The Roger Angell Baseball Collection Part 21

Dave Stieb, Toronto's king of the hill, was scheduled to start the next Red Sox game, a Sat.u.r.day-afternoon affair, but manager c.o.x, having got word from the weatherman of the imminent arrival of heavy rainstorms, held back his ace at the last moment and sent out a young right-hander, Ron Musselman, to essay his very first major-league start. c.o.x, of course, did not want to waste an outing by Stieb-a hard-luck pitcher (and legendary moaner), whose record at the moment stood a bare 65, despite an earned-run average of 2.16-in a possible rainout, and he very nearly got away with his gamble. Musselman confined the scary Boston sluggers to a couple of runs during his stint; Tony Fernandez delivered the catch-up and go-ahead runs for the home side with a two-run round-tripper, to make for a 32 Blue Jay lead in the bottom of the fourth; and the spattering rains held off just long enough to force the dawdling, languishing, heavenward-hoping Bostons to make their third out in the top of the fifth before the players were forced to take shelter-a legal victory, of course, if play were to stop there for the day. Then it rained-downward and side-blown sheets and skeins of water that streamed down the gla.s.s fronting of the press box, puddled and then ponded on the lumpy, too green AstroTurf playing field before us, and emptied the roofless grandstand around the diamond. Glum descendant clouds swept in, accompanied by a panoply of Lake Ontario ring-billed gulls (a celebrated and accursed local phenomenon), who took up late-comer places upon the long rows of backless aluminum benches in outer right field and then settled themselves thickly across the outfield swamplands as well, where they all stood facing to windward, ready for a fly ball, or perhaps for a visiting impressionist French film director ("Quai des Jays," "Toronto Mon Amour") to start shooting. Rain delays are hard on writers, who cannot just go home-as most of the intelligent Toronto fans were now deciding to do-and are enjoined from visiting the clubhouses or asking the umpire in charge (it was Joe Brinkman) why he won't reconsult his bunions and call the d.a.m.ned thing once and for all. I had plenty of time (three hours and sixteen minutes, as it turned out) to work up my notes; to share in the tepid, on running press-box jokes (there had been a guest party of Ojibway Indians at the game, it was discovered, and we worked over the rain-dance variations at excruciating length); to catch up on local baseball history (Babe Ruth hit his very first home run as a professional into the waters of Lake Ontario in 1914, while playing for the visiting minor-league Providence Grays against the Toronto Maple Leafs in the long-defunct park at Hanlan's Point); and to memorize the unlikely configurations of the Blue Jays' Exhibition Stadium. The place is the home field of the Toronto Argonauts, of the Canadian Football League, and the baseball diamond has been tucked off into one corner of the rectangle, with an added-on, boomerang-shaped grandstand section adjacent to the diamond and a temporary curving outfield wall that cuts oddly across the long gridiron, forestalling rolling eight-hundred-foot home runs but imparting an unhappy, overnight-tent-show look to the place. General-admission seats are in the roofed football grandstand, which begins out by the left-field foul pole but then, since it adjoins the football sidelines, departs from the baseball premises at an ever-widening-and-disimproving angle. Fans do sit there, however, even in its farthest reaches-there were some there now, patiently waiting out the deluge under cover. I asked a resident writer how far it was from home plate to the top row of the outmost grandstand sector, and he said, "That's Section 51. I don't think anybody's ever paced it off, but I tried using a little trigonometry once and I made it out to be around a thousand feet. The folks in the lower rows out there are even worse off, because they can't see over the outfield fence, but you see them down there, too, sometimes. I think they bring radios."

The Toronto fans, I need hardly add, are fans. Even in the closer sectors of Exhibition Stadium, the seats are uncomfortable and sight lines abominable, but the rooters turn out in very large numbers (2,110,009 of them last year) to cram themselves into the intimately serried, knee-creasing grandstand rows and to cheer with more discriminating loyalty and sensible hope than they used to back in the early days of the franchise. Ontario fans-particularly those off to the west of Toronto, in sectors like Wingham and London-used to be Tiger rooters, but most of them have switched over in the last couple of seasons, and the Blue Jays have supplanted the hapless hockey Maple Leafs as the No. 1 team in town. The seventh-inning stretch (to return to the stadium) is a wholesome little session of sing-along calisthenics, directed by numerous Ken and Barbie look-alikes in sweatsuits, to a fight song called "O.K., Blue Jays!," and almost everyone joins in happily. Happily and for the most part soberly, if only because each row in the stands is forty-one seats wide, aisle to aisle, making beer vending an impossibility. A new stadium-a dome, perhaps with a retractable roof-has been promised by the province, but it sounds years away. A World Series played at Exhibition Stadium would hurry the project wonderfully.

