Two HRs beat Oil Can Boyd and the
Sox
October 10, 1986 ...
The words tumbled out of Dennis (Oil Can) Boyd's mouth in a constant
procession. Sad words. Tired words in the Red Sox right-hander’s
monologue after losing to the California Angels, 5-3, in the third
game of American League Championship Series, a decision that left
Boston trailing, 2-1.
Every now and then, he would pause for a breath and a
question would be asked from the circle of reporters and microphones and then he
would start rolling again. All that moved were his hands and his mouth as he
talked. He wore a set of long johns and a faded red T-shirt and a serious
expression that did not change.
The memories of two pitches were stuck inside his head as
if they were the lyrics to sad songs. Two pitches that went where they weren't
supposed to go. First they went to the plate too high, too flat, too obvious.
Second, they went over the fence as the Big A crowd of 64,206 started to dance.
A 1-1 pitchers' duel with John Candelaria disappeared as
quickly as that. Two outs in the seventh and Oil Can Boyd was writing some nice
personal history on the national television screen. One bad pitch and Dick
Schofield had a homer and the Angels had the lead. Two bad pitches, with the
second one coming after a single by Bob Boone, and Gary Pettis had a home run
and the score was 4-1, and Oil Can Boyd was leaving the field and the crowd was
hooting.
The mistake to Schofield was a slider that slid the wrong
way. Boyd had struck out Bobby Grich on the last pitch and had walked around the
mound in that purposeful, emotional way of his. When he threw this pitch, he was
throwing it as hard as he could. Overthrowing.
The pitch to Pettis was a screwball. Again, Boyd tried to
throw too hard. Again, the ball hung. Again, there was a homer.
Two pitches. How do you lose a game of so many pitches
simply by throwing two bad pitches? The rest of the painting looked good to Oil
Can Boyd, but here were these two pitches that destroyed everything, two
gruesome slashes of color across all the good work.
Gedman spent the night talking to Boyd, trying to calm him
down. There were assorted conferences on the mound. The nervous, hyper pitcher
always was walking and talking and shaking. The job of controlling his emotions
was a shared job.
The one time his emotions threatened to overtake him came
in the fourth after the controversial call at home plate. First, he was boiling
at plate umpire Terry Cooney for calling California's Wally Joyner safe from a
position close to the pitcher's mound. Second, Oil Can still was boiling when
the call was reversed by third base umpire Rich Garcia. Gedman had to grab him,
lift him off the ground. He had to be almost carried from the field, still
yelling at Cooney, even though the call had been changed.
He talked and he talked and this was part of the smoking
too. On and on he went. Words and more words. The demons began to shrink and the
troubles began to leave and Oil Can Boyd kept after them.
The trouble started after 64,206 obedient had celebrated
the seventh-inning stretch by singing, "Take Me Out To The Ballgame."
It was a 1-1 duel and it looked as though the Can could
keep fooling the Angels when he got Ruppert Jones on a grounder to the mound to
start the inning. Boyd fanned Bobby Grich for the second out, and up came
Schofield. Pow. First pitch. Hanging slider. Over the left-field wall as an
amazed Jim Rice stared helplessly. Dick Schofield. It was 2-1, and suddenly the
Angels looked unbeatable.
No. 9 batter Bob Boone was next, and he drove another
belt-high pitch to center for a clean single. Red Sox pitching coach Bill
Fischer came to the mound. It was pretty clear that the Can had had it, but
Boston fears its bullpen and Pettis was next, and there was no way Pettis could
hit a homer. Wrong again. Pettis drove a high screwball over the fence in right,
and it was 4-1. Ballgame.
