The Incomparable Bob Gibson

Incomparable:  “Eminent beyond comparison.”  

The Webster dictionary defines that single word that best describes Robert Gibson.  Certainly, there are other great pitchers in major league history, some of whom won more games—Tom Seaver, Steve Carlton, Greg Maddux to name but a few—but none of them toed the rubber more memorably.   Gibson’s unique qualities ranged from a fierce demeanor to a balletic but explosive pitching style, buttressed by all round athleticism, and a peerless ability to raise his performance level when it counted most.

Born Pack Robert Gibson in 1935, his name evoked dread in opposing hitters.  His no nonsense persona manifested an inner fire stoked by his older brother Josh who acted in the absence of their father who died of tuberculosis before Bob was born.   Josh instilled pride and a competitive spirit into his brother, and an unwillingness to bend to existing racial barriers.   Josh was so intent on maintaining dignity that he required his team to eat post game watermelon with a fork to deprive watching white folks a chance to snicker.

A superb athlete, Bob probably would have been a professional basketball player if born in a different time or place.  Powerhouse Indiana University showed interest but they had filled their “negro” quota, so Gibson played both baseball and basketball for Creighton University in hometown Omaha, Nebraska. After graduating, he chose baseball, which offered real money though his signing bonus was lower than his Caucasian counterparts—still another slight that Gibson never forgot, and banked for future reference. 

The Rise to Stardom.

To supplement his meager minor league salary, Gibson played basketball in the offseason with the Harlem Globetrotters.  He lasted only one season in part because he could not abide the clowning that came with it, and the St. Louis Cardinals, fearing possible injury to their prospect, offered him additional money not to play.

The road to stardom proved anything but smooth.  His first manager Solly Hemus—a small man with a Napoleonic complex born to a different era—belittled him, and bounced him in and out of the pitching rotation.   During skull sessions to review opposing teams’ hitters, Hemus would tell Gibson that he need not listen as if it would be too distracting for him.  Blinded by his prejudice, Hemus could not see the rare talent right before his eyes; his blatant racism added still more fodder to a burning fire.

The Cardinals ultimately fired Hemus, and Johnny Keane took over the Red Bird reins.  With a new manager on his side, Gibson became the staff leader by 1964, a team that improbably won the pennant after trailing the Philadelphia Phillies by 6.5 games with only 12 games left to play.  A 16 day period revealed the hurler’s lion heart, when Gibson pitched 47 innings—two months work for a ‘modern pitcher’—when it counted most.  The Red Bird right hander won the crucial opening series game on Monday defeating the collapsing Phillies; lost Friday 1-0 to the Mets; then returned to the mound on Sunday for 4.1 innings of relief to win the last game of the season to clinch the pennant. 

In the World Series against the Yankees, Gibson lost a hard-luck Game Two, but went the distance in the pivotal 10-inning thriller in New York to win Game Five.  In the 9^th inning of that game, he made an amazing defensive play when a Yankee hitter drilled a line drive that hit him where his wallet would be.  Gibson reacted cat-like corralling the ball that had ricocheted towards the third base line.  He grabbed the ball as he instinctively hopped upwards and threw sidearm across his body with bulls-eye bullet to first to beat the runner by an eye-lash for the out—saving the game, and likely the Series.

The Cardinal right-hander took the ball on two days rest for Game Seven.  In that decisive game’s final frame of his 47 inning pressure-packed odyssey, Gibson was pitching on fumes.   He surrendered two ninth-inning home runs but remained on the hill to secure the Series’ final out.    When asked why he left Number 45 in the game, the Red Bird skipper simply stated:  “I had a commitment to his heart.”  Keane later resigned as manager, but not before telling him:  “Hoot, you are on your way.” 

Atop the Baseball World.

Watching the Cardinal ace pitch was both a study of physical mechanics and psychological warfare.   A better word to describe his ‘mechanics’ would be ‘balletic’.

Mentally intense, yet physically loose and rhythmic in his delivery, Gibson propelled his whole being into his pitches, toeing the mound’s rubber, utilizing it as a catapult, springing his basketball legs forward to hurl his body towards the plate.  He released the baseball in full flight as it were, his body pirouetting on the ball of his left foot, his arms extended outwards—like he was trying to fly as one scribe put it—with his right leg swinging round his body, landing in a finishing flourish to the hitter’s right. 

In sum, his pitching motion could best be described as a graceful motion exerting a full body forward explosion, almost seeming to jump at the hitter as he released the baseball at 95 mile per hour with electric movement on his fastball, or added nasty for his devastating slider.   He oft became hoarse from the grunting that accompanied his compelled deliveries.