Around suppertime, the rain lessened and then turned itself off, the fog banks began to show pinkish gleams (greeted by "Here Comes the Sun" on the loudspeaker), the Zamboni-after a brief, embarra.s.sing breakdown-thrummed back and forth across the green carpet, sucking up water and spouting it off-field, the gulls flapped off to other engagements, and a handful of fans (kids, mostly) reappeared and filled up the good seats around home: not enough of them to make a Wave, for once. The game resumed, with new pitchers, and the Blue Jays lost, 53-almost a foregone conclusion, it seemed, although I wasn't quite sure why. Bobby c.o.x, who can't stand to lose, missed the second part of the odd little double header, having become embroiled during the delay in argument with Brinkman the Rain King, who gave him the heave-ho. None of it could have happened on gra.s.s.

The next afternoon, in the Sunday sunshine, Stieb had at the Red Sox at last, and whipped them, 81, impatiently setting down their hitters with his tough fastball, a biting slider, and some unsettling off-speed stuff as well; he didn't give up a hit until the sixth inning. Tony Fernandez hit a triple and a double-to date, he was sixteen for twenty-seven against the Boston pitchers for the year-and Ranee Mulliniks, who switches with Iorg at third base (they were both well over .300 so far), socked a home run. Fernandez, who is twenty-two years old, gets rid of the ball at short with an oiled swiftness that makes you catch your breath; he switch-hits, starting with his hands held high but then dipping at the last moment to a smooth, late, flat-bat stroke that meets the ball in cla.s.sic inside-out style and drives it, often to the opposite field, with power and elegance. There are others in the Blue Jays lineup whom I admire and enjoy, including the crisp Damo Garcia, at second, and the quick, strong young outfielders Bell and Moseby (they and the regular right fielder, Jesse Barfield, who didn't start on this day, will all turn twenty-six within two weeks of each other this fall), but, watching them here, I still could not envision them and their teammates holding on through the summer against the likes of the Tigers and the tough oncoming Yankees, and then playing in and perhaps winning a championship elimination or a World Series. I had discussed this feeling just before the game with Tony Kubek, who handles the Jays' color commentary over the CTV television network (he also works the backup "Game of the Week" shows on NBC), and then with Buck Martinez, the veteran Blue Jays catcher, who replaces Ernie Whitt against the lefties. In different ways, both of them echoed the same doubts.

"There's n.o.body on the club who scares you, which is what you see on so many other teams in this division," Kubek said. "Or, rather, two guys scare you-Parrish and Gibson with the Tigers, Murray and Ripken on the Orioles, Winfield and Baylor on the Yanks. Maybe it'll happen here, maybe somebody will come along, but I don't quite see it. You know, a lot of people picked us to win this year, and that changes how a club thinks about itself. Some of the guys have become a little defensive in their thinking. You can see that Gillick built this team to fit this ballpark. It's a hitter's park, with the carpet and the short fences, but I always feel we're a little light when we get into those bigger parks on the road."

Martinez said, "I cut that photograph out of the paper yesterday that showed Bill Buckner putting a flying block on Garcia in the Thursday game and showed it to some guys in the clubhouse. I said, 'This is the difference between winning and being a bunch of good guys, which is what we are so far.' I played five years on the Royals, with people like George Brett and Hal McRae, and I saw how they play this game. McRae always said, 'If you can't be good, you got to be rough.' You remember that slide he put on Willie Randolph in the playoffs, don't you? Now the game has changed a little, and the people take that sort of thing more personally, almost. But that's the kind of play that can get into an infielder's mind and maybe make for a moment of hesitation later on and win a game for you. Stieb is like that for us, but he's a pitcher and too often it's directed against himself. There were times on our last road trip when we could have used a little more of that McRae stuff, that Thurman Munson personality-somebody who'll get a leadoff double when you want it most, or knock somebody down at second. Maybe it'll come-you never know."

