By Bob Markus


"What Babe Ruth joined together, George Brett tore asunder Friday night. In The House That Ruth Built, Brett wrecked the New York Yankees with a mamoth three-run home run in the seventh inning that sent the Kansas City Royals to a stunning 4-2 victory and into the World Series."

That was the lead of my story for the Chicago Tribune on Oct. 10, 1980, and the memory of that moment is the one I'll hold on to when metaphor gives way to reality later this year and the wrecking ball brings down Yankee Stadium, that great gray lady in the Bronx.

The situation was this: The Royals had taken a two games to none lead in the best of five American League Championship Series by winning the first two at home. But the Yankees, behind lefty Tommy John, were leading 2-1 in the seventh inning of Game Three and if John should falter there was always that ace in the hole--reliever Goose Gossage.

This was Gossage in his prime, the flame-throwing intimidator who had led the American League in saves. The call to the Goose came with two out and a man on base and after an infield hit by U.L. Washington, Brett stepped up to the plate. The Royals third baseman had just completed a season for the ages. His .390 batting average still remains the highest in the majors since Ted Williams hit .406 in 1941. This was drama of the highest order, the fastest gun on the hill versus the fastest bat on the planet and the game and perhaps the season on the line.

Upstairs in his private box, Yankees owner George Steinbrenner watched nervously and murmered: "This is what it's all about; Gossage vs. Brett. Brett is 0-for-7 right now? Don't tell me that; it doesn't mean a thing." And, of course, it didn't. Brett jumped on Gossage's first pitch and sent it screaming into the third deck in right field. There may have been longer homers hit in Yankee Stadium, but not many. There may have been more dramatic homers in baseball's most famous venue. But there can't have been any with more wrenching impact.

There are only a handfull of ball parks that enjoy the iconic status of Yankee Stadium. Fenway Park in Boston. Wrigley Field in Chicago. The rest of the historic hitting grounds have long given way to what is called progress, but actually is fiscal pragmatism. I'm not now nor have I ever been a Yankee fan. But love them or hate them, the Yankees still are the standard by which all other teams are measured. And Yankee Stadium, with its center field monuments and multiple championship banners, is still baseball's Valhalla. So I couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret while watching the closing ceremonies Sunday night.

This was the ball park where I saw Frank Gifford make one of the greatest football catches ever, laying out, parallel to the ground, to snare a Y.A. Tittle pass in a 1963 victory over the Pittsburgh Steelers that put the Giants in the NFL championship game.

This was the park, too, where I saw rival catchers Johnny Bench and Thurman Munson engage in a mano a mano World Series batting duel to turn a four-game Cincinnati sweep into a compelling story--with a little help from Reds' manager Sparky Anderson. If you ever wondered what would happen if Superman fought Captain Marvel you should have been in Yankee Stadium that night. Munson had four straight hits, running his streak to six in a row, while Bench answered with two homers and five r.b.i.s in the 7-2 Cincinnati victory.

When it was over, the Yankees were dead, Munson's ego lay in tatters at his feet, and Anderson had elevated Bench to the realm of the immortals. "Don't ever compare anyone to Johnny Bench," said Anderson, when asked to do just that. "You don't want to embarrass anybody. When Johnny Bench was born I believe God came down and touched his mother on the forehead and said, 'I'm going to give you a son who will be one of the greatest ball players ever seen.'"

Munson was standing next to Anderson at the time and was livid. "Nobody likes to lose," he said, "but when I stand and hear the crock of shit I just heard, that's the most embarrassing thing I've heard tonight. To be belittled after the season I had and the game I had tonight--well, it's sad enough to lose without having your face rubbed in it."

"I wasn't talking about Munson," claimed Anderson, although, neither Bill Dickey nor Yogi Berra being anywhere in the vicinity, it's difficult to understand which Yankee immortal was being trashed. "They've tried to compare him to a lot catchers," insisted Anderson. "They tried to compare him to Carlton Fisk last year. You can't do that. He is in a class totally his own. He is not in the National League or the American League. He is in another league, the league up in the sky."

Unlike his ebullient manager, Bench seemed to have his spikes planted firmly on the ground. "I don't think we have to be that vain to worry about whether someone is greater than we are," he said. "Someone is always greater than we are and someone is always going to come along who's greater still."

For me, this postgame trialogue was like manna from heaven. (I'm not sure what manna is and I probably wouldn't like it, but, oh, well, one cliche's as good as another.) When I had entered Yankee Stadium that night I was handed a message to call my office. When I did, sports editor George Langford told me that my wife was in the hospital, having collapsed from a bleeding ulcer, that she was in no immediate danger, but I needed to get home.

I booked a flight for early the next morning and, although I have never violated the "no cheering in the press box" rule, I was silently praying for a Cincinnati sweep. I would be going home regardless, but I had been assigned to cover the World Series and I didn't want to leave the job unfinished. My prayers were answered--and then some.