To Those Who Wait

"Batting for Boston, number 24, Rex Clark, Clark."

On this cool October night, the crowd erupted into a cheer, a pleading, and a groan all at once. Clark was not the batter that most of the fans at Fenway wanted to see up at this pivotal juncture of the game. This was the time of ultimate deliverance or the continuance of perpetual nadir for the Boston faithful.

The score stood 4-2, with the Cardinals on top. It was the bottom of the ninth, in the seventh game of the World Series. In typical storybook fashion, it was time for the big hit. A single or double would do, a triple would be magical, but a homer by Clark would be magical.

A win would finally lift the curse of the Babe and make the Red Sox World Champions for the first time since Woodrow Wilson was President.

Earlier, it looked as if the game was in the bag for the hometown team. The Sox had a 2-1 lead going into the ninth, with two men out, no runners on base, when in usual Bosox manner, the roof fell in. A broken bat flare to right by Erk Davis landed just out of reach of the Sox second sacker, Frye, who almost came up with a sensational catch. After a walk to the next batter, a double by McGwire put the Cardinals up 3-2. The Boston dominated crowd, instead of booing, looked at each other and nodded the knowing half-smile frown.

To the names of Enos Slaughter, Bob Gibson, Joe Morgan, and Mookie Wilson, they could now add Mark McGwire. Another dagger bearer. How many more Sox fans would die before they lived to see the Sox as World Champions? Millions of people have lived their whole lives without being able to say, "My Sox are the Champions of the World." It is so amazing to think about the number of old men in New England who contemplate," I just hope I can hang on long enough to see that World Champion pennant hanging from the center field flagpole."

In the bottom of the ninth, the tables had turned on the Cardinals. Now it was the Sox who had the tying and winning runs on base. Jeff Frye had led off with a single, and after a strike out, the Sox had two more chances. Nomar Garcipiara had delivered with a single that sent Frye to third. The American League Champs now had runners on first and third with one out.

Jimy Williams, the Sox manager, called on Clark to at least get that one run in from third base. A hit in the gap could possibly win it with Frye's speed. Sox fans hoped that Jimy had not pulled a boner in calling for Clark.

He called Clark over. "Now Rex, wait for a ball you can drive. Remember, you've been in this game a long time. That boy out there was in diapers when you came up, so use your head, he has to throw you a fastball sometime. You've got three strikes, use 'em." He gave Rex a wink.

A cacophony of sounds hit Rex as he skipped up the steps of the dugout and made his way to the on-deck circle. As he bent to grab hold of the resin towel that would make his grip tighter, he thought about his situation. "Jesus, why me? I never though Jimy would ask me to hit, not when he still had Reggie Jefferson on the bench. What's he thinking about anyway? The guy's a .320 hitter. No wonder the crowd isn't thrilled to see me. Well, if I don't do it, I feel sorry for Jimy; they'll murder him. Bye-bye Jimy."

His grip now sufficiently sticky, Rex took a couple of practice swings with his thirty-four ounce Al Kaline model Louisville Slugger. Ever since he'd been in the Majors, he'd had all his bats emblazoned with the name Al Kaline. Kaline, though a Detroit Tiger, had been his favorite player, and he always tried to buy Kaline glove and bat models. Kaline had retired when Rex was quite young, and he really never saw him play in his prime, but there was something so cool about the way Kaline signed his signature on his merchandise, Al, but then just a K with a line. Very cool. Rex took a lot of grief for his Kaline fixation, but hey, he'd been in the bigs for 15 years now, and the first thing most rookies wanted to see when they met him was if he really used those signature bats.

As he swung, all the old aches and pains of his entire career seemed to surface. He was thirty-eight years old, but he felt fifty-eight. His back was sore, his left ankle was throbbing and swollen from fouling a ball off his foot in game three, and his left shoulder and arm were aching. He thought, "Well, one way or another, this is my last at bat as a major leaguer, it would be so satisfying if I could make it my finest."

Though he had been in the bigs for fifteen years, Rex had only been with three different ballclubs, strange, in the days of free agency. He spent the first ten years of his career with the Los Angeles Dodgers under Tommy LaSorda, a manager Rex would run through a wall for, and in fact the left field fence at the ballyard in Chavez Ravine had many a dent put in it by Rex Clark. Rex thought LaSorda a bit profane, but in Tommy's case, it was just part of his charm. Too bad LaSorda had to quit because of his health, or more specifically, he just got too old.