Ah, yes. Yogi Berra has enunciated this same great principle ("In baseball, you don't know nothin"), and so, too, in his own field, did the late Fats Waller ("One never knows, do one?"). With one out in the bottom of the fourth, I lifted my gaze from my scorecard to see, on the instant, a fastball delivered by the Boston hurler, Bruce Kison, ricochet off the shoulder-high on the shoulder-of the Toronto batter, George Bell. A certain testiness had been evident all along in this series-going back to Doyle Alexander's very first pitch on Thursday evening, which had nailed leadoff man Steve Lyons right on the chest (or, more precisely, on the "S" of his "BOSTON" road-uniform logo)-but Bell's response, even under such duress, was surprising. Batless, he reached the mound in full sprint and aimed a sudden high, right-legged karate kick at Kison, which mostly missed its mark. Bell then spun quickly and landed a fairish one-two combination (fists, this time) to the chops of Rich Gedman, the pursuing Boston catcher. Now batting .666 for this one turn at bat (if we may agree that he had fouled out against Kison), Bell retreated toward third base in a wary backward-boogie style, apparently inviting other partic.i.p.ants, just emerging from their dugouts, to share the action, which they did, in typically earnest but inefficient fashion. When it was over, Bell was banished from the proceedings and Kison permitted to continue, though under admonishment. A tall, bony right-hander, now in his fifteenth season in the bigs, Kison knows the outs and ins of his profession, and earlier in the game he had somehow allowed a little off-speed pitch to sail behind the head of Ernie Whitt, who here stepped up to bag again-and walked, muttering. An end to the affair, one might have imagined, but writers of these summer operettas do like that last, excessive twist to the plot. Whitt, coming up to bat again, with one out in the sixth, found Kison still on hand, although tottering, for he had just walked the bases full. Whitt poled the first pitch over the right-field fence-it was the first grand slam of his entire baseball career-and circled the bases talkatively, taking time to direct the appropriate phrasings and rhetorical flourishes toward the mound as he went. The tableau looked like an eccentric windup toy from Bavaria, with the circling outer figure, in the white uniform, twitching his arms and waggling his jaw as he went from base to base, and the central inner player-the little man in gray-rotating more slowly but in perfect concentric rhythm, so as to keep his back turned to the other chap all the way around. I much preferred this baseball keepsake to the George Bell model, but of course it will take the rest of the summer to learn what it meant, if anything, to the Blue Jays.

As it turned out, an even more vivid exemplification of that McRae stuff, that Thurman Munson personality, was presented to the Blue Jays by the man who had enunciated the need for it in the first place, Buck Martinez. While behind the plate for the Jays in a game out in Seattle (I saw the moment on a television replay that night, a couple of weeks after my visit to Toronto), Martinez took a peg from the outfield and attempted to tag an onflying Mariner base runner, Phil Bradley, who collided violently with the catcher. Martinez, knocked onto his back, suffered a broken right fibula and dislocated ankle. Somehow, he held on to the ball and made the out, and then, half rising, threw toward third base, where another Seattle base runner, Gorman Thomas, was now swiftly approaching. The throw went wild, and Thomas turned third and headed for the plate. George Bell picked up the ball in left field and fired it home, where the dazed and badly injured Martinez, still down and writhing, caught it on the bounce and tagged the runner, thus accounting for both putouts in the double play-possibly the last but certainly the most extraordinary moment of his baseball career.

Hitting is the hovering central mystery of this sport, and continues to invite wonder. Tommy Herr, a decent singles-and doubles-hitting second baseman with the Cardinals, batted .276 last year and drove in forty-nine runs-almost exactly matching his career averages, compiled in the previous five summers. This year, batting third in a much altered lineup, he has led the league in hitting over most of the first half (he is at .330 at this writing) and has sent teammates already on base scurrying home in great numbers; his three home runs and seventy runs batted in to date have turned the writers to the Baseball Encyclopedia, where they have divined that he may well become the first National League to bat in a hundred runs or more while hitting fewer than ten home runs in the process since Dixie Walker did it (116, with nine) for the Dodgers in 1946. Some contributing reasons for Herr's sudden prosperity will be presented a little farther along, when we take a closer look at the Cardinals, but I love to think about the absolute unpredictability of this almost typical turnabout; every year, it seems to me, something of this sort comes along and is then made to look logical and almost inevitable by us scholars and explainers of the game-none of whom, of course, had any idea beforehand where and to whom it would happen. Baseball, to its credit, confirms continuity and revolution in equal parts, thus keeping its followers contented but attentive. Pedro Guerrero, unhappy all spring at third base with the Dodgers, was returned to his old position in the outfield on June 1st, and responded by whacking fifteen home runs in the month of June, a new National League record-a new record, of course. Carlton Fisk has. .h.i.t twenty-six homers for the White Sox so far this year, thereby tying his full-season best in a career stretching back over sixteen major-league summers; he leads both leagues in downtowners to date and seems a good bet to erase Lance Parrish's one-season total of thirty-two homers, the most by any American League catcher.* Sudden extraordinary performance at the plate is never truly explicable, then, and even the batters themselves aren't much help. "I'm in a good groove," "I'm in that realm," or "I'm seeing the ball real good" is what you hear, and the words are accompanied with an almost apologetic little shrug.

