1945 10-05 Cubs at Tigers World Series Game 3

Grey Light Over Briggs Stadium: How a Quiet Mastery Turned a Rubber Game into a Cubs Triumph

The afternoon began damp and patient, a city wrapped in a blue haze that blurred the skyline and made the outfield look distant. It was a setting more suited to close, careful work than to fireworks — and that is exactly what transpired. In a World Series pitched between tendencies and temperament, Claude Paso (Passeau), a veteran from Mississippi with a farm to tend and a reputation for craft, took center stage and converted a misty, low-visibility afternoon into the theatre of a one-hit masterpiece.

Pitching as a Slow Art

Pitchers sometimes win by intimidation, sometimes by velocity. Step back and watch Paso: he won with variety. The Tennessee-born angles of his changeup, the crossfire sidearm that bent hitters off balance, a fast ball he would suddenly flash when it was needed — these were delivered not for spectacle but to set a cadence. Detroit’s lineup, heavy with long-ball potential and with Hank Greenberg looming, swung often at the wrong rhythms. The result was the rare World Series one-hitter, a performance that read less like domination and more like a slow, exacting dismantling.

Small Plays, Big Consequences

Baseball is a game of inch-wide margins. The Cubs’ first run arrived in the fourth when Peanuts Lowry doubled off the left-field screen and an opportunistic single by Bad Bill Nicholson found the soft spot in short left-center. Later, a two-bagger by Mickey Livingston in the seventh, a Hughes sacrifice and Paso’s fly to center combined to manufacture a third run that rose from situational hitting rather than a single thunderbolt. Conversely, two Tigers miscues — Eddie Mayo’s bobble and a later dropped play that turned into an extra base — multiplied minute failures into decisive deficits.

Defense and the Quiet Rhythm of a Team

The Cubs’ defense was taut, reactive and, at times, opportunistic. Phil Cavarretta’s steady first-base work, Nicholson’s range and the clean relay from center held back threats that might have widened in a different game. Detroit, with strong individual reputations, looked less cohesive; when defensive slips happened, the scoreboard responded. What the afternoon proved was that fundamentals, pivot plays and well-timed relays matter every bit as much as home runs in high-stakes baseball.

Characters on a Rainy Day

There were personal notes threaded through the play-by-play: a 36-year-old pitcher who farmed tongue-nuts back home, a catcher making his first series appearance, and a traveling band led by Billy Finzel that had been a stadium fixture since the days of Ty Cobb. The crowd, reported at an immense 55,500, watched not only a game but a litany of small human moments: veterans in the stands, wounded soldiers with earphones, a city on the cusp of post-war transition finding solace in a national ritual.

How Momentum Was Built

• Peanuts Lowry’s double in the fourth broke a prolonged scoreless spell and forced Detroit to shift infield positioning.
• Phil Cavarretta’s sacrifice and Andy Pafko’s pressure at the plate set up Nicholson’s decisive single.
• Mickey Livingston’s double late in the game converted strategic bunts and sacrifices into a run that proved insurmountable.

A Broadcast that Reached Far Beyond the Stands

This was more than a local contest. The Gillette Cavalcade of Sports carried the action to servicemen around the world, shortwave relays bringing Briggs Stadium’s misty afternoon into foxholes and barracks from the Pacific to Europe. The broadcast’s intimate flourishes — the announcers’ asides about the band, the brief pauses for sponsor slogans, the polite recognition of wounded veterans seated with dignitaries — turned a sporting event into a cultural touchstone for a nation still at war and beginning to imagine peacetime rituals.

Legacy and Reflection

A one-hitter in a World Series is a form of quiet immortality. It does not roar so much as settle: a steady accumulation of outs, well-located offerings, a tension maintained until the final strike. Paso’s afternoon was a reminder that in championship contests the most consequential feats are often those that require restraint, craft and a long apprenticeship.

In the end the scoreboard read Cubs 3, Tigers 0 — but the more lasting score was stamped into the record books as a study in temperament: a veteran’s composure, a handful of well-timed hits, and the small defensive lapses that together turn opportunity into triumph. That is the language of baseball on a gray afternoon in Detroit: not a single blaze of glory but the steady accumulation of a game well played and a quiet, unforgettable victory.