Morris a Hall of Famer, If You Look at the Right Numbers
You want the Cliff’s Notes to Jack Morris’s pitching career? I’ll give them to you, boiled down to two games. And that’s out of 562—it doesn’t get more pared down than that.
It’s a cool Saturday in early April, 1984 in Chicago. The Tigers are off to a 3-0 start to their season. Maybe they could keep it up and get out of the gate fast; who knows?
Morris is on the mound at Comiskey Park, and he’s off to a rousing start—the first nine White Sox are up and down in order, and already Jack has registered four strikeouts.
Then Morris gets erratic in the fourth inning, walking the bases loaded with nobody out. His brilliance has suddenly vanished. The White Sox fans are bundled up and ready to burst out, sensing a big inning.
Chicago’s cleanup hitter, Greg “Baby Bull” Luzinski, is at the plate. The Tigers’ measly 2-0 lead looks about as safe as a drunk’s wallet in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
But Morris throws a split-fingered fastball—his specialty—and gets Luzinski to tap the baseball back to the mound. Morris, a.k.a. The Cat, pounces on it and starts a nifty pitcher-to-catcher-to-first base double play.
The next batter, Ron Kittle, strikes out. Threat over, inning over.
The White Sox fans suddenly are gagging on their Chicago dogs.
Except for one leather-lunged buffoon.
Morris gets through the fifth, and the sixth, and the White Sox still don’t have a hit. Jack walks four batters through six innings, but is being a cheapskate with the base hits.
The leather-lunged fan situated behind the Tigers’ dugout begins taunting Morris, trying to jinx his no-hitter.
“You’ll never get your no-hitter, Jack!” the fan bellows, among other things unfit to print here.
Morris takes note, his eyes narrowing at the fan every time he walks back to the dugout, having registered another hitless frame.
In the seventh, Morris walks another. That’s five free passes, but still no hits.
Also in the seventh, Dave Bergman, a slick-fielding first baseman, enters the game for, of course, defensive purposes. Makes sense.
Right on cue in the seventh, Bergman sprawls to his left, snaring a hard ground ball apparently destined to prove the leather-lunged fan correct. But Bergman, on his back, flips the ball to Morris, covering first base.
The no-hitter is saved, but the blowhard behind the Tigers’ dugout doesn’t quit.
“Two more innings, Jack! Think you can do it? I don’t think so!”
Morris narrows his eyes some more at the dude.
In the ninth inning, the Tigers safely ahead, 4-0, Morris walks Luzinski with two outs, the sixth base on balls. But still no White Sox hits.
Finally, Morris finishes his gem. He strikes out Kittle again—on a split-finger, of course—and within moments he’s engulfed inside the Paul Bunyan arms and barrel chest of catcher Lance Parrish.
A no-hitter! The first by a Tigers pitcher in nearly 30 years.
But there’s still some unfinished business.
After the mob gets off him, Morris makes his way back to the dugout. He sees the blowhard fan.
“I GOT YOUR TWO MORE INNINGS, YOU $#!@!” Morris screams at the screamer.
NOW Jack can celebrate his no-hitter in the clubhouse.
Fast forward seven years and six months later.
Morris is on the mound for his home state Minnesota Twins against the Atlanta Braves. It’s Game 7 of the World Series—that’s all.
The Twins are playing Game 7 thanks to a Kirby Puckett home run in the bottom of the 11th of Game 6 the night before—they call it a “walk-off homer” these days.
So here comes Morris, working on three days’ rest, which is one day less than his norm during the regular season. Twins manager Tom Kelly hopes he can get six or seven innings out of his ace before turning matters over to his bullpen.
A pitching duel breaks out between Morris and the Braves’ John Smoltz. The game is scoreless headed into the eighth inning.
Suddenly, Morris is in a jam—big time. A leadoff single and a double put runners on second and third with nobody out. The Braves’ runner at third, Lonnie Smith, inexplicably hesitates rounding second base, costing his team a run.
But a rally with runners on second and third with no outs ought to produce at least one run, right?
Wrong, for this is Jack Morris, one of the best clutch pitchers in our lifetime.
Morris induces a weak grounder to first. Then he intentionally walks David Justice, filling the bases, setting the stage for an inning-ending double play.
Which Morris gets, when Sid Bream grounds into an unusual first-to-catcher-to-first DP. Threat over, inning over. World Series, far from over.
Smoltz is replaced in the bottom of the eighth, but the Twins fail to score.