It's all right, then, for the rest of us to feel the same way. The two hottest hitters of 1985 are Rickey Henderson and George Brett, and while I thought that I was seeing them real good during several turns at bat this year, I still don't know how they do it. Henderson, facing the Orioles' Mike Bodd.i.c.ker and Sammy Stewart one night up at the Stadium, rapped three singles and drove in three runs (he also stole a base) in the course of the Yankees' 74 victory, and somehow looked a bit off his form in the process. A week earlier, while the Yankees were administering a frightful three-game pasting to these same Orioles down in Baltimore (they had forty-four hits along the way), Henderson went eight for nine in the first two games, and ten for thirteen over the three, at one stretch getting to first base safely ten straight times. Like a perfectly cooked roast, his June statistics look wonderful no matter where you slice them: a three-for-four night against the Tigers, with two home runs; a one-for-three effort against the Orioles again, with four stolen bases again; and so forth. It is this almost unique combination of batting eye, power, and speed that makes him so dangerous, and when you see him approach the plate (with that preliminary little baton-twirler mannerism, during which he alternately taps the head and the heel of the bat with his gloved hand) and then fold himself down into his odd, knock-kneed, doubled-over posture as he awaits the pitch you suddenly perceive what a mean little knot of problems he presents to the pitcher. His scrunched-down strike zone means that he is almost always ahead on the count (Earl Weaver has said that Henderson draws walks as well as anyone he has ever seen in the majors), but the pitcher, uncomfortably aware of his devastating quickness on the base paths, is unwilling to settle for ball four and thus very often gives up a line drive instead. Again, these explanations look easy-except for the last part: the hitting. His stroke is at once so quick-almost an upward and outward jump at the ball-and yet so full and flashing...Well, I give up. The Stadium throngs love him, of course, and he has been very much at the center of the Yankees' vivid drive to the fore (almost to the fore) in the past two months.

I saw Brett in a stretch of three games against the Angels in Kansas City, at a time when he had just returned to the Royals lineup after a spell on the bench with a hamstring pull. He has always been p.r.o.ne to injury, and almost always seems to return to action at full bore-this time with ten hits in his first twenty at-bats. Brett, who is thirty-two, took off twenty pounds over the winter, and looked younger and more cheerful than I had seen him in years. He was meeting the ball well (here we go again) when I saw him, showing that full, exuberant cut every time, and was. .h.i.tting a lot of long fouls, but he didn't do much, except for a three-for-three performance in one fourteen-inning game, finally captured by the Royals-almost an amazing day, at that, since he walked on his four other appearances, thus ending up on base seven times. A couple of days later, after I'd left town, Brett went three for three against the A's with two three-run homers; starting there, he ran off a .538 week, with three doubles, two homers, a triple, and eleven runs batted in. I have written so often about Brett's batting style-going back to his great .390 summer in 1980, and before-that I will not attempt another likeness here of that uniquely pausing, balanced, and then suddenly free and whirling grace. Observing him repeatedly at work there on his home field, though, it did seem to me that one part of his swing-the c.o.c.ked, attentive tilt of his head as he awaits the ball, and the abrupt downward tuck of his chin as he watches his bat drive through at the pitch-is especially satisfying to an onlooker. In some strange fashion, Brett always appears to be watching himself being a hitter. There is a considering, almost intellectual presence there, even during the most violent and difficult unleashing of forces, and it suggests-it almost looks like-that waiting and expectant inner self, the critical watcher, who remains at rest within each of us and is spectator to all our movements and doings, however grand or trifling. Even crossing a street, we can find ourselves in that good groove sometimes, and take note of it with secret surprise.

