew” at the exhalation of several held breaths in the car.
After a Jim Rice strikeout opened the 12th, the seemingly ageless Yaz did it again, the heavy legged hero somehow authoring a triple on a smash to right field. Just one out! With Carlton Fisk coming up! We were ready, anxiously awaiting the native New Englander’s delivery of us from evil but instead, likely pressing too hard, he fouled out. Fred Lynn was intentionally walked in favor of 2rd baseman Butch Hobson, he whose ailing elbow would have been giving an understanding benching by a manager of any caliber. But…of course…Don Zimmer had kept Hobson in the lineup throughout his travails with bone chips, the quiet Alabaman suffering a disastrous second half of the season. And, predictably, Hobson struck out, ending a not moments before promising threat.
A Willie Upshaw single began the home team’s half of that frame but that threat was quickly, thankfully snuffed by a double play when Blue Jay Doug Ault’s bunt attempt was popped in the air and, catching that for the first out, Carlton Fisk then alertly threw out the unaware Willie Upshaw at second.
A beautiful day filled with ups and downs along with strange, Twilight Zone like unexpected plays was still somehow tied as the Red Sox came up in the 13th. We were now nearing the portion of Route 2 where the divided highway narrowed to one lane in either direction, narrowing like the Red Sox chances of somehow pulling this iron out of the fire and, not coincidentally, putting an added strain on the weak AM radio signal.
It was hard not to contemplate the end here – the sneering sarcasm of Yankee fans, the summer days of beer and roses turning to a bitter tea. The beauty of the fall landscape seemed incongruous with the ugliness of what more and more felt like a historically disastrous ending. This was a team that had captured my heart in the intervening decade plus since my introduction to the sport in 1967. The only team, to my knowledge, to be edged out of a division title by 1/2 game, having played one less game than the winning Detroit Tigers in that strike shortened 1972 season. Futilely chasing with a big bat approach the Baltimore Orioles renowned pitching staff of Palmer, Cuellar and McNally. Falling just short of the historic Big Red Machine in 1975. Surely, the summer of 1978 me knew, my fandom was about to be rewarded in a most spectacular fashion. And now, the only thing that seemed spectacular was their likely downfall.
Opening with a Garry Hancock single in the 13th hopes were again raised with a sacrifice bunt putting pinch runner Dwight Evans in scoring position at 2nd that were just as quickly dashed by a Rick Burleson groundout and a Jerry Remy pop fly.
The signal from the radio was growing weaker. As one, all of us in the car were leaning closer to the radio, vainly trying to coax a stronger signal from the paling broadcast.
The Twilight Zone theme continued in the bottom of the 13th as a pair of singles by the Blue Jays followed a lead off strikeout and then a forceout ground ball to 2nd while an ensuing intentional walk loaded the bases with two outs for, once again, Otto Velez. How would Drago pull this one out? Could Drago pull this one out? The karma seemed all against us. Surely the sometime slugger nicknamed Otto the Swatto wasn’t going to make a mess of a second opportunity to play the hero.
Each of us sat silently in our own despair, barely breathing, helpless to prevent the outcome, our fate at the seemingly mocking mercies of the crackling, fading signal. Somehow, someway, incredibly, Dick Drago once again got Velez on an inning ending groundout.
It was now, at least for me, becoming a question of logistics. If the game wasn’t over by the time we were back at our dormitory, how quickly could I rush to the television in the common lounge that was sure to be tuned to the game while I pretended to gentlemanly help my fiancee from the car, gather her belongings and escort her to her room? Such were the less than noble thoughts of her husband to be.
Now the 14th. The heart of the order for the Red Sox again. Jim Rice stripes a leadoff single. A groundout by Yaz nevertheless puts Rice in scoring position at 2nd. Carlton Fisk’s infield single gets Rice to 3rd with just one out! Now Fred Lynn comes up to the plate. Fearless Freddy. He of the just under .300 batting average, with home run or, at the very least, RBI power. Finally, an end to the drama, we live to fight another day, the Red Sox battle through adversity to continue to carry the fight to the hated Yankees.
And Fred Lynn strikes out. Uggh.
Up steps Butch Hobson to the plate. Through the course of the season the bone chips in his elbow had become so severe he had to manually manipulate them into place before each at bat. What had blossomed into a potential threat was surely to be extinguished due to Zimmer’s incompetence and Hobson’s inability to produce as the season had ground on.
It felt like trading a Fred Lynn at bat for a Butch Hobson at bat at that point of the season was like trading a Corvette for an AMC Pacer. Was this torture ever going to end?
Did I mention the Twilight Zone? Submitted for your consideration – a hard ground ball to 3rd by Hobson, a throwing error by the 3rd baseman and – wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles – the Red Sox take the lead!
And thankfully, at that point, the Blue Jays finally seemed to throw in the towel. Aside from a Doug Ault single the Blue Jays meekly bowed out of the contest. And the car was filled with grateful sighs and renewed hope. The fading sunlight heralded another day to come, another chance. We – the we, used loosely yet no less fervently felt, were not yet buried. Hope indeed sprung eternal.
In an era of games that lasted anywhere from 2 to 2 1/2 hours, this contest had dragged on for nearly 5 hours. 5 tense, stressful, pressure filled hours. A sports fan’s emotional rollercoaster of anticipation and anxiety, life and death seemingly. At that age it’s easy to imagine the fate of your team being the be all and end all of existence. I certainly felt so that day – and for many years to come, truth be told.
And for a good solid portion of those 5 hours amidst that gorgeous early fall day that fate was in the hands of Dick Drago. Time after time he held all of us back from the brink of disaster, almost singlehandedly. Constantly facing the pressure, surrounded by threats and answering them repeatedly when one slip, one errant pitch meant the end.
All unfolding on a spectacular fall day that celebrated the glory of the season while at the same time foreshadowing the coming winter.
Sure, we all know how the season ended a short week later, the Red Sox forcing a one-game playoff with the Yankees, yet the ending coming in inglorious fashion as improbable outfield play by Lou Piniella and a foul out by Yaz with the tying run in scoring position ended the dream. But on that one day, that one glorious day, the dream lived on. When I think back on that day, it seems like all of life was rolled up in that day. Hopes and fears. Loss and celebration. Soaring dreams and harsh reality.
I’ve thought back on that day many times in my life, a day when, as a young, immature fan and a young immature man I thought my entire life depended on the outcome of a silly game. At that time in my young, immature life, the world had been and – I knew with certainty – was going to be my oyster. Marriage, family, career, success, riches. They were all practically preordained. So, the pennant race and the Red Sox fate seized an outsized portion of importance because everything else was already a given.
And, indeed, it has been my good fortune that so much of what I was certain would happen has happened. Graduation, marriage, births, promotions, adventures, vacations and windfalls. Sure, there have been disappointments along the way, although there have been far less of those.
But I like to think that managing through those disappointments is where a tiny portion of my brain locked away the message Dick Drago gave me that day. Even when you feel like you are on the high wire, when the slightest misstep can mean disaster, when your world threatens to crumble around you, when all seems lost. Just hang in there. Keep trying. Keep working. Keep going. Just keep pitching. Just keep pitching.
So, ask me again why Day 41 was Dick Drago Day.