In 500... (or less)

Pouring It On

It was a dreary day in Pittsburgh. Then again, nearly all days in Pittsburgh are dreary.

The judge's shoes made a squishing sound as he plodded through the mud puddles and soft grass.

"Think we ought to postpone?" one of his aides asked. He should have known better. If the judge had any thoughts of putting off the game, they were gone now. It would be played just to spite someone for suggesting it should be rescheduled.

"Eh?" old Landis wouldn't hear of it. "We got a game to play, world championship on the line. You tellin' me these tough ballplayers are afraid to get a little wet?"

The final game of the World Series would be played that afternoon. Come hell or high water, the latter of which seemed like a real possibility.

The skies reflected the mood in Pittsburgh. The Pirates had staged a miraculous comeback in the Series. Now the Big Train, Walter Johnson, was slated to pitch against. Yeah that guy. The three-shutouts-in-four-days Walter Johnson.

Things couldn't have started worse. The threatening clouds rolled over Forbes Field but held in all their rain while Johnson's Washington Senators raced out to a 4-0 lead. You just didn't score four runs against the Big Train, it just wasn't done.

Griffith, the Washington owner, leaned over to the old judge, the commissioner sitting next to him. "Glad we decided to get this one in."

"I decided," the grumpy old man corrected.

Then the rain started. Just a few drops. The Pirates took their cue from the weather, drizzling in a run here, another there. They closed the score to 4-3.

After the fifth inning had completed with Washington ahead 6-4, the judge was satisfied he'd seen enough. The rain was coming down steadier now.

"Griffith," he barked, "You're the world champions. I'm calling this game."

"Once you've started in the rain, you've got to finish it," Griffith nervously replied. "We can't call it now."

For once, old Landis didn't bristle at the idea of someone contradicting him. Fair was fair, and the old judge couldn't tolerate any thought that he might be otherwise.

The skies grew black and ominous. Fans could no longer see the outfield from the grandstand. Noah's Ark could have floated past the batting cage parked in deep centerfield without anyone noticing.

The ball was wet and dirty, and soon the would-be world champs were dropping routine fly balls. And no one could see anything. Harris, the manager, pleaded with the umpire over a fly ball that should have been called foul.

"What did McCormick say it was?" the umpire asked Harris, referring to the home plate umpire.

"He said it was fair."

"Then that's why I saw." Harris trudged back to his position in disgust.

No one had it worse than poor Peckinpaugh. The Senators shortstop dropped an easy popup. Then another. A grounder bounded past him. He'd been the regular season MVP. He'd even staked his team to an 7-6 lead with a homerun in the 8th inning. If there was a drain in soggy Forbes Field, the shortstop's dreams of being a champ were swirling down it.

But there was still the Big Train to get past. Old Walter hadn't pitched that badly, but he was drenched and exhausted. The Pirates scored three in the bottom of the eighth, then sent Johnson, Peckinpaugh, Harris and the rest of the Senators packing in the ninth. The Pirates were the improbable 1925 World Champions.

"And you wanted to finish the game," the old judge huffed to Griffith after the final out. "Serves you right."