Rex was referred to as a Jay Johnstone type player back then, a steady fielder, a singles and doubles hitter, with occasional power. He carried a lifetime batting average of .296 up to the plate at Fenway. He was a right-handed thrower and a left-handed batter.

After his years with the Dodgers, he spent two in the Bronx Zoo, an irreverent cognomen for the New York Yankees. He loved playing for Buck Showalter, but he was happy that after two years, he was traded back to the Dodgers where he played another couple of years. He was traded by the Dodgers to the Red Sox this past July, when Sox management realized they were legitimate contenders for the American League pennant. They desperately needed a veteran left-handed bat for the stretch run. Rex had no pretensions about being an everyday player. He had adjusted to the bench quite adequately.

As Rex strode toward homeplate, the Cardinals' catcher lumbered back behind the plate, after a brief word at the mound with his towheaded young hurler, Whitey Lane. Turning toward his fielders, and without turning his head toward Clark, he bandied, "Hero or goat, hero or goat," just above the raucous din of the crowd.
"
"Tell me about it," Clark replied.

"Don't worry, they expect you to crap out, this is Boston," Eli Marrero, the Cardinal's catcher retorted.

Home plate umpire, Jim Bishop, stopped the exchange with a "Let's play ball, gentlemen, the suspense is killing me." Rex took a couple more practice swings outside the batter's box, but it didn't seem to make him feel any looser or better. "God, I feel lousy," he thought to himself. "Not even this incredible adrenaline rush is helping. I'll be lucky if I can get the ball into the outfield. I've got to get the ball in the air, at the very least."

Rex entered the batter's box as Marrero, the Cards catcher squatted downward into his crouch. He gave the signal to his young pitcher, Lane. Rex had faced Lane before while he was with the Dodgers, and had had limited success against him, going two for eight, but both hits were seeing eye singles through the infield. The kid had a sidewinder motion and the ball seemed to emerge from the shortstop position instead of the mound.

Rex, of course, was thinking fastball. That's what he desperately wanted to hit. Lane's pitch broke down at the last moment and in over the plate, a slider. "Steerike one," roared Bishop. The crowd groaned, but only a little. If the nervous energy at Fenway Park could have been harnessed at that moment, all of New England would have been lit and shining brightly.

"Good pitch," Rex thought to himself, "but I can get that the next time."

"Get a good pitch," commanded Williams from the dugout. A couple more practice swings and the smoothing out of the left-handed batter's box calmed Rex a bit. Marrero's sign was given, and Lane launched his next pitch. Rex swung and pulled the ball foul, a soft liner just to the right of the first base coaching box. It was not a good swing with an even poorer result. The count was now 0-2 on Rex.

The crowd reacted with dread and the surety of knowing the end result. No vile invectives resonated from the stands, just a buzz of implication.

When Rex had hit the ball, he grimaced in pain. "Damn, 0-2, that hurt." His aging body just didn't seem up to the task at hand. "I don't know if I'm capable of hitting the damn ball but I can't bail out now, I'll look like the biggest coward in sports history. Concentrate! Concentrate! He'll waste one now, but is this kid smart enough? I better be ready. It's got to be a strike, it's got to be a strike."

The fans, standing since the beginning of the inning, had quickly realized that the next pitch might be the last of the season. They had shaken off their morbidity and tried everything in their power to induce confidence in Rex.

The two runners on base were cautious. Frye on third, stayed close to the bag. After all, a hit to the outfield would score him easily. On the other hand, with the Cards playing back for a double-play with the slow footed Clark at the plate, he would sure as hell try to score on any groundball hit to anyone but the pitcher.

Garcipiarra on first would be running at the crack of the bat. He had to get to third on a single to right or center, and try to score on a gapper.

Lane nervously paced, picked up the resin bag and slammed it to the ground. Talking to himself for theatrical as well as psychological reasons, he was just about ready to pitch. The sign was given once again. The arm whirled and the pitch was on the way.

Rex pulled his bat back just in time. "Ball," yelled Bishop. The pitch was just a little low. Lane wanted that ground ball. "One and two," Bishop intoned, as he held up his fingers to inform the crowd and television audience of the count. The crowd cheered wildly trying to pump up their only hope.

At this point, Rex had become calm. He was focused, he was professional. "He won't waste another," he thought to himself.

A quick throw to first by Lane almost caught Garcipiarra leaning the wrong way, but he dove in below the tag.

Marrero, again without turning his head, asked Rex, "What do you want?"

