9502030480
DETROIT FREE PRESS
951027
Friday, October 27, 1995
METRO FINAL CHASER
1D
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL EDITION PAGE 1D
Copyright (c) 1995, Detroit Free Press
OREL SURGERY: CRAFTY VETERAN
SAVES THE DAY FOR CLEVELAND
CLEVELAND -- He was pitching for everyone who ever got a little old, a
little paunchy, anyone whose boss ever came to him and said, "We're going in
another direction." For 12 seasons, Orel Hershiser gave his heart, soul and
body parts to the LA Dodgers, he won them a world championship, he won them
endless awards, he won them fans and filled their coffers with gold. He was
loved by the media and loved by the community -- and it made no difference.
None whatsoever. When he turned 36, and had pitched only one complete game all
season, the front office suits came down and said, "Thanks, Orel. We're going
in another direction."
He could have said good-bye, of course. He could have retired, rather than
move his family, learn new teammates, pack it all up and try someplace else.
But, given his talent, and what he knew he had inside, that would not have
made sense. And Orel Hershiser IV, the son of a printer, the father of two
sons, the owner of one of the best postseason records in the history of
baseball, is nothing if not a sensible guy. So he found a team with the
hitting to match his pitching, a team that treasured his experience, and he
pulled on its uniform and dreamed of one more October.
And here it was. A blustery night off Lake Erie. What Hershiser was being
asked to do Thursday was nothing less than save Cleveland's season, keep the
miracle lights burning, somehow get the Indians to the airport, where they
could take their unlikely story to Atlanta for Game 6 of the World Series.
Hershiser was not only being asked to stop the suddenly hot Braves bats, but
to outduel the Uber-Pitcher, the Michael Jordan of baseball, the best in the
business and soon-to-be- four-time Cy Young Award winner, Greg Maddux.
"No problem," Orel said.
One for the old guys.
One determined dog
"Orel is the best I've ever seen at being able to focus," Mike Hargrove,
the Indians manager, would say when this was all over. Well. When you look
like Howdy Doody and your nickname is "Bulldog," you are obviously more than
what you seem. Hershiser on Thursday was more than an aging pitcher looking
for a last crack at glory. He was the white knight of Jacobs Field. He came to
the mound all business, and he ignored the music and the flashbulbs and the
explosions over the loudspeakers. He finished the first inning by striking out
Fred McGriff, the Atlanta clean-up hitter, with a pitch that dropped so
beautifully, if it were a submarine, radar would have missed it.
The crowd roared. Hershiser was on his way. He got the next six batters in
order. He struck out McGriff again, he struck out David Justice, one of Game
4's heroes. He kept pitching and pitching and glaring as he came off the
mound, trying to look tough, which is a little like Alfred E. Neuman trying to
look like a general.
But it was that kind of night. Hershiser would not be intimidated by
anything or anybody -- never mind that he looks like the red-headed pastor
that rides into some 1870s mining town. Early in the game, when Maddux threw
too close to Cleveland's Eddie Murray, the benches cleared, and Hershiser
suddenly found himself standing next to the Braves' star pitcher.
"Were you trying to brush him, Greg?"
"Nah, I was just jamming him."
"Come on. You can do better than that."
Orel Hershiser? Threatening? It was that kind of night. Hershiser, 37, was
on fire, and Maddux, 29, looked human. Albert Belle stung him in the first
for a two-run blast, and in the fifth, three Cleveland batters whacked hard
line drives. You could see he was slowing down. Hershiser could see it, too.
He knew if he could just do his part, the powerful Cleveland bats could
eventually get to Maddux and they all would be going south for the weekend.
And sure enough, that is what happened. In the sixth inning, with two men
on, a kid named Jim Thome stepped in against the mighty Maddux. A few years
ago, Thome was playing Triple-A ball. Now he was in the World Series, two men
on, with two strikes. When Maddux has two strikes on you, in most cases, you
can forget it, he owns you. This time, Thome laced the pitch up the middle, a
good, clean, hard single, and the Indians had the lead for good.
Staying alive
"What did you do differently tonight?" someone asked Hershiser, after he
allowed just two runs in eight innings, and the Indians triumphed, 5-4.
"I stood a little taller on the mound," came the answer. "A little taller,
and prouder."
This is the corny kind of thing that Hershiser says. So be it. He has
earned the right to be corny. He has now won eight postseason games and lost
just one. He can behave any way he wants.
There was a play in the eighth inning, with Atlanta threatening, a man on,
Hershiser beginning to tire. Marquis Grissom, dangerous all Series, whacked a
pitch "as hard as you can hit a line drive," Braves manager Bobby Cox said.
But Hershiser stabbed it, one-handed, between his legs, and then spun to
first, threw a bullet, and doubled up Mike Mordecai, who was diving to the
bag. The ump signaled "out." Mordecai dropped to his knees. And Hershiser
allowed a shriek of emotion. It was a young man's play. The old man made it.
So the Series lives, for one more weekend. And maybe this morning,
somewhere in Los Angeles, they're scratching their heads and thinking, "Why'd
we give up on this guy?"
Let them think it. Orel, as they say, has decided to go in another
direction.
BASEBALL