For countless, shall we say, “seasoned” Red Sox fans, this coming Tuesday, Oct. 1, is a High Holy Day, and this is something many of the young’uns just don’t understand.
On Sunday, Oct. 1, 1967, the Red Sox culminated a summer of baseball by defeating the Minnesota Twins by a 5-3 score to win their first American League pennant in 21 years. Well, almost. Because in a wonderful demonstration of Yogi’s Law, it actually wasn’t over until the Angels defeated the Tigers in the second game of a doubleheader in the early evening. Only then could the Red Sox players and staff fully celebrate their accomplishment. There would be no tiebreaking playoff game on Monday. Let the champagne flow.
They won the pennant but would lose the World Series to the Cardinals. Hence, 21st century fans, spoiled by World Series championships in 2004, 2007, 2013, and 2018, say, “What’s the big deal? You didn’t win it all.” That’s true, but the simple fact is that the 1967 “Impossible Dream” season marks the dividing line in Red Sox history.
Allow me to explain.
It was a vastly different baseball world in 1967, both locally and nationally. Ted Williams had retired in 1960, and without him, interest in the Red Sox steadily diminished. In the first six years post-Thumper, the Red Sox finished sixth, eighth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and ninth in a 10-team league. By 1965, attendance was down to 652,201.
Fenway Park was not Clark Booth’s “Baseball Basilica.” It was not “America’s most beloved ballpark.” Fenway was more like the old sofa at grandma’s house. Tom Yawkey would even go on record in June of ‘67 to say that Fenway was outmoded and needed to be replaced.
There had been a hopeful finishing spurt in 1966, but few were expecting any kind of major excitement in ‘67. When Dick Williams, the new skipper, said in spring training that his team would win more games than it lost, most people rolled their eyes.
The team’s best player, Carl Yastrzemski, had been compiling a pretty nice résumé, one that included a stellar 1963 season in which he led the league in batting, on-base percentage, hits, and doubles. He also was making playing left field, especially in Fenway, something of an art form, with Gold Gloves in 1963 and 1965.
He was regarded as a singles and doubles hitter (95 career homers through ‘66, with a high of 20 in ′65), but he wanted to be something better, so he spent the winter bulking up under the tutelage of trainer Gene Berde. With his new body, he began working on pulling the ball more, and the results were on immediate display. This was a new, downright dangerous Yaz, a 44-home run Yaz, a Triple Crown Yaz.
Righthander Jim Lonborg was starting his third season, with a career record of 19-27. But he had spent the winter refining his game, with an emphasis on pitching more inside. But no one dreamed he could produce a 22-9 Cy Young season.
One more player of particular interest was the ultimate Local Boy Makes Good, Tony Conigliaro.
It was evident from the start this was a better ball club, but things took a major upward turn with a 10-game winning streak at the expense of Baltimore, Detroit, and Cleveland from July 14-23. A large crowd greeted the Red Sox at Logan Airport when they returned, and the official love affair between team and town had begun. Baseball was back in Boston.
For the rest of the summer, you couldn’t go anywhere in Greater Boston without hearing the voices of Ken Coleman and Ned Martin coming at you from car radios at every stoplight or on front porches. And leading the cheers was Jess Cain, the WHDH morning man, who had everyone singing along to his composition, ”Carl Yastrzemski, The Man They Call Yaz.”
A personal note: I had taken Elaine Murray, my then-girlfriend, now wife of 55 years, to a Sunday doubleheader on May 21. The Sox won both games, and those were the first two of 27 games I would attend, ending, of course, in a box seat on Oct. 1. I consider that summer following the Red Sox as the greatest fan experience of my life.
What spiced the plot was that the Red Sox were involved in a truly legendary pennant race. And, remember, this was two years pre-“playoffs.” You either won the pennant or you went home. It was a four-team struggle involving the White Sox, Twins, and Tigers. Scoreboard watching was a must.
There was a low point in the midst of the general euphoria. I was in the crowd the night of Aug. 18 when Tony C was hit in the face by the Angels’ Jack Hamilton (decidedly unintentional, it must be said). It was frightening for the fans and teammates, and life-altering for Tony C.
It came down to a weird and wonderful final week. Things looked gloomy when the Sox lost a pair to the Indians on Tuesday and Wednesday, the first to — how about this? — Luis Tiant, and the second to — can’t make this up — future Sox hurler Sonny Siebert. The quirky schedule gave them offdays both Thursday and Friday, setting the stage for a memorable season-ending matchup with the Twins.
Yastrzemski’s three-run seventh-inning homer off Jim Merritt gave them a Saturday win. Lonborg, 0-3 vs. the Twins, would be going on Sunday. His opponent: 20-game winner Dean Chance.
With the Twins leading, 2-0, in the sixth, Lonborg triggered a five-run inning with a bunt single. By the time the inning was over, the Red Sox had five runs on four singles (including a bases-loaded shot to center by Yaz), a poor throw by shortstop Zoilo Versalles, two wild pitches by reliever Al Worthington, and an error by first baseman Harmon Killebrew.
The Twins would get a run in the eighth, but the inning ended when Yaz threw out Bob Allison trying to stretch a single into a double as Tony Oliva looked on from third base. Years later, I was able to ask Oliva what he was thinking as he glared at Allison, and he said, “You don’t want to know.”
Lonborg got through the ninth, and while there was a good on-field celebration, everyone had to wait for the conclusion of the Tigers game with the Angels to make sure they were solo champions. WHDH had been able to pick up the Detroit broadcast, so we all were listening when Tigers second baseman Dick McAuliffe came to bat with a chance to tie the game for Detroit.
In 674 plate appearances that season, McAuliffe had hit into only one double play. But in PA No. 675, that’s exactly what he did to end the Detroit season and prolong ours. Yes, “ours.” This was a true civic triumph.
The 1967 Red Sox restored baseball interest in Boston and set the stage for all the good things that have followed. It all came to a head on that glorious October afternoon. Winning a World Series would have been nice, but we’ll always have Oct. 1.
Oct. 1: It’s worth breaking out the bubbly.
Bob Ryan can be reached at robert.ryan@globe.com.