Two hours later, Annie's song drifted about Dodger Stadium: "To-MORROW, to-MORROW, I love ya, to-morrow; you're only a day away."
Or two days, Tuesday in Yankee Stadium to be precise. But who's counting? For the Dodger family, this was as memorable a day as any in recent memory, touching almost all the emotional bases: frustration, futility, fantasy, fright.
We'll eliminate the fright first. Ron Cey is okay. He has a knot near his left ear and, according to his wife Fran, "looks like a conehead with all those bandages wrapped around him." Cey was examined at a nearby hospital and released to spend tonight at home before joining the Dodgers Monday in New York.
"If everything's all right, and we've no reason to believe it won't be, he'll play (in Game 6 of the World Series)," Fran said. "He'll be there when we get 'em."
That 94-mph Goose Gossage pitch felled two Ceys in the eighth, Ron at bat and Fran in the stands. It paralyzed millions.
"If he hadn't had a helmet," Gossage said, "he'd have been dead. It hit so solid. It sounded awful, like hitting a hollow log. It certainly wasn't intentional; my coordination was off the whole inning (he'd walked leadoff man Davey Lopes)."
Why had he stayed near the mound instead of rushing to the fallen Penguin?
"I could see his eyes," Gossage said. "They were open and blinking. There's nothing I could do; my job is not to get upset."
Cey never lost consciousness, said team physicians, one of whom happened to glance at the machine that times pitches and verified the impact speed. Fran Cey nearly fainted.
"Until he started moving," she said, standing just outside the Dodger clubhouse, "I had to have some friends hold me up. It's the most frightening thing. They told me at one point to watch the (scoreboard) screen -- I was getting hysterical -- to see that he was up and talking. When he was able to walk off (with assistance), I could get up and get down here."
Oh, yes, the Dodgers won, 2-1, to take the Series lead, three games to two.
They won in their fashion, coming from off the pace, but with as much explosive drama as sport offers.
Some fan banter best explains it, the almost unfathomable shift in fate for Ron Guidry.
When Dusty Baker struck out to lead off the Dodger seventh, Guidry had retired 17 of the last 19 Dodgers. His Yankee contract runs out after the Series, and his agent has said numbers such as $7 million for five years sound fair. He seemed to be worth, oh, $9 million and change as Baker crept back to the dugout. Like the other Dodgers, he seemed a helpless man.
Then, on an 0-1 pitch, Pedro Guerrero slammed a home run to left-center.
"Make that $3 million," somebody said.
Four pitches later, Steve Yeager sent another Guidry gopher on Guerrero's trajectory, only farther.
"One million dollars," the fan said.
Two mistakes and Lou'siana Lightnin' had been struck numb, gone from being one of the Series masters to the eventual loser. This struck Jerry Reuss as wonderful, for until those back-to-back blasts he had been Guidry-like. But few had been paying attention.
From the third inning, Reuss had allowed just two hits, both singles, and not a runner past first. But for the iron glove and spaghetti arm of Lopes, Reuss would have not allowed a Yankee as far as second for the final six-plus innings.
He survived; he won.
"Because I threw out the scouting report," he insisted. This was in reference to his Game 1 experience in New York, when he faced 13 Yankees and got just eight of them out. "It was my kind of game, and I'm not gonna tell you what I did different 'cause I just might have to face 'em again out of the bullpen."
Reuss was in the runway that leads from the dugout to the clubhouse at the time, having done several curtain calls for his public and acknowledged: "This is what I've waited about 25 years for, to win a World Series game like this. That's the way I wanted to end it (with a three-pitch strikeout).
"That (last) man (Aurelio Rodriguez) was mine."
Modesty did not overcome Reuss.
"It was outstanding," he yelled, skipping almost alone toward the clubhouse. "I was outstanding. Damn right I was."
Later, he did pull his spikes down from the clouds.
"I was happier once," he said. "When I saw my son being born."
When Reuss is right, and he has pitched a no-hitter, he throws strikeouts and grounders. Besides Reggie Jackson's first-inning double, including the other hits, only five balls reached the outfield on the fly.
"When we hold 'em close," Reuss said, "it's just a matter of time. Somebody starts it, someone else does something good and we're off. That's how you become a winner."
What was on Reuss' mind before the Dodger rockets, when it appeared he might pitch a masterpiece and lose?
"Don't deal with that sorta stuff," he said. "I don't deal with what shoulda happened, or what coulda happened. I only care about what did happen."
He is 6 feet 5, with the looks and manner of entertainer Martin Mull. His mind is not cluttered with what some sporting sociologists think it might be. Pixies run amok in there, except on game days.
"There's not a lotta things I think about during a game beyond what I need to," he said. "I clear all the B.S. out. You guys (reporters) bring up a whole lot of stuff that I don't even consider. I only think about what I consider has to be done.
"Boy is that a mouthful."
Nearby, Lopes was somber. With three errors in all, including a rare fielding-throwing double, he had created one of the two nonscoring jams for Reuss.
"No," he said, "nobody said 'shake it off (after that two-error play in the fourth).' I don't want to hear that . . . I want to be alone at times like that. That's why I went into the clubhouse between innings. I don't care how strong you are as an individual, you reach a breaking point sometime.
"I'd reached mine. I had to get away in here, by myself, sit down with no one around, relax and talk to myself. I screwed up."
Until the eighth. From second after that leadoff walk, with Cey's pinch runner on first, Lopes stole third.
"That's me," he said. "I knew I could get it. And a wild pitch or a hit could blow the game wide open. Why not?"