By the time July came around, everyone was talking about the Cardinals-about their wonderful combination of fine pitching and good hitting (they have been leading the league both ways); about the rookie flier, Vince Coleman, who plays left field and has been stealing bases at such an amazing clip; about Tommy Herr and about the big cleanup hitter, Jack Clark, who came over from the Giants in a trade during the winter; and-oh, yes-about Willie McGee, in center, who bats second and has thus done a few things that help account for Coleman's success on the bases, just behind. This is the way ball teams should work, it suddenly seems.

I kept missing the Cardinals-their baseball schedule always had them going off in the opposite direction from mine. But then I saw my chance and jumped on a plane and went up to see them play the Expos in Montreal in an afternoon game-went up and came home again the same day, just for the game-and caught up on my studies. Vince Coleman, who is muscled like a cheetah, hit a single and stole a base; he is less flashy than Rickey Henderson on the bases, but the man can scamper. Tommy Herr hit a single and got a base three times; Ozzie Smith made a couple of lazily beautiful plays at short, easy as pie; and Willie McGee had a single and a double and a home run and a stolen base-the same silent, scrawny-necked, semi-apologetic Willie McGee who so pleased and surprised us all back in the World Series of 1982, just before we forgot him again. (The last time I looked-as this was written-McGee had pa.s.sed his teammate Tommy Herr, and was leading the National League in batting, at .339.) The day in Montreal went as promised, I mean, and I even found time to congratulate Whitey Herzog, an old favorite of mine, for the kind of team he had this time, and for the way he had put it together-even trading away an excellent, established left fielder, Lonnie Smith, the moment he was sure about Coleman. "This team is all right, for my park," Herzog admitted-his park, Busch Stadium, has the artificial carpet-"but if I was playing at Wrigley Field or Fenway I wouldn't want to go this way. Geography makes all the difference in baseball these days."

It was a holiday in Montreal (Dominion Day-or Canada Day, as they now call it), and there was a nice medium-small crowd (everyone else was at the sh.o.r.e, I decided) cheering vociferously down below me in the deep, echoey circular strip mine of Olympic Stadium. A great blazing-white horseshoe of sunlight slid slowly across the billiard-table-green mat below, and I again recalled a remark once made by the long-gone, unforgotten d.i.c.k Allen: "If a horse can't eat it, I don't want to play on it."

There was the game, too, and in time-very quickly, in fact-that took over, and though I was glad to have Herr and Coleman and McGee and others in plain view at last (I almost felt like a scout, because of my trip), I also began to pay attention to the Montreal pitcher, a fledgling righty (he had just turned twenty-one) named Floyd Youmans, who was making his major-league debut. He, too, was there just for the day, having been called up from the club's Cla.s.s AA Jacksonville team to make an emergency appearance on the mound when the Expos had found themselves with an inordinate number of pitchers invalided to their liste des blesses, but he had been told before the game that his next stop would be back down at the Indianapolis AAA farm, no matter how well he did here today. Perhaps freed by this news, he resolutely worked his way once and then twice through the tough Cardinal batting order, giving up an occasional base on b.a.l.l.s or a longish fly-ball out, and here and there a base hit, but also fanning a Cardinal or two, including Jack Clark, whenever he most needed the out. He had the Cardinals shut out after six innings, by which time the Expos were ahead by 20. Then Coleman touched him up in the seventh with a single through the middle-his first time on first base. Vince took an enormous lead, paused, and then flew away on the hit-and-run-an awesome jump, as promised-and Willie McGee socked a high, sailing home run into the Montreal bullpen to tie it. Youmans departed, and the disappointed Expos fans saw him off with a grateful, stand-up round of applause and then sat down quietly and tried to regather hope. I was happy when their team hung in and won the game at last, 32, on a single off the third baseman's glove by the grand old Montreal favorite Andre Dawson, in the bottom of the tenth. It was only the Expos' fourth hit of the game-four hits ama.s.sed against six Cardinal pitchers: I'd never heard of such a thing. Whitey's bullpen is a Sarga.s.so for National League hitters this summer-no end to it and not much fun.

