Epic ending was heard but not seen
Nixon, glitches led writers to miss epic end of 1970 All-Star Game
Pete Rose slamming into Ray Fosse to win the 1970 All-Star Game is an iconic baseball moment, and a new book recounts how a group of writers covering the game didn’t get to see it thanks to President Nixon and technical difficulties.
The July 14 Major League Baseball All-Star Game in Cincinnati will mark the 45th anniversary of Pete Rose crashing into Ray Fosse to score the winning run in the National League’s 5-4, 12th-inning victory at Riverfront Stadium. The following is an excerpt from a new book by Denny Dressman that centers around the game, HEARD but not SEEN: Richard Nixon, Frank Robinson and The All-Star Game’s most debated play.
Riverfront Stadium was aglow. Literally.
Only the fifth night All-Star Game in Major League Baseball history, the 1970 Midsummer Classic had reached the bottom of the sixth inning, and in the evening sky the lights ringing the upper deck were producing a halo effect above the brand new ball- park alongside the Ohio River.
Richard Nixon, the 37th president of the United States and an ardent baseball fan, settled into his front-row seat.
The American League had moved ahead 1-0 in the top of the sixth on Carl Yastrzemski’s jam-job single to center that drove in — as coincidence that night would have it — the Cleveland Indians’ Ray Fosse. The AL catcher had opened the inning with a single to, yes, Pete Rose in right on the first pitch he saw. If the AL stars could hold that lead, they’d end a sevenyear losing streak.
Sam McDowell, the Cleveland left-hander they called Sudden Sam, was in his third inning on the mound for the AL. He walked Dick Allen and Rose to start the bottom of the sixth, but retired Rose’s Cincinnati Reds teammate, Tony Perez, and the Chicago White Sox’s Jim Hickman on pop flies to second baseman Davey Johnson of the Baltimore Orioles. That brought Johnny Bench to the plate.
The 51,838 partisan fans anticipated something dramatic from their superstar catcher, but Sudden Sam struck Bench out for the
second time in three innings. It was on to the seventh. As Nixon recorded a K in the scorecard he was keeping, up in the press box came an announcement:
The stadium elevator will be shut down after the top of the seventh inning by Secret Service until the president leaves the stadium.
Anyone covering either team’s locker room should take the elevator from the press box to the locker room level BEFORE the middle of the seventh. After the top of the seventh, you won’t be able to go to the locker rooms until the president has left the stadium.
You will be able to see the rest of the game on television monitors in the interview room under the stadium.
I was among dozens of reporters who hustled to the press box elevator, a 25-year-old sports writer hired at The Cincinnati
Enquirer less than a year earlier. It was my first All-Star Game.
Little did I — or any of the other writers who went “down under” as the seventh inning began — know what would happen in the next two hours. In the game, or to us.
Riverfront Stadium, the longawaited successor to Crosley Field, had hosted its first game just two weeks earlier, on June 30 — its opening a half-season behind schedule. So uncertain was Riverfront’s readiness, in fact, that baseball Commissioner Bowie Kuhn had Atlanta Fulton County Stadium waiting in the wings, ready to serve as the site of the 1970 All-Star Game if Cincinnati’s new park could not.
Finally, on June 1, a brief wire service story ended the suspense, saying the game would indeed be played in Cincinnati on July 14. According to Kuhn, facilities related to the game were expected to be in excellent shape.
As it turned out, Riverfront Stadium was not exactly in excellent shape the night of the 41st All-Star Game. The giant outfield scoreboard that hung above the center-field seats went blank for a time during the fourth inning. And that malfunction wasn’t the only glitch.
The so-called “interview room” was a makeshift area in a large, unfinished concrete space under the seats in the lower bowl and near home plate. It was defined by large tarps that hung like a lot of laundry on a backyard clothesline. There indeed were televisions mounted on tall stands, as the announcement in the press box promised. But the screens were blank. The writers, who had been assured they’d be able to see the last few innings on TV, had audio only. Technical problem, we were told. It was being worked on, we were told.
Curt Gowdy, Tony Kubek and recently retired Mickey Mantle — two years removed from his last All-Star Game — were in the booth for NBC. At field level was Lindsey Nelson. The telecast recorded the highest TV Nielsen rating ever for an All-Star Game, 28.5, which equated to 16.67 million households, a 54 share.
But for those in the “interview room,” it might as well have been on radio only. It was as if we had stepped back in time, to 1938 in Cincinnati, when the sixth All-Star Game was heard, not seen.
While media members were making their way down under, the AL increased its lead to 2-0 in the top of the seventh. Fosse again played a prominent role, driving in the run with a sacrifice fly.
Twenty eventual Hall of Fame players graced the All-Star rosters that year (plus the gambler who would surpass the immortal Ty Cobb in total hits and, many argue, belongs in Cooperstown with them). Two managers who made it (AL skipper Earl Weaver of the Orioles and NL third-base coach Leo Durocher, who was in his fifth season as Cubs manager) also took part, along with home-plate umpire Al Barlick, who would become the sixth umpire enshrined.
But for all that star power, a few one-time All-Stars helped to decide the game.
The AL led 4-1 starting the bottom of the ninth. Dick Dietz, a 28-year-old catcher for the San Francisco Giants making the only All-Star appearance of an otherwise undistinguished eight-year major league career, homered to deep center off Catfish Hunter, who came on in the ninth to finish off the NL. A single by Willie McCovey and a sacrifice fly by Roberto Clemente later in the inning tied the score. With the winning run at first, Rose struck out to end the rally and send the game to extra innings.
If only we could go back to the press box for extra innings, the marooned reporters said to each other. But this All-Star Game was so suspenseful that the president decided he’d stay and see how it would end. The elevators remained locked down.
There was no Internet in 1970. No laptops or cellphones, either. Gowdy, with help from Kubek and Mantle, was our link to the outside world, or at least to the world of the game that should have been unfolding before our very eyes.
The Americans managed a single and two doubles in their first three extra innings, but no runs. Meanwhile, the Nationals didn’t put a man on base in the extra innings until two were out in the bottom of the 12th. Then came the first All-Star Game hit of Rose’s illustrious career, a single to center. In nine previous All-Star Game plate appearances, Rose had walked twice, laid down a sacrifice bunt and gone 0-for-6 with four strikeouts.
The next hitter was Billy Grabarkewitz, a 24-year-old Dodgers infielder in his first full big- league season. Grabarkewitz would be out of the majors by 1975, but in the 12th inning of his only All-Star Game, he singled just under the glove of shortstop Luis Aparicio. Rose stopped at second.
Then came the deciding single by journeyman Jim Hickman.
As soon as I heard Gowdy say Rose had scored the winning run by crashing into Fosse, I headed for the AL locker room.
The obvious angle was the play at the plate, but I didn’t know if Fosse would be able, much less willing, to talk about it. My deadline was less than 30 minutes away.
And then I spotted the Orioles’ Frank Robinson, still in uniform even though he had left the lineup about two hours earlier. Asking the Cincinnati icon to comment on what sounded like a controversial play by a former Reds teammate seemed a natural and something I should be able to get quickly.
I figured Robby would be willing to talk with me since I’d interviewed him the day before.
Getting only grunts for answers, I finally asked Robby, point-blank in desperation: “Frank, do you think it was a dirty play?”
At this, Robinson looked up at me, while still seated and bending over his feet.
“You saw the play,” he said. “What do you think?”