At 5:30, one afternoon last week, Brooklyn stood stock still. Housewives sat breathlessly at their radios, putting off putting on the potatoes. Husbands, on their way home, lingered around parked taxis or tiptoed into jammed barrooms to join already bewitched citizens staring stupidly into space. The Dodgers were playing the Reds in Cincinnati.
It was the last of the ninth. Old Tex Carleton was still pitching. The Dodgers were still ahead, 3-to-0. Cincinnati's Werber was at bat. A strike, then a grounder, right into Cookie Lavagetto's mitt. Frey came up. A strike, two balls,...
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