Morris sets down the side in order in the ninth inning. It’ll go down as a complete game in the record books, but the game is hardly complete in the truest sense.
The Twins put a goose egg on the board in the ninth. Would Morris return to the mound in the 10th inning? Of Game 7 of the World Freaking Series?
Would he!
Manager Kelly tries to pull him, but Morris would have none of it. Jack is ready to meet Kelly in the runway and go bare-fisted with his manager in order to pitch the 10th.
Morris takes the hill in the 10th, and the three Braves at-bat don’t even get the ball out of the infield. They go down: pop up, strikeout, ground out.
The Twins scratch out a run in the bottom of the 10th to win the World Series. Morris pitches 10 shutout innings on three days’ rest, is 2-0 in the series and wins the MVP Award. His ERA in the series is 1.17.
Those two games capsulate Jack Morris—the man and the pitcher: snarling, defiant, brilliant, fearless. And cocky.
They didn’t let Morris into the Hall of Fame again this week. That makes 12 years in a row. Of the needed 75 percent, Morris was named on a little more than half the ballots. He’s still not all that close.
You want to play numbers? You want to come at me with your 3.90 ERA—the number that the anti-Morris folks love to throw out there?
OK, let’s play some numbers.
Morris won 254 games and had a winning percentage of .577, which for a baseball team equals a 93-win season. He walked an average of 3.3 batters per nine innings, while striking out nearly six per nine. He won 163 games in the 1980s, including 20 or more twice in the decade. In another year, he won 19.
He won seven postseason games and lost only four. Twice he was 2-0 in a World Series (1984 Tigers, 1991 Twins).
They used to say that Hall of Fame goalie Grant Fuhr might not have the prettiest goals-against average around, but when the marbles were on the line, Fuhr would make the big stop.
You say you don’t like Morris’ 3.90 ERA, which would be the highest for any pitcher in the Hall of Fame if he was inducted?
I’ll take the wins—an untold number of which came when there were a lot of marbles on the table.
Hang in there, Jack. Sooner or later those voting folks are bound to come to their senses.
It’s a cool Saturday in early April, 1984 in Chicago. The Tigers are off to a 3-0 start to their season. Maybe they could keep it up and get out of the gate fast; who knows?
Morris is on the mound at Comiskey Park, and he’s off to a rousing start—the first nine White Sox are up and down in order, and already Jack has registered four strikeouts.
Then Morris gets erratic in the fourth inning, walking the bases loaded with nobody out. His brilliance has suddenly vanished. The White Sox fans are bundled up and ready to burst out, sensing a big inning.
Chicago’s cleanup hitter, Greg “Baby Bull” Luzinski, is at the plate. The Tigers’ measly 2-0 lead looks about as safe as a drunk’s wallet in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
But Morris throws a split-fingered fastball—his specialty—and gets Luzinski to tap the baseball back to the mound. Morris, a.k.a. The Cat, pounces on it and starts a nifty pitcher-to-catcher-to-first base double play.
The next batter, Ron Kittle, strikes out. Threat over, inning over.
The White Sox fans suddenly are gagging on their Chicago dogs.
Except for one leather-lunged buffoon.
Morris gets through the fifth, and the sixth, and the White Sox still don’t have a hit. Jack walks four batters through six innings, but is being a cheapskate with the base hits.
The leather-lunged fan situated behind the Tigers’ dugout begins taunting Morris, trying to jinx his no-hitter.
“You’ll never get your no-hitter, Jack!” the fan bellows, among other things unfit to print here.
Morris takes note, his eyes narrowing at the fan every time he walks back to the dugout, having registered another hitless frame.
In the seventh, Morris walks another. That’s five free passes, but still no hits.
Also in the seventh, Dave Bergman, a slick-fielding first baseman, enters the game for, of course, defensive purposes. Makes sense.
Right on cue in the seventh, Bergman sprawls to his left, snaring a hard ground ball apparently destined to prove the leather-lunged fan correct. But Bergman, on his back, flips the ball to Morris, covering first base.
The no-hitter is saved, but the blowhard behind the Tigers’ dugout doesn’t quit.
“Two more innings, Jack! Think you can do it? I don’t think so!”
Morris narrows his eyes some more at the dude.
In the ninth inning, the Tigers safely ahead, 4-0, Morris walks Luzinski with two outs, the sixth base on balls. But still no White Sox hits.
Finally, Morris finishes his gem. He strikes out Kittle again—on a split-finger, of course—and within moments he’s engulfed inside the Paul Bunyan arms and barrel chest of catcher Lance Parrish.
