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Mutiny and a
Bounty
Despite a disgruntled crew and a deserting skipper, Oakland
won the swag in a tempestuous World
Series
by William
Leggett
Excerpt from October 29, 1973
No complete game pitched by either side. More men left on
base than ever before in a World Series. Hitters striking
out in staggering numbers. Men tracking batted balls with
all the dexterity of soldiers crawling through a minefield.
The winning manager
quitting a world championship team before the first sip of
champagne. The best player in the tournament having to
defend himself against an overexuberant fan with two out in
the final
inning.
It was that kind of crazy Series. Last Sunday afternoon the
Oakland A's, a mutinous baseball team, mercifully ended it
by giving a 5-2 beating to the New York Mets, the club that
had limped in with a record just shading the high side of
.500. But while
hardly an artistic triumph, it was indubitably the A's
second consecutive championship and the fourth in six years
for the much maligned American League, and that should
lower the altitude of the National League's high
horse.
For the third October in a row the Series had gone to a
seventh game, and for the third October in a row it
confounded lovers of the predictable. If New York's
pitching was admirable, as expected, the Mets fielded so
poorly at times that one wondered if
a spell had been cast on their famous gloves. On the other
hand, the Mets were not supposed to outhit the A's but
they did, .253 to .207. Even so, they had a line of
frustrating innings almost beyond belief; over one stretch
New York left runners on
base in 30 of 34 innings. Oakland, which during the past two
seasons had hit more home runs than any other American
League team, sent 218 men to the plate before finally
getting a ball out of the park in the deciding
game.
Poorly played though it was overall, the 70th Series
produced some dramatic defensive plays in addition to its
comic highlights. Oakland's excellent leftfielder, Joe
Rudi, made a month's worth of startling catches in a week
and New York Shortstop Bud
Harrelson played his position as well as it can be
played.
But not until the fifth game did the Series get out from
under its zany peripheral activities and permit a viewer to
concentrate on the Rudis and the Harrelsons in short, on
baseball. The A's resembled a soap-opera troupe, and
Charles O. Finley, the
jolly green gew-gaw who owns them, exhibited all his familiar
charm and grace. At one stage an Oakland player was asked
if he had talked to Finley recently. "No, not at
all," he said. "Every time I call him he's out
walking his pet
rat."
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