Pennant Promise

His clothes drenched by the downpour that turned Comiskey Park into a quagmire, his spirits doused by the dismal sight of his favorites limping through their second game in a row, Chicago White Sox Fan Joseph Gorman was moved to rowdy wrath. He leaned over the visitors' dugout, took careful aim and treated Yankee Manager Casey Stengel to a faceful of beer. The response was expansive. "He wasn't cheap," said Casey of the attacker. "He hit me with a full cup." The feelings on both sides of the matter were plain. The White Sox were in the process of piddling away what might well be their last chance at the pennant.

When they crept into Chicago last week, Casey's world champs were in sorry shape. Their campaign in the West was a wreck: they had lost five out of seven games, seen their lead over the Sox dwindle to 32 games. Their pitching staff was riddled with walking wounded: Little Bobby Shantz, who had carried the Yanks all summer, was nursing a sore pitching finger; Whitey Ford was worried with a shoulder that throbbed whenever he thought of throwing; World Series Hero Don Larsen was in disrepair. Their heaviest hitter, Center Fielder Mickey Mantle, was hobbled with shin splints; he was limping to the plate on legs taped from ankle to thigh. No game counts more than another in the precise percentages of the record book, but by any calculation, the games with the White Sox last week were games that the Yankees had to win. Somehow, they did just that.

The First Game belonged to a squat pro named Lawrence Peter Berra. All season Catcher Yogi has been floundering through a batting slump, never getting his average up much above his weight (192 Ibs.). But when he does hit, he still has his Yankee habit of making his hits count. His three-run homer in the eighth inning broke up the game, and the Yankees coasted home, 12-6.

The Second Game belonged to burly righthanded pitcher Bob Turley. Bullet Bob had come on in the late innings just the night before to hold off the Sox. Now he relieved Larsen in the sixth. His fast ball hopped over the corners, kept Chicago batters off balance and kept the Yankees teetering on top of a 5-to-4 lead.

The Third Game belonged to the ancient of the Yankees, Enos Slaughter, 41. The tireless outfielder, who gets his pep from a diet of blackstrap molasses and sunflower-seed oil, waited until the eleventh inning, while Whitey Ford, his sore arm suddenly healthy, held the Sox to a 1-to-1 tie. Then, Enos stepped to the plate, took an effortless swing at the first pitch and sent the ball high and far into the right center-field stands. After Hank Bauer's third-inning homer, that was all the Yankees needed to win, 2-1, and head home with a 6 1/2-game lead.

Professional Yankee haters had been singing a familiar lament: "The Yanks are trying to buy another pennant." There were rumors that the pitching-poor New Yorkers were trying to buy Sal ("The Barber") Maglie from the outpaced Dodgers. This week the rumors became fact. In New York, at least, even anti-Yanks had reason to be thankful. Their Giants were taking it on the lam; their Dodgers were talking flight and fading fast. The Yanks were not only sticking around, but had bolstered their promise of a World Series, divided with Milwaukee's high-flying Braves.

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