From 1993: ‘Let’s play two’: Phillies flirt with daybreak

This story was originally published on July 4, 1993.

The rain came and went, came again, went again. It washed away the fireworks. It drove off the crowd.

And still they played ball at Veterans Stadium.

The clock struck 11, midnight, 1 a.m. At 2 a.m., a sleeping 7-year-old caught a bouncing foul ball in the gut. At 3 a.m., the remaining fans — the few, the loyal, the committed, the oughta-be-committed — did the Wave. At 4 a.m., the lower deck boogied to “Twist and Shout.”

And still they played ball at the Vet.

The people came when the bars let out, when their shifts ended. They came with no tickets, only the desire to see the Phillies win and the sun rise simultaneously. The foursome from King of Prussia had tickets, but left the park and the rain. The foursome drove home, changed clothes, turned on the television, then drove all the way back.

And there they were, still playing ball at the Vet.

The Phillies and San Diego Padres had said, “Let’s play two,” and the umpires were holding them to it. Once the action starts in major-league baseball, only the men in blue have the authority to halt it.

“There are no curfews,” crew chief Dana DeMuth, fresh out of the shower, said at 5 yesterday morning. “It was scheduled as a doubleheader, and our job was to get in the doubleheader. There are no rules or guidelines for canceling

because it’s late, just for bad weather. We played that first game, and the rain was stopped, so you’ve got to roll right into the second game.”

Some players understood the plan. Some didn’t. Pete Incaviglia, the burly Phillies outfielder, was undressing at about 1 a.m., anticipating a warm shower, when coach John Vukovich told him that there would be a Game 2.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he said. “I had no clue.”

The fans were kept in suspense until 1:04, a minute after the final out of a 5-2 Padres victory. “The second game will start at 1:25,” the stadium announcer said firmly and calmly. Delirium ensued. T-shirts, still soggy from six hours of rain, came off their owners’ backs and went twirling in the air — a salute to the disembodied voice. One man turned his back to home plate and bowed repeatedly in the direction of a stadium skybox.

Meanwhile, Incaviglia pulled his shoes back on, grabbed a glove and reported to left field. The first pitch was delivered at 1:28; the final play came at 4:40. Incaviglia crossed the plate in the bottom of the 10th inning, giving the Phillies a 6-5 victory, completing a rally from a 5-0 deficit, averting a doubleheader sweep and ending the latest day in major-league history.

All that remained was for relief pitcher Mitch Williams to take a curtain call. Sent up to bat for himself in the 10th because the Phillies had used up every pinch-hitter, Williams singled home Incaviglia. It was his first at- bat of the season and the third hit of his major-league career. In a place where common sense took a vacation and everyone else worked overtime, a Mitch Williams RBI in the 10th inning seemed perfectly natural.

“My family was here but left after the first game,” Williams said. “I’m sure my mother is asleep by now. My father went to sleep in my truck” in the parking lot.

But now it was over, 12 hours and 5 minutes after the scheduled start. ‘’Shortest doubleheader in history,” someone said later in the Phillies clubhouse. “4:35 to 4:40.”

The culprit was three rain delays totaling 5 hours and 54 minutes, which set a team record and made the groundskeepers heroes on a par with Williams. The 16 men, seven full time, nine part time, pulled up the infield tarps four times — once on a false alarm. The rain returned before the players, and the crew members retreated to their tunnel behind home plate.

At 11 Friday night, Mark “Froggie” Carfagno, the dean of groundskeepers with 23 years’ experience, put on his fifth dry shirt of the day. Two of his mates played catch in the dark, drizzly corridor leading to the field. Dave Raymond, temporarily out of his Phanatic costume, cruised by, trying to think of new ways to amuse the crowd.

“Let’s go out there naked,” he suggested. Before long, Raymond was in green feathers again, leading cheers, discouraging boos and starting water- gun fights with the Padres. He would stay till the end, indefatigably upbeat.

Back in the tunnel, the grounds crew watched the second game with three employees of their favorite after-work haunt. “Tonight,” Carfagno said, ‘’the bartenders had to come to us.”

The ninth ended, and crew members talked of staying straight through the Saturday night game. Home-plate umpire Larry Poncino motioned to the tunnel, and the men sprang to action. “Get the umpire some water, he wants some water,” dugout security guard Nick Palmer hollered over his shoulder. Then he turned back toward Poncino and asked: “How do you like your eggs?”

The stadium ushers were released somewhere around midnight. About 20 supervisors stayed behind, enforcing minimal rules. No drinking, smoking or fighting. Sit wherever you want.

The crowd, about 3,000 strong, clustered in the lowest level. Joe Krause and his buddies were there. They had left a bar in Feasterville to catch the last hour and a half. So were Bill Shank and Gerald Lee, Fishtown neighbors who are regulars at rain-delay freebies.

Lew Clark, an Archbishop Carroll senior, also made a return trip. He and three friends drove back from King of Prussia, toting a blanket and a pillow stuffed into a navy blue sham with ruffles.

When Diamond Vision played a tape of Mike Schmidt’s 500th homer at 2:23 a.m., the fans acted as if they’d just seen it live. Ricky Jordan’s three-run homer in the fifth brought the kind of ovation usually reserved for that other Jordan fellow out in Chicago.

With an inning left, announcer Richie Ashburn leaned out of the WOGL radio booth, pointed to his watch and waved his arms to lead the fans in cheers. They responded gleefully to the old Whiz Kid in the trademark golfing cap and powder-blue sweater.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Ashburn. “I would like to think that this sets a record that is never broken. This is not my best time of the night.”

But baseball is his game, and this doubleheader was baseball at its essence. A summer sun never really sets on the game.

Mickey Morandini, dragging himself through the clubhouse and past his weary teammates, seemed to understand the continuum. “See you today,” he said. And he was right.

This story was originally published on July 4, 1993.