A no-hitter! The first by a Tigers pitcher in nearly 30 years.
But there’s still some unfinished business.
After the mob gets off him, Morris makes his way back to the dugout. He sees the blowhard fan.
“I GOT YOUR TWO MORE INNINGS, YOU $#!@!” Morris screams at the screamer.
NOW Jack can celebrate his no-hitter in the clubhouse.
Fast forward seven years and six months later.
Morris is on the mound for his home state Minnesota Twins against the Atlanta Braves. It’s Game 7 of the World Series—that’s all.
The Twins are playing Game 7 thanks to a Kirby Puckett home run in the bottom of the 11th of Game 6 the night before—they call it a “walk-off homer” these days.
So here comes Morris, working on three days’ rest, which is one day less than his norm during the regular season. Twins manager Tom Kelly hopes he can get six or seven innings out of his ace before turning matters over to his bullpen.
A pitching duel breaks out between Morris and the Braves’ John Smoltz. The game is scoreless headed into the eighth inning.
Suddenly, Morris is in a jam—big time. A leadoff single and a double put runners on second and third with nobody out. The Braves’ runner at third, Lonnie Smith, inexplicably hesitates rounding second base, costing his team a run.
But a rally with runners on second and third with no outs ought to produce at least one run, right?
Wrong, for this is Jack Morris, one of the best clutch pitchers in our lifetime.
Morris induces a weak grounder to first. Then he intentionally walks David Justice, filling the bases, setting the stage for an inning-ending double play.
Which Morris gets, when Sid Bream grounds into an unusual first-to-catcher-to-first DP. Threat over, inning over. World Series, far from over.
Smoltz is replaced in the bottom of the eighth, but the Twins fail to score.
Morris sets down the side in order in the ninth inning. It’ll go down as a complete game in the record books, but the game is hardly complete in the truest sense.
The Twins put a goose egg on the board in the ninth. Would Morris return to the mound in the 10th inning? Of Game 7 of the World Freaking Series?
Would he!
Manager Kelly tries to pull him, but Morris would have none of it. Jack is ready to meet Kelly in the runway and go bare-fisted with his manager in order to pitch the 10th.
Morris takes the hill in the 10th, and the three Braves at-bat don’t even get the ball out of the infield. They go down: pop up, strikeout, ground out.
The Twins scratch out a run in the bottom of the 10th to win the World Series. Morris pitches 10 shutout innings on three days’ rest, is 2-0 in the series and wins the MVP Award. His ERA in the series is 1.17.
Those two games capsulate Jack Morris—the man and the pitcher: snarling, defiant, brilliant, fearless. And cocky.
They didn’t let Morris into the Hall of Fame again this week. That makes 12 years in a row. Of the needed 75 percent, Morris was named on a little more than half the ballots. He’s still not all that close.
You want to play numbers? You want to come at me with your 3.90 ERA—the number that the anti-Morris folks love to throw out there?
OK, let’s play some numbers.
Morris won 254 games and had a winning percentage of .577, which for a baseball team equals a 93-win season. He walked an average of 3.3 batters per nine innings, while striking out nearly six per nine. He won 163 games in the 1980s, including 20 or more twice in the decade. In another year, he won 19.
He won seven postseason games and lost only four. Twice he was 2-0 in a World Series (1984 Tigers, 1991 Twins).
They used to say that Hall of Fame goalie Grant Fuhr might not have the prettiest goals-against average around, but when the marbles were on the line, Fuhr would make the big stop.
You say you don’t like Morris’ 3.90 ERA, which would be the highest for any pitcher in the Hall of Fame if he was inducted?
I’ll take the wins—an untold number of which came when there were a lot of marbles on the table.
Hang in there, Jack. Sooner or later those voting folks are bound to come to their senses.
posted by Greg Eno at 9:24 AM
Proud Member of DIBS
2 Comments:
From 1979-1987, Morris was a lot like Verlander, very good and durable but never the best in the league. Then he stunk in the playoffs in 87 and had three sub-par years from 88-90 just like the rest of the team. He bounced back later in his career with the Twins. I think 88-90 killed his Hall of Fame bid. I think if he pitched better in that period, he would have made it.
I'll celebrate if he ever makes it but I think the two who really deserve it are Whitaker and Trammell. They have received way too little support.
Good point, Lee, but I still think what he did after the Tigers vaults him to HOF status.
Asd for Lou and Tram, it's disgusting not only that they're not in the HOF, but that they get so LITTLE consideration! It's demeaning.
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