In the fifth, with one out, Tiant walked Ed Armbrister, and Rose followed with a single to center. Ken Griffey then fired a cannon shot to centerfield that Lynn chased almost through the wall at the 379-foot marker, his hurtling body whacking it with a thump audible in the stands behind home plate. Lynn crumpled to the warning track and remained there propped like a puppet without strings as Armbrister and Rose fled home and Griffey reached third. Lynn, everyone's American League Rookie of the Year, just sat there, head lolling to one side, looking not so much injured as mortally afflicted. The fans rose in stony, apprehensive silence. Then Lynn was on his feet, miraculously recovered, a Merriwell prepared to continue—"My back, sir? Broken in two, yes. But no matter. One must carry on." There were lively cheers again, but they were short-lived, for Bench slammed one off the wall and Griffey strolled home with the tying run.
The Reds broke the deadlock in the seventh when Griffey and Morgan singled and Foster doubled them home with a drive off the centerfield fence that was so well hit not even Lynn tried to intercept it. Cincinnati increased its advantage to 6-3 in the eighth on Cesar Geronimo's leadoff home run down the short rightfieid line. This was the blow that flattened Tiant. Johnson, who, on the evidence, had been improvidently patient with his ace, removed him for Roger Moret, the cadaverous Puerto Rican lefthander. Anderson, for his part, operated a bullpen shuttle system. By the time of Tiant's tardy departure, Anderson had used five pitchers. He would use three more.
As the Red Sox came to bat in the eighth, the game, the Series, the season seemed at an end in Boston. But no. The indestructible Lynn, leading off, lined a single off Pedro Borbon's leg, and Rico Petrocelli followed with a walk. Anderson quickly replaced the offending Borbon with Rawly Eastwick, who, in relief, had been given credit for two of the Reds' three wins. Eastwick dispatched Dwight Evans on a strikeout and Rick Burleson on a fly ball. Johnson then ordered Bernie Carbo to pinch hit for Moret. The crowd greeted this tactic with unrestrained enthusiasm, for Carbo had pinch hit a home run in the third game, and if he could repeat, the night might be saved. The count on him went to two balls and two strikes. On the next pitch he swung with all the power and grace of a suburbanite raking leaves, fouling it off. On the following pitch, however, he drove a ball to center that cleared the wall and the bases and, praise be, tied the game. Carbo leaped in joy and wonder at his own feat and danced and clapped his hands as he rounded the bases before plunging into a hysterical mob of teammates at home plate. Johnson contrived to prolong the moment by sending Carbo in to play leftfield in the ninth, the crowd celebrating his arrival there with another standing ovation.
Carbo's heroic clout seemed a source of inspiration, for the Red Sox loaded the bases with no one out in the ninth. Here, they fell victim to impetuosity. Lynn popped a fly ball into short left-field that Foster caught at the foul line, not far behind third base. Denny Doyle, the potential winning run on third, unaccountably tagged up in an effort to score, although it was obvious the ball had not been hit far enough to accommodate such daring. Foster threw straight and true to Bench, and Doyle was tagged out at the plate. If Doyle had stayed put, the Red Sox would still have had the bases loaded and only one out. Now they had two outs and nobody on third. Petrocelli ended the once-promising inning by bouncing out to Rose. What had gotten into Doyle? Third base coach Don Zimmer protested that he had not sent him home. On the contrary, "I started yelling, 'No, no, no.' Doyle came up to me after the game and said, 'I thought you said, "Go, go, go." ' " The play represented a principal failing of our time: a breakdown in communication.
And so the teams battled into extra innings. In the 11th Red Sox catcher Carlton Fisk made a fine pickup and throw of Griffey's attempted sacrifice bunt to nail Rose at second base. With Griffey on first by virtue of the fielder's choice, Morgan lined one that seemed destined for home run country in the short portion of right-field. Evans took up an apparently futile chase. At the last moment he threw his glove hand into the air and speared the ball, his momentum carrying him nearly into the seats. Somehow he regained his footing in time to throw toward first base. Carl Yastrzemski, who had moved to first after Carbo's belated entry, fielded the throw in foul territory and tossed to Burleson, who had crossed over from shortstop to cover the base. Griffey was caught flat-footed in the middle of the infield. A two-run home run had become a double play.
It was past midnight now. The game had lasted almost four hours. It was the 12th inning, and Fisk was leading off for the Red Sox. On the second pitch, a low inside sinker thrown by the eighth and last of the Reds' pitchers, Pat Darcy, Fisk took a mighty cut. The ball described a high are toward the wall in left, curving as if to spin foul. Fisk stood several feet down the line, frantically urging the ball fair with his hands. It hit the yellow foul pole above the wall, a home run. A game-winning home run. The Red Sox had won this epic struggle 7-6. It was V-J Day at home plate when Fisk arrived, a hero of heroes in one of the finest games ever played, one that may well have attracted multitudes of new fans who had considered baseball a sedentary occupation.
"I don't think I've ever gone through a more emotional game," said Fisk, sweating from his exertions in a humid clubhouse. "I don't think anybody in the world could ask for a better game than this one. Pete Rose came up to me in the 10th and said, 'This is some kind of game, isn't it.' Pete Rose said that to me."
The concluding game was strangely anticlimactic, although, by ordinary standards, it, too, was a thriller. Once again the Red Sox took a 3-0 lead, achieved mainly on the third-inning wildness of Don Gullett, who walked in two runs. The Reds made up two of the three off Boston starter Bill Lee in the sixth when Perez timed a Leephus pitch perfectly and drove it completely out of the ballpark with Bench on base. Bench had gotten there because Doyle had thrown away a double-play relay, hindered at least partially by Rose's hard charge into second. Rose singled in the tying run in the seventh, and with two out Morgan blooped home the winning run in the ninth on a pitch he hit off the end of his bat. In a Series of such majesty, the climactic blow should have been more consequential, a wall shot or a blast over Lynn's head. But Morgan did the job. As he said afterward, "Now I can go home and say, 'We're the best.' "
And as he spoke, the thousands were already streaming toward Fountain Square to enjoy this slender, sweet victory. It is also possible that at the same time the people down at Wilmington Ford were hurrying to edit the text of their gigantic banner, NINETEEN SEVENTY-SIX, DAMMIT, 1976.