On my way home, I kept thinking about the Cards and their new look, and I recalled how Jim Frey, whose Cubs had lately dropped three games to the Cardinals at home, kept returning to the Redbirds in conversation one day. "This Coleman reminds you of a lot of fast young guys in their first year up," he said. "He plays like Tim Raines did, or like Willie Wilson did in his first two years. You look around and he's up at bat and the other team has got the third baseman playing in, the second baseman is in by two full strides, and the first baseman's up on the gra.s.s. You got no choice. The way the man's going, he's going to steal a hundred and twenty bases in his very first year up. When the season started, everybody was sayin' they got seven leadoff men and Jack Clark, but you can throw that out the window now, because of Coleman and the way they're hitting. The whole club is always going from first to third. The one who's overlooked is McGee. He can run as good as anybody. He can bunt the ball, he can top the ball and get on base, he can hit the ball for distance, and he can run and catch the ball in the outfield. He's like No. 2 in everything on that club. You look over at Coleman, with McGee at bat, and he's got that big lead, and you can't make him back off an inch. He always gets that amazing jump. In a couple of years, they'll be calling him a great left fielder-you wait and see."

Only self-a.s.sured veteran managers talk about rival teams and players in this fashion, and when you listen to a Jim Frey or a Whitey Herzog in midseason, you begin to sense that they are perpetually involved in two levels of baseball-the game at hand or just ahead, which they are trying to win, and the deeper difficulties and returns and surprises of the other game; baseball as a discourse or discipline, baseball as a way of thinking. Earl Weaver talks this side of baseball more gracefully than anyone I know; in his postgame chats he compliments the writers by including them in his inner excursions and musings, and by the time he's done you're convinced, at least for a glimmering instant or two, that you've seen how this game works. The little man was in splendid form up at Yankee Stadium during the Orioles-Yankees game I have mentioned, in spite of his team's failings. He had only just come back from his two-year self-retirement-brought back, it has been hinted, by a half-million-dollar salary and the offer of another chance to work in the Baltimore organization, where he has pa.s.sed the better part of his working life. (He said he had turned down several previous bids from other clubs.) His postgame seminars were a treat, as usual. Any day now, I expect to walk into Weaver's office after a game and find waiting ushers, with programs and flashlights. One night there at the Stadium, he was simultaneously stripping a chicken leg and himself as he fielded our questions, usually cutting them off before they were quite finished-he is quick-and then fitting his answers into the main discourse of the evening. Weaver is the only mid-size, middle-aged executive I know who can sit behind a desk with no clothes on, as naked as a trout, and never lose the thread of his thinking.

Here he reconsidered a brilliant peg by Dave Winfield that had cut down an Orioles base runner, Ripken, at the plate-the big play of the game, it turned out-and wondered along with his questioner, whether it had been right to send him home. "Yes, it was an outstanding throw," he said, "but still..." He paused, considering, and then put the matter to rest: "What the h.e.l.l-if he scores, it's a great play." In the eighth inning of the game, with his club well behind, Weaver had unexpectedly employed an Oriole outfielder, John Shelby, at second base, where he filled in for the weak-hitting Dauer, who had departed for a pinch-hitter. (This was a few days before the Orioles signed Alan Wiggins, the talented former Padre second baseman, who had been permitted to leave that club after revealing his continuing difficulties with cocaine addiction.) Shelby had looked adequate on one chance out there, and more than a bit awkward on another, which went by him, or off him, for a base hit. "On the second ball, he tried to get in front of it, though it's way off to his right." Weaver said. "That's what you're taught to do in high school, and maybe he's never had that play since he was in high school. I know about this because I used to manage in Cla.s.s C ball and D ball, where you have kids who come to you right out of high school. But up here if that ball's. .h.i.t over to your right"-he was suddenly on his feet, wearing only his shower clogs-"you just get over this far and backhand the ball, like this. You don't try to make a great play, or anything, but if you time it right you look real good. If you don't time it right you look silly. Oh, I love this stuff...."He resumed his seat, for the tactics. "If we're losing, Shelby at second gives us an extra move, and I'll go with it. That way, I got his bat in there, and if we tie or go ahead then Lennie Sakata goes out to hold things down. But if I bat for Dauer the old way, then Lennie goes in right away. This is an extra move for me. If you're losing, go for offense. Look for that move." His eyes were shining.

*Fisk set the new record with thirty-seven homers, four of which came while he was in the lineup as a designated hitter-a record, that is, but just barely.

