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fastball altogether and was surviving on long, looping curves, changeups, and a nasty comboof a slider and curve known as a slurve. Joe fouled off the first two pitches, both balls, and cursed himself for swinging at bad pitches. He shortened his stance, choked up, and took a ball high. The fourth pitch was a slow, dropping curve, a pitch that might cross the plate at the knees or six inches lower, and Joe took no chances. He chopped down on the pitch, and it slammed hard into home plate—a fair ball. It ricocheted high into the air toward third, where Goodson charged and waited, and waited. When he finally caught the ball, Joe was past first base for his twelfth consecutive hit. Move over Moose Dropo.
    Again, he tipped his hat to the screaming crowd. Willie McCovey, a fierce competitor, tapped him on the rear with his glove and said, “Congratulations, kid.” Joe could only smile and nod. He was dreaming and in another world. Not too many years earlier, his baseball card collection included a double “All-Star” selection featuring both Willie McCovey and Willie Mays.
    In the top of the eighth, McCovey hit a two-run bomb that sailed over the right field bleachers and was probably never found. The Giants led 5–3 when the Cubs came to bat in the bottom of the inning.
    The score was one thing, but the majority of the fans were not there just to watch a ball game. It was a rare moment to celebrate. Their beloved Cubs had not won a World Series since 1908. There had been some memorable moments—the 1945 team lost the Series in seven games to Detroit—though this had been during the “war years,” when the good playerswere serving in the armed forces. There had been a few Hall of Famers—Hack Wilson in the 1920s and Ernie Banks in the 1950s and 1960s. Generally speaking, though, Cubs fans were accustomed to disappointment. They were fiercely loyal, but also desperate for a team or a player that was better than the rest.
    Joe’s thirteenth at bat had enough pressure because of the first twelve hits, but add a runner at each base, two outs, and two runs down, and the tension on the field was suffocating. The crowd was standing, yelling, some were even praying. Hiller was gone, replaced by a right-hander named Bobby Lund, a veteran reliever who threw exceptionally hard. Joe would later admit that he preferred to hit from the left side because he could pick up the fastballs a bit quicker. He was always content to foul off pitches and work the count full, but in this, his thirteenth and possibly most important at bat in whatever career he might eventually have, he decided to be impatient. He took the first pitch, a high fastball, and after one look at Lund’s delivery, he was ready. The second pitch was another fastball, maybe an inch outside, but close enough to rip. Joe hit a scorcher to right center, a bullet that Tito Fuentes at second actually leaped for and missed badly. The ball stayed ten feet off the ground until it crashed into the ivy, where Bobby Bonds played it on one hop and fired home. With two outs, the runners were off with contact, and Joe’s double cleared the bases.
    When he slid unchallenged into second base, he ownedthe record, the one that had been labeled “unbreakable.” Standing on second, he put his hands on his knees and stared at the dirt and for a few seconds tried to believe and savor the moment. The stadium was manic; the noise was earsplitting.
    The Giants catcher, Dave Rader, had the ball and, when the dust settled, called time. Slowly, he walked past the mound to second base, where he ceremoniously handed it to Joe Castle. The crowd roared even louder with this memorable act of sportsmanship.
    Joe removed his helmet and acknowledged the adulation. The umpires were in no hurry to resume play. They were witnessing history, and the game is played without a clock. Finally, Joe walked to the seats beside the Cubs dugout and tossed the ball to his father. Then he went back to second base and