Gibson began his run as a perennial 20-game winner, the only interruption from 1965 through 1970 being 1967, when a Roberto Clemente liner struck and cracked the shinbone of Gibson’s leg.  His determination saw him through three more batters until he collapsed because his leg could no longer support him.

The Cardinal ace returned to the mound in mid-September, and then proceeded to win all three of his World Series complete game starts against the Boston Red Sox, including the Game Seven clincher, adding a home run himself for good measure.  In 27 dominant innings, he gave up just 14 hits and only 3 runs, striking out 31.

As he had been doing for the past four years, Gibson’s inner fire dominated the Red Sox in their pitcher-hitter confrontation.   As he once put it, he was no playground pitcher.  His philosophy was that the hitter chose his half of the plate; the pitcher owned the other half.  ‘Cheating’, or leaning over the plate to pull outside pitches was not allowed.  His friend Bill White, traded to the Phillies, found this applied to everyone after he pulled outside pitches; the next pitch from his former teammate caught him in the elbow.

He refused to talk to opposing hitters, and those who antagonized him paid the price.  Ernie Banks made the mistake of haranguing Gibson who warned him to back off, but Banks persisted.  The Cub found a fastball lodged in his rib cage for his troubles.   Dick Allen once asked him why he ‘threw at the brothers’, and Gibson replied: “because they’re the ones who will beat me if I don’t”.                                                                                      

His no-nonsense mound demeanor was perhaps best described by former National League batting champion Richie Ashburn:  “I always had the feeling that I was standing there as the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan…..He had a menacing, glowering intensity that more than occasionally deepened into a sneer.”    

Gibson treated both black and white opposing players the same.  When asked if he was prejudiced, he replied half in jest that he was not; he hated everyone.

After he retired, Gibson explained that his nearsightedness caused him to squint for the sign, which was mistaken for a scowl, though he said nothing to dispel the myth when he was still pitching.  He preferred to maintain that edge.   He worked rapidly—hitters learned not to step out of the box to slow him down—resulting in games routinely completed in less than 2.5 hours.

Indeed, his starts took on the form of a battle as the opposition followed his lead.  Gibson’s own intensity melded to the other side, his pitching opponent leveraged his game, his opponents on their toes as they raised their own stakes to try to keep pace, perhaps explaining the oft meager run support the Cardinals gave him as his epic 1968 season attests.  Despite a microscopic 1.12 ERA with 13 shutouts and 28 complete games, the Cardinal ace finished that season with  “only” a 22 and 9 record, his losses due to anemic run support.

            The 1968 World Series pitted two excellent teams—the Detroit Tigers and the St. Louis Cardinals, both of which had dominated their respective league, headlined by their respective leagues’ best pitchers in Denny McLain who won 31 and lost but 6 games, and Bob Gibson.

            Beyond statistics, the story line involved two hurlers on a collision course—the unstoppable force meeting the unmovable object—with a color contrast between the two, both in terms of skin and persona.  McLain—white, gregarious and braggadocios—craved headlines. Gibson—black, terse and intimidating to outsiders—stood aloof to all but his teammates.  

            During the hoopla after Detroit clinched the pennant, showman McLain boasted that he not only wanted to beat the Cardinals, he wanted to humiliate them.  As was his wont, Gibson remained quiet, but after two World Series MVPs, and now a season of near perfection, he responded internally: “Fine.  Now watch this.”

            In Game One of the World Series, Robert Gibson walked out to the mound’s center stage, with an amalgam of pride, rancor and adrenalin, and raised the bar higher.  Detroit never had a chance.  Eight Tigers went down on strikes through four innings.   By the 9^th inning, the only question that remained was whether the all-time Series record of 15 strikeouts would remain standing.  Gibson answered with glowering intensity as he struck out the side, kayoing the heart of the Tiger order—Kaline, Cash and Horton—to finish the game in a flourish for a 4 to 0 victory, striking out 17 in broad daylight.  His pitching that day ranks as the most overpowering performance in World Series history.   

            The rematch between Gibson and McLain in Game 4 proved more of the same.  Lou Brock led off the game with a towering home run off McLain who failed to last through the third inning.   Rapid Robert as he was known for the way he worked quickly on the mound as much as his fastball, sped through a soggy afternoon that featured two separate rain delays.  Despite big leads, Cardinal Manager Red Schoendeinst sent Gibson back out to pitch after both delays, the mantra of the day being a starter finished the game he started unless non-performance proved otherwise.  Gibson fanned ten, and homered himself as the Cardinals coasted to a 10 to 1 victory.   Incredibly, Gibson had allowed only 4 runs in his past five World Series’ starts, and had now won seven Series games in a row.

