The 'Impossible Dream' season was a magical ride and revived hope

So many heroes were born to the young boy in the summer of 1967 that he never lacked for warm memories.

Truly, though, the greatest hero of all was the father who had introduced him to this game of baseball and had nurtured his love and passion for it. Baseball was their game, the Red Sox their team, 1967 their season, the World Series that October their moment. The father had provided the son with an understanding and appreciation of the game and now, with a miracle having united Boston, he had presented the boy with tickets to the first World Series games at Fenway Park in 21 years.

``They've never won the World Series in my lifetime,'' my father said. ``It would be nice to see them do it together.''

Instead, we watched the Red Sox come up short, a Game 7 loss at Fenway Park sending us home in silence. We were disappointed, but in a strange way, the 1967 World Series had been anticlimactic given the theatrics staged during the regular season, one that had come to a dramatic conclusion the first day of October, a Sunday, as the Red Sox beat the Twins, 5-3, to complete ``The Impossible Dream.''

If you lived through that mystical baseball season, it remains the yardstick by which improbable team dramas are measured. The Red Sox powerhouses of the 1940s and 1950s had long since been disbanded and at the start of 1967, the franchise had strung together eight consecutive losing seasons, their best finish in the 10-team American League being fifth. They had been ninth in back-to-back campaigns preceding '67, the Billy Herman-managed '65 squad (62-100) arguably the worst in team history.

So when ``The Impossible Dream'' team finished 92-70, a 20-game improvement over '66, and earned just the second pennant since Tom Yawkey bought the club in 1933, well, you can understand why we put bologna on Yaz Bread, did the ``Hawk Walk,'' leaned back in our stance like Tony C., and bowed in reverence to the mere mention of ``Gentleman Jim.'' Indeed, Carl Yastrzemski, Ken Harrelson, Tony Conigliaro, and Jim Lonborg - with George Scott, Rico Petrocelli, Dalton Jones, Reggie Smith, Joe Foy, Elston Howard, Lee Stange, Gary Bell, Jerry Adair, and a cast of otherwise forgettable names - helped author an indelible memory 37 summers ago, and it mattered not a bit then, just as it does not now, that the '67 World Series isn't held in the same esteem as the other Red Sox World Series appearances.

Unlike the other pennant-winning seasons that produced World Series - 1946, 1975, 1986 - the Red Sox in 1967 were never a threat to win, no matter that they somehow, some way, dragged the affair to a Game 7. So long as the incomparable Bob Gibson, the greatest power pitcher of his generation, stood in a St. Louis uniform, the trophy belonged to the Cardinals. In the four games the Red Sox lost - three were complete-game gems by Gibson - they were outscored, 20-5, and at so many instances that pristine fall week, the Red Sox were overwhelmed by Gibson's power, Lou Brock's speed, Julian Javier's grace, and Roger Maris's offensive talents, fading though they may have been.

Things might have been different had a well-rested Lonborg been able to meet Gibson head-to-head in Games 1, 4, and 7 (``They'd have pitched three 1-0 games, but I don't know who would've won them,'' said the late, great Red Sox third base coach, Eddie ``Pops'' Popowski), but Boston manager Dick Williams never had the luxury of setting up his Series rotation; it was imperative to pitch Lonborg for the pennant clincher, which moved Jose Santiago into the Game 1 slot.

Poor Jose. Against another pitcher he'd have won. Only Gibson was a fearless machine who merely had to toe the rubber to make batters shake. For today's generation, think Pedro Martinez and Roger Clemens, put 'em together and you have Gibson. Even the provincial Boston media bowed in respect, some calling the 2-1 triumph in Game 1 ``the most lopsided 2-1 game in World Series history, a game never in doubt.'' Santiago's home run tied it in the third, but Brock took matters into his own hands in the seventh. He singled, stole second, stole third, then scored on Maris's grounder to make it 2-1. It may as well have been 12-1, for Gibson yielded just six hits, got Yastrzemski and Harrelson to go a combined 0 for 7, and rung up Petrocelli three times among his 10 strikeouts.

Then Gibson shrugged his shoulders, looked around Fenway Park, and said, ``Where's the upper deck? Where are all the seats?''

He had expressed displeasure that Detroit had not swept California in a doubleheader to end the season and earn a World Series berth. It would have meant more fans, which would have meant more money, perhaps $1,500-$2,000 per player. ``I don't know about you,'' Gibson huffed, ``but $1,500 is a lot of money to me.''