"A fastball down the middle, now shut the hell up!" Rex knew the catcher was just trying to unnerve him. Marrero, continuing to play his mind games replied, "I'll see what I can do." Once more he gave the sign, Lane went into his stretch, and the ball arrived. Out of the corner of his eye, Rex saw that Garcipiarra was running, and he quickly brought his total focus back to the ball. It was not a fastball, but a slider. The break was too late and it hit the sweet part of Rex's bat and was propelled into the cool autumn air. The ball quickly headed toward the triangle in right-center field.

Frye immediately started for home but he watched the ball's arc while Garcipiarra ran as fast as he could, not watching the ball, trying to pick up third base coach Wendell Kim's signals and listening for his voice over the din of the crowd. He didn't have to worry, the ball was not going to be caught. It landed five feet to the right of the 420-foot sign in the Red Sox bullpen. Home run! The Red Sox were the 1999 World Champions of Baseball.

The crowed erupted in pandemonium. Having no knowledge of a World Championship in their lifetime, their actions just came naturally. They didn't rush the field, that wasn't really done anymore, and anyway, with the security forces and horses in place, it wasn't going to happen. So it was just the usual tears, screams, and hugs that were encircling the ancient ballyard shrine.

Lane had watched the flight of the ball, and even after it was lost in the bullpen, he didn't move for ten seconds. The rest of the Cards, with heads down, slowly trudged to the third base dugout. It was their moment of pain.

Rex was only three steps down the line when he saw his smash disappear. He thought to himself, "Oh my God, I didn't, I couldn't have hit that ball." He was giddy. "Someone must have corked my bat."

He started his home run trot, but then he though to himself, "How should I do it? Should I fake sprint like Mr. October, his Regginess? Should I holiday it, like Jose Canseco? Or should I run in classy three quarter speed like Frank Thomas? I do want to savor it."

After a little Dave Henderson jump, he decided to give it his regular home run jog, deliberate, but at his age, slow. He was halfway to first base now, and his teammates were already waiting at home plate.

As he approached first base, he thought of his mother. She had brought him to his first major league game at Wrigley Field, and like most little boys and girls, he never forgot that magical moment when he emerged from beneath the grandstand to gaze in awe at the green expanse in front of him. From that day on, it had become his obsession to play on that field. He thought of the thousands of games of catch he had played with her when he was growing up. His father was an army captain who was killed in Vietnam, and his mother had become both father and mother to him. "this is for you, Mom," he thought proudly.

Rounding the bag as tears welled, Rex thought of his father, who was gone when he was just seven years old. "I hope you can see this, Dad."

Rex was both euphoric and melancholic at the same time. The noise from the stands was ridiculously loud. As he saw his teammates from the bullpen charging in for the celebration, Rex thought that his financial future was now reasonably secured. Then he quickly chastized himself for thinking of that at a time like this. But, he could not stop thinking, "I'm the guy who finally brought the championship to Boston. This town will be mine. Golf benefits for the rest of my life. The hardest thing I'll have to do is shake hands with people and sign my name. America is a very, very good place. I'll be just like Bobby Orr, nah, only God is bigger than Bobby Orr! I can't believe that kid threw me that meatball. I hope he has a long career, so he can put this behind him. Man, I still fee lousy though, Old Aches and Pains should have been my nickname. Get me to the whirlpool."

Rounding second, Rex thought of his newborn son, Paul, named after his father. He was only three weeks old, and Rex and his wife Pam, almost lost him. Twenty-four hours after his birth, his lungs were still not functioning the way they should have been. Thank God for the Boston hospitals. They said Paul would be fine. "Damn, why couldn't he be old enough to experience this euphoria with me now? All he'll have now is the nightly suppertime showing of the tape of his old man's 'tater." He laughed to himself. "Hey, I wonder if this will be shown as many times as Fisk's home run, or Flutie's pass to Phelan. Hell, of course it will. My son, even my grandson might be able to make a living out of this, just like Teddy Ballgame's son, marketing my stuff. Life is good."

He thought of Pamela. She was his high school sweetheart, and he had wanted to marry her right after they graduated. A lot of ballplayers married young. They feared being lonely away from home. It was a mistake a lot of young ballplayers made. They hadn't sowed their wild oats yet, and when they got out on the road, their wives suffered for their immaturity. Many marriages could not be saved.

