We are not dismayed by our sufferings, because we know that suffering
produces endurance, and
endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint
us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit
that has been given to us.
Romans 5:3-5
Johnny Pesky was the heart and
soul of Red Sox Nation. More than Ted Williams or Carl Yastrzemski, he
personified the team. He was the one constant over the decades. And like so
much of Red Sox history, his story is centered in one play. For most sports
fans, it is the story of a mistake, but for those who look more deeply, it is a
parable.
In the bottom of the eighth
inning of seventh game of the 1946 World Series, the Red Sox and Cardinals were
tied 3-3. The game was played in St.
Louis , and the Cardinals were at bat. Enos Slaughter
was on first base and Harry Walker was at the plate. Walker hit one into the gap in left
centerfield. Slaughter, who was known for his speed, was already running. When
Red Sox shortstop Johnny Pesky took the throw from the outfield, Slaughter had
already rounded third. Pesky turned toward the infield and threw to the plate,
but it was too late. Slaughter had scored, the Cardinals had the lead, and the
radio announcer screamed, “Pesky held the ball! He held the ball. Johnny Pesky
held the ball!”
That one play sent Enos Slaughter
to the Hall of Fame and kept Johnny Pesky out. The story was that Slaughter had
scored from first base on a single, because Pesky held the ball. It was a career
defining moment for both men. And that one play has followed John Pesky for the
nearly sixty years since then. Years later, at a football game, after a running
back had committed his second fumble, someone in the stands yelled, “Give the
ball to Pesky, he’ll hold onto it!” It is part of the legacy of Red Sox Nation,
like Bucky Dent’s home run and Bill Buckner’s error (another guy who, except
for that one play, would probably be in the Hall of Fame).
In his book, “Teammates,” David
Halberstam asked Dom DiMaggio and Bobby Doerr about that play. The real story is
more complicated than the legend and it tells us more about the character of
Johnny Pesky than it does about his baseball skills.
The Red Sox had been trailing 3-1
in the top of the inning, when Dom DiMaggio doubled to drive in two runs and
tie the score. Unfortunately, Dom pulled a hamstring running to second and had
to leave the game. He was replaced by a journeyman outfielder named Leon
Culberson. The change was critical, because Dom DiMaggio was the best defensive
centerfielder in the American League (yes, Yankee fans, he was better than his
more famous brother, Joe). Culberson was a competent player, but not at the
same level as DiMaggio, and he could not match Dom’s throwing arm, which was probably
the strongest in the league.
When Walker came to bat, with Slaughter on first, DiMaggio
motioned frantically to Culberson from the dugout, trying to move him toward
left field. Eventually, he took a step or two, but not enough. When the ball
was hit, Culberson was slow to react, and threw weakly to Pesky, who had come
out into the outfield to take the throw. If you watch films of the game, you’ll
see Pesky turn and throw without any hesitation. But since the dominant record
of the game etched in the memory of fans came from the radio announcer, that
was the image that stuck. And though most people think Slaughter scored from
first on a single, Walker ’s
hit was actually a double.
Slaughter himself said that he
never would have tried to score if DiMaggio had been playing center. And when
Dom was asked whether he thought he could have thrown Slaughter out, he answered
with certainty, “I would have thrown him out—at third!”
Over the years, when Pesky was
asked about the play, he would smile and say, “Well, I guess I must have
hesitated when I looked in to the infield.” He stuck with that explanation
because the alternative would have violated one of Pesky’s core principles: you
never blame your teammates. He would rather take the fault himself than blame
Culberson for a bad throw.
People who knew him say that
Johnny Pesky was a simple guy. He didn’t spend any time wondering what should
have been or could have been, or why he had to be the one to carry the blame
for the loss. He considered himself lucky to have been paid to play a game. And
lucky to have been a part of some great teams.
In sports, coaches and
commentators will often speak of character when their teams come from behind to
win the game in the last minute or the last inning, as if athletic success had
an intrinsic moral quality. But when I think of character, I’ll think of John
Pesky, smiling at his critics.
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