Quis

- Late Summer 1985 TROUBLE IN THE NINTH. The visiting team has just scored, to draw within a run of the home side, and there are base runners at first and third, with one out and the heavy part of the batting order just coming up. Even before the runner crossed the plate, the manager was on his way to the mound, and now he turns toward his bullpen and touched his right arm. The murmurous noises of anxiety in the park give way to applause and the fans' relishing cries of an outcome now almost foreseen as the bullpen car arrives and yields up its famous pa.s.senger, the great reliever. He is whiskered and hulking, and his impatient right-handed warmup pitches-seven seeds and a final down-busting curveball-bring gasps and little bursts of laughter in the stands. The No. 3 batter stands in and takes an instantaneous called strike-a fastball under his fists. He lays off the next pitch-a breaking ball, away-then swings hard at the next fastball and ticks it foul to the screen. Another fastball arrives, and he swings late and raised a feeble little pop foul, which is devoured by the first baseman. Two out now. The cleanup hitter, a large left-handed slugger, digs in and takes a ball, takes a strike. He cuts violently at the next delivery, a letter-high fastball, and misses, swinging cleanly through the pitch and then half-stumbling in the box to keep his balance. The first-base and third-base coaches clap their hands rea.s.suringly-hang in there, big guy-but thirty thousand fans are on their feet now, screaming for the K. A slider here would break this batter in half, but the man on the mound has no such idea. Glowering, he leans in for the sign, stretches and stares, and delivers the inexorable heater-up and out of the strike zone, actually, but the bat has flashed and come around just the same, and the game is over. Ovations and euphoria. Handshakes and high fives in the infield, hugs in the stands. Aw right, we did it again!

Another ninth, in another city. The Kansas City Royals are leading the visiting Yankees, 52, and Royals manager d.i.c.k Howser has brought in his prime short reliever, Dan Quisenberry, to finish up. Quisenberry is a slim, angular right-hander, with sharp shoulders and a peaceable, almost apologetic mien. He has pinkish-red hair, a brushy ochre mustache, and round pale-blue eyes. Nothing about his looks is as surprising as his pitching delivery, however. He is a true submariner-a man "from down under," in baseball parlance-and every pitch of his is performed with a lurching downward thrust of his arm and body, which he must follow with a little bobbing hop off toward third base in order to recover his balance. At perigee, ball and hand descend to within five or six inches of the mound dirt, but then they rise abruptly; the hand-its fingers now spread apart-finished up by his left shoulder, while the ball, plateward-bound at a sensible, safe-driving-award clip, reverses its earlier pattern, rising for about three-quarters of its brief trip and then drooping downward and (much of the time) sidewise as it pa.s.ses the batter at knee level or below. One way or another, the pitch almost always finds part of the strike zone, but most people in the stands-even the home-town regulars in Royals Stadium-are so caught up in the pitcher's eccentricities that they don't always notice this. The oversight is forgivable, since Quisenberry is not a strikeout pitcher. But he doesn't walk batters, either; in his six hundred and thirty-five major-league innings (going into this season), he had surrendered a total of eighty-four bases on b.a.l.l.s-one for each seven and a half innings' work, which for him comes out at about one walk every fourth game-and had plunked only two batters with pitched b.a.l.l.s. Yet Quisenberry when pitching invites more similes than stats. His ball in flight suggests the kiddie-ride concession at a county fairgrounds-all swoops and swerves but nothing there to make a mother nervous; if you're standing close to it, your first response is a smile. At other times, the trajectory of the pitch looks like an expert trout fisherman's sidearm cast that is meant to slip the fly just under an overhanging clump of alders. The man himself-Quis in mid-delivery-brings visions of a Sunday-picnic hurler who has somehow stepped on his own shoelace while coming out of his windup, or perhaps an eager news photographer who has suddenly dropped to one knee to snap a celebrity debarking from a limousine.