Lonborg cared more about respect - for his teammates, for his beloved owner, but mostly for the plate, which he felt was a pitcher's prized possession. ``What am I supposed to do, let him have it?'' asked Lonborg following Game 2, which he began with a fastball under Brock's chin. They didn't clear benches in those days, because everyone knew - Lonborg especially - that pitchers batted, an essential piece of the game that has been lost in the advent of the designated hitter.

As dominating as Gibson had been in Game 1, Lonborg was even more so in Game 2, his no-hitter spoiled by Javier with two outs in the eighth. It was a high slider and Lonborg knew Javier liked to chase those pitches, only he turned on this one and hooked it into the left-field corner. Boston pitching coach Sal Maglie praised the one-hitter as ``a better pitching effort than Don Larsen's [perfect game in 1956 against Maglie and the Dodgers].''

Yastrzemski went 3 for 4 with two home runs and four RBIs to lead the 5-0 equalizer, so Nelson Briles nailed him with a fastball on the right leg in the first inning of Game 3. ``He threw at me,'' said Yastrzemski, and the Red Sox clubhouse vibrated with insults toward the righthander, who had gone 14-5 during the regular season for manager Red Schoendienst.

Briles was unruffled as he scattered seven hits - three by Jones - in a complete game, 5-2 win with help from Mike Shannon (2 for 3, HR, 2 RBIs) and the usual Brock performance (2 for 4, 2 runs).

When Gibson came back on three days' rest to blind the Red Sox, 6-0, in Game 4 - a five-hit, six-strikeout performance that was played in 2 hours, 5 minutes - it appeared a hopeless cause. Only that was made to order for an unheralded group of players who had been dubbed ``The Cardiac Kids,'' and in Game 5 Lonborg outpitched a young lefthander named Steve Carlton. Nursing a 1-0 lead, Lonborg got two insurance runs in the ninth. Maris homered in the ninth, just the third St. Louis hit, to account for the 3-1 final.

In two games, Lonborg pitched 18 innings and yielded four hits and one run, an performance worthy of Gibson's, but his magical Cy Young season had seemingly ended. As the Red Sox headed to Fenway for Game 6, it seemed Williams would pin his hopes on rookie righthander Gary Waslewski, then, if a Game 7 were necessary, go to Santiago. Waslewski, 25, who had started just eight games and gone 2-2 in the regular season, came through, allowing four hits and two runs in 5 innings to keep the Sox in it until the bats woke up.

And awaken they did. Petrocelli homered twice, Yastrzemski and Smith once each, and Boston broke a 4-4 tie with four runs in the eighth to win Game 6, 8-4, putting the Red Sox in position to host the deciding game of the World Series for the first time since 1918, when they beat the Cubs in Game 6, 2-1, behind Carl Mays.

There had not been a Red Sox World Series triumph in 49 years, but to end that streak, Williams took a gamble. He turned to Lonborg, who had pitched brilliantly twice on three days' rest. But on Thursday, Oct. 12, Lonborg agreed to come back after just two days' rest.

Gallant? No question. But revisionists have criticized the decision because the 22-game winner was roughed up for 10 hits and seven runs in six innings, more support than Gibson would need. Working on his usual three days' rest, Gibson was immense - again. Not only did he hit a home run, but he limited Boston to three hits, struck out 10, and hardly seemed to notice that Boston was able to scrape together runs in the fifth and seventh innings that made for a 7-2 final.

For the Series, Gibson pitched 27 innings, gave up 14 hits, struck out 26, walked five, posted an ERA of 1.00, and won three games. His team had hit just .223 and the great power hitter, Orlando Cepeda (3 for 29, .103), struggled mightily, but Gibson's shoulders were wide, his fastball unhittable, his talents enough to carry St. Louis past a relentless team that captivated a town's imagination like never before.

``We've got a lot of things to look forward to,'' said Yastrzemski, whose MVP/Triple Crown season had carried into the World Series (10 for 25, .400, 3 HRs, 5 RBIs). ``We're going to be pennant contenders for the next five to 10 years.''

A similar sentiment was offered in consolation by my father on the ride home late that afternoon of Game 7, another day in which he had given his blessing to time at Fenway Park in lieu of sixth-grade classes. I was hardly devastated, because while the Red Sox had not won the World Series, I never felt they had to. They had already provided a regular season of charm and magic out of which had come a lifetime of heroes.

Most especially the man driving the car.