Pam's father was smart enough to realize that she wasn't going to live in Rex Clark's shadow. He insisted that Pam go to college and be trained as a professional. He thought that no woman in today's world should ever be solely dependent on a man. She received a degree in architecture, and had worked in her profession on and off throughout their marriage. She had even designed a couple of vacation homes on Cape Cod for two of Rex's teammates. Rex looked back on Pam's father's decision as the wisdom of Solomon. After four years of hijinks that would make Ball Four look like Mary Poppins, he was ready to settle down.

Though they were married for sixteen years, they were never able to conceive a child. After all the tests, doctors still could not find a reason. They had finally resigned themselves to never having children, when out of the blue, Pamela was with child. "A new baby, and now this, wow! Pam was the best." He was as happy, no, more happy now with Pam than on the day they were married. He was proud to think that though there were more temptations on the road than there were grains of sands in the Sahara, he had never cheated on his wife. Not too many big leaguers could claim that.

Rex reached third and thought to himself, "This is the last ninety feet of my career. Look at those fans, why have I been blessed this way? What a great game this is! The older I get, the more I realize it's the best. Maybe I'll coach or something, nah, that would interfere with my other job of just having fun."

Halfway to home, the pain became intense. The left side of his body from his rib cage to his shoulder seized him in what Rex thought felt like a Mo Vaughn bearhug. Rex's face contorted in pain and he slowed his pace to a staggered walk. Rex thought, "Unbelievable, the world at my feet . . ." He collapsed in a heap twenty feet from the plate. The delirious crowd thought he had just tripped and continued to roar in rapture.

The players at home had seen the distortion on Rex's face, and they apprehensively ran out to see if there was anything seriously wrong with him. Technically, the game was over even if Rex didn't score. The two runs that had scored before him had provided the winning margin of victory.

Rex had not moved since he crumpled to the ground, and now the crowd was growing concerned. A wave-like silence engulfed Fenway. Even the happiest of Sox fans knew that something was dreadfully wrong. Did an upset Cards fan throw some object on the field and knock Rex out? John Valentin and Nomar Garcippiarra reached Rex first. Rex's eyes were back in his head. His torso was twisted on the ground with his head facing the pitcher's mound, with only the slightest of smiles on his lips.

After being waved on my Valentin, Toby Thompson, the ever present Boston trainer approached Rex. He checked his vital signs, and finding no pulse, motioned frantically for a stretcher. At this time, most of the Sox were encircled around their deliverer.

After the call by Thompson, two paramedics who were permanently stationed at Fenway on game days, raced from the right field side of the grandstands.

"Christ, Jimy, I can't find a pulse on him," Thompson cried out to the manager.

"Holy crap, you've got to be kidding," Williams replied in utter disbelief.

"We've got to get him out of here now!" barked the now panicked trainer.

Thompson motioned to the two paramedics and two ballplayers who would prove to be Rex's first pallbearer's. As they briskly walked off the field, the trainer tried to begin CPR revival procedures, but in the back of his mind, he thought his efforts would prove futile.

The stunned crowd now realized something disastrous had happened. Memories of another Boston icon, Reggie Lewis, were revived for many of the fans at the Fens. There was a nervous buzzing from all parts of the park, groups formulating opinions on the tragedy unfolding right before their eyes. There was a smattering of applause for the fallen hero as he was carried from the field, but most knew that at the very least, Rex Clark was unconscious. As Clark was raced to a waiting ambulance, most of the Sox milled around home plate looking into each other's eyes. What does one say at a moment so surreal? What do we do now? Celebrate?

Now, the ballpark was silent. Once again, the fans of Boston would be stymied by human reality. There could be no doubt now. The Boston Red Sox and their fans were indeed an accursed fraternity. After a momentary lifting of one curse, they were immediately visited with a more vile circumstance, biblical in scope.

The Sox players made their way to the dugout, heads bowed in reflection. It just was not fair to Rex or to them to have this moment snatched from them. The fans wanted to salute them, even in their sadness. A faint sound of applause started behind their dugout and grew with increasing volume until it filled the park. It was respectful appreciation, and as the last player receded into the depths of the dugout runway, only then did the fans slowly and quietly leave the venerable shrine of baseball. They knew what the news on Rex would be, and they were crushed.

The following day, the Boston Globe's frontpiece read:


RED SOX ARE WORLD CHAMPIONS!
BUT, NO JOY IN BEANTOWN

WORLD SERIES HERO REX CLARK SUCCUMBS TO HEART ATTACK

SOXFANS ARE NOT ABLE TO CELEBRATE

THE CURSE IS ALIVE AND WELL!