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Boston Globe, September 28, 1927
Special World Series Edition
BOSTON TAKES FIRST GAME OF SERIES, 5-3
Timely Home Runs, Brady’s Mound Work Are The Difference
Special to the Globe by PAT O’FARRELL
BOSTON—There is nothing like the first game of a World Series at Fenway Park, especially when the Red Sox win! That is exactly what happened today, as Neal Brady demonstrated his competitive fire by pitching a great ballgame despite a sore arm, and we batters had just enough success against an equally tough pitcher, Satchel Paige.
The crowd today was large and enthusiastic, and I felt their support surround me like something tangible as I stood on the baseline with my teammates during the pre-game introductions. No sooner than the game began, however, I was jolted back into the reality of just how tough a team the Cubs are. Their leadoff man, Charlie Hollocher, hit a long double off Neal Brady, and after George Grantham moved Hollocher along with a ground out to me, Oscar Charleston drove in the first run of the Series with a long fly that sent our centerfielder, Chick Shorten, to the wall. Brady bore down and retired the tough Gabby Hartnett to end the inning.
We told Neal we would get that run back, and we did just that and more in our half of the inning. With one out, Lefty O’Doul hit safely, and then I got my first look at the offerings of Satchel Paige. In fact, I got three good looks at them, and when the umpire called out “strike three,” I fully realized what a great pitcher Paige already is. Fortunately for us, Lou Gehrig kept the inning going with a hit, and brought Frankie Frisch to the plate. Frankie got his bat on a fast one from Paige, and hit it over the right field fence to give us a 3-0 lead. Fenway Park seemed to sway with the cheers of the crowd.
In the fourth inning, Charleston’s base hit and a double by Dick Burrus made the score 3-2, and the Cubs tied the game in the sixth when Hollocher scored on a double play grounder by Charleston. The crowd gasped audibly when, after retiring Hartnett to end the inning, Brady came off the field rubbing his right arm and wincing. Neal is a tough cookie, however, and he assured Bill Carrigan that he could continue.
Up to this point, I had done nothing with Paige’s slants besides watch them dive across the plate, or swing and miss at them. In our half of the sixth inning, Paige finally made a mistake, and I got the meat end of the bat on the ball with authority. I knew I had hit it well, and when I was rounding first base, the umpire signaled to me that it was a home run! I tipped my cap to the cheering crowd, whose ovation carried me around the bases.
We scored the game’s final run in the eighth, when Phil Todt, whom Carrigan sent up to bat for Judy Johnson, singled home Chick Shorten after a perfect sacrifice by Brady.
Neal pitched the entire nine innings, despite the fact that he was in obvious discomfort. “This is the World Series,” he said later. “I have all winter long to rest my arm.”
Every boy dreams of hitting a home run to win a big game, and from the time the first World Series was played in 1903, my teenaged dreams centered on just such a feat. I am now forty years old, and now I know that the reality far exceeds my boyhood imaginings.
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