            But not even the great Bob Gibson eluded misfortune when targeted by fate. Gibson felt the cruel hand of providence in Game Seven in a scoreless pitching duel when the Tigers mounted a two out, seventh inning rally.  Cash singled, and Horton followed with a ground single through the hole between short and third that Shannon would have gloved had he not been guarding the line in a misguided ‘no doubles’ defense. 

            Gibson appeared tiring, perhaps from a long regular season, his epic peak performance in Game 1, or his elongated efforts in the twice rain-delayed Game Four.  Up next, Jim Northrup connected with a 390-foot drive to dead center, a tough play but catchable for Curt Flood, the game’s premier defensive outfielder.   It was a play that Gibson needed. 

            But he did not get it.  Flood mistakenly broke in on the ball that was hit directly at him.  Pivoting sharply to reverse himself, he momentarily lost his footing on the loose turf that had been churned by a football game played on a rainy day a few days earlier.  By then it was too late.  The ball flew just over his head landing short of the warning track for a two run triple instead of long out to end the inning.   Freehan’s liner to left skipped by Brock to make it 3 to 0.  The Series was all but over.

            The Cardinals had relied on Gibson and fate one time too many.  The team had lost Game Six in 1964, Games Five and Six in both 1967 and 1968, but always had their ace for the decisive Seventh Game. But Gibson could not win every Series game, though it seemed to St. Louis that he could will himself to do just that.  On this day, his indomitable will lost out to fate, and Mickey Lolich who pitched brilliantly.

            Surely a bitter pill after a magnificent run of pitching, Gibson—always matter of fact in victory—proved noble in defeat when he defended his friend whose misstep opened the floodgates for the Tigers.   He conceded that he thought Flood was going to catch Northrup’s drive because ‘he was Curt Flood’, and he reminded the writers that Flood had bailed him out of many a game with his glove play in centerfield, and that if Flood could not catch it, no one could. 

            This post game interview during the raw emotions of a bitter defeat gave a glimpse into Gibson’s character.  He proved a loyal teammate and clubhouse leader, a rare perch indeed for a pitcher.   Viewed by outsiders to be an angry, scowling man, he was in fact revered by his teammates for his competitive fire.  They affectionately called him “Hoot”, a nickname lifted from a silent screen star named Hoot Gibson.  The label stuck because he was in fact a ‘hoot’, a clubhouse wit with a spot-on talent for mimicry. 

            Later Years.

            Major league baseball reacted to Gibson’s 1968 season by lowering the mound from 15” to 10”, though it made only a marginal difference to the Red Bird ace’s performance.  The proud Cardinal team struggled in 1969, to such an extent that Gibson—who narrowly missed leading the league in earned run average—pitched 12 innings on the last day of the season to gain his 20^th victory.  One could imagine that he would have kept pitching that night as long as it took secure that pitching milestone.

            In 1970, Gibson won a career high 23 games, and another Cy Young award.  One game stands out in an otherwise forgettable Cardinal season because it typified Gibson’s competitiveness.  Bob was ‘off’ his game when he opened the contest against Chicago with ten straight balls, and Billy Williams launched pitch number 11 into the mezzanine.  Cub fans in attendance went wild, but Hoot slammed the door shut thereafter, adding two hits himself, including a long home run that silenced Cub fans and boosted the Red Birds to victory.   Gibson would finish his career with 24 home runs, which along with nine gold gloves for his defensive prowess, evinced his overall athleticism and competitive spirit.

            In 1971, he added a no hitter to his resume, and in 1972 he fell just one short of his annual goal, winning 19 games.  Thereafter, injuries—particularly to his knee that deprived him of the essential spring off the mound to deliver his heat—slowed him to 12 wins in 1973 and 11 in 1974.  In 1975, he found himself on the steep decline of his former glory, though on one memorable night he reigned supreme when he came out of the bullpen in the 12^th inning and struck out the side with massive heat to preserve the victory, a moment that raised goose bumps on Cardinal fans.

            Major League Baseball has ceded much of the Game’s heroics to string pulling managers who call for pitchers from the bullpen as many as nine men in a contest, sometime stretching the game’s length to four hours or more.  Pitching, once a mano-mano contest, has ‘evolved’ into an assembly line of relief hurlers coming in for an out or two until the next pitching android arrives to take his place.   Designated hitters hide still more nondescript pitchers from our viewing pleasure. 

            Thankfully, Bob Gibson pre-dated this evolution.  Neither article nor ode can truly capture the character of this Cardinal great unless the reader actually saw him perform.  Robert Gibson was a mensch—sole, singular, unique—when compared to all others.   We will not see his likes again on the baseball diamond.

paul lore