In the Yankee game, Quisenberry dismisses his first batter, the towering Dave Winfield, on a harmless bouncer to short. The next hitter, Dan Pasqua, who bats left-handed, numbs a Quisenberry sinker down toward third base, where the spinning ball worms its way out of George Brett's glove for an infield single. Ron Ha.s.sey, another lefty swinger, takes a ball and then jumps on a high delivery-an up pitch: a mistake-and smashes the ball to deep center field, where Willie Wilson pulls it in with his back almost against the fence. Willie Randolph steps up to bat, swings and misses on a sinker, takes two b.a.l.l.s, and then whacks a sharp single to center, sending Pasqua scooting around to third. The tying run, in the person of Mike Pagliarulo, comes up to the plate, to the accompaniment of some nervous stirrings in the Kansas City stands. Batting left-handed, he fouls off the first pitch, swings at a sinkerball that slips away from him and off the outer edge of the plate, takes a ball, and then stands immobile while another sinker, again backing at the last instant, catches the inside corner, low, for a called third strike. End of game. The crowd, although happy about the win, does not exactly split the sky in honor of this pitching performance, but in most ways it has been a typical outing for Dan Quisenberry: a couple of hits-one of them a half-hit bouncer to the wrong side of the infield-two solid pokes, one of which went for an out; no walks; no runs (one run would have been almost more like it); and another game safely put away. Quisenberry experienced some uncharacteristic pitching difficulties in the first half of this season-the game just set forth was played on July 23rd-but the official save that went into the record books that evening was his twentieth of the year, which put him ahead of all other American League relief pitchers in that department. It was his third save in four days, in a little string that eventually added up to six saves in six consecutive appearances. Last year, Quisenberry had forty-four saves in all, the most in his league, and figured in sixty percent of the Royals' winning games; the year before that, he set an all-time record with forty-five saves, although a National League pitcher, Bruce Sutter-then with the Cardinals, now with the Braves-tied that figure in 1984.

Baseball's save rule (to get this out of the way, once and for all) has grown in significance in recent seasons, along with the rise of the short-relief specialist-that is, the man who comes in late in the game, sometimes only to nail down the last out or two (or not nail them down, as the case may be)-yet there are very few fans who can say for a certainty what const.i.tutes an official save. The ruling states that the pitcher who is granted an official save when the game is over-it appears as an "(S)" next to his name in the box score-must be the finishing pitcher but not the official winning pitcher. He must furthermore pa.s.s one of three additional qualifications: (a)He enters the game with a lead of no more than three runs and pitches at least one inning, or (b)he enters the game, regardless of the count on an inc.u.mbent batter, with the potential tying run on base or at bat or on deck, or (c)he pitches effectively for at least three innings.

That "effectively" is a judgment call, made by the official scorer, and there is sometimes hot disagreement about it up in the press box. There is also general disagreement about the value of saves as the ultimate yardstick of a relief man's work. Certain pitchers-Quisenberry is among them-almost never come into a game when their club is trailing, and therefore tend to acc.u.mulate more saves by the end of the year than some of their rivals. Some variously weighted combination of saves, earned-run average, and games won probably const.i.tutes the fairest means of measurement, but here, as in other parlous areas of the pastime, the final word must be left to the writers and the fans, and to the thousand late-night logomachies.

Since Quisenberry adopted his submarine style, at the beginning of the 1980 season, his second in the majors, he has notched a hundred and seventy-five saves-twenty more than Sutter's total for those five years and forty-five more saves than those acc.u.mulated by Goose Gossage, the ex-Yankee and present Padre star, who may be recognized as the model for our cla.s.sic fireballing bullpen ace in the imaginary inning above. The elegant and obdurate Rollie Fingers, who still performs for the Milwaukee Brewers at the age of thirty-nine, after experiencing some recent serious arm and back difficulties (he sat out the entire season of 1983), he compiled three hundred and twenty-four lifetime saves, the most among all relievers, past or present, but his best five seasons, even when counted non-consecutively, do not bring him within twenty saves of Quisenberry's work in the nineteen-eighties. No one else comes close. By a different measurement-saves plus wins-Quisenberry, with a total of two hundred and eight in this decade, is also well ahead of the pack. Quisenberry himself, a habitually modest man, would argue with some of these figures-with their significance, above all-but we must embarra.s.s him by suggesting that he may just be on his way to being the most successful pract.i.tioner of his odd calling that the game has ever seen.

Prototypes have a burrlike hold on our baseball memories, and most of us, thinking back to great relief pitchers of the past, will first come up with some Gossage-like dominator like d.i.c.k Radatz, the monster-tall Red Sox flinger who struck out more than one batter per inning in a short career back in the sixties; or, a decade earlier, the dangerously nearsighted Ryne Duren (his first warmup pitch, preserving an image, was often a ten-foot-high bullet to the backstop), who enjoyed two splendid seasons with the Yankees before flaming out; or perhaps even Al Hrabosky, the bearded, angry-looking performer of the Cardinals, Royals, and Braves over the past decade, who habitually turned his back on the batter between pitches while he muttered imprecations and inspirational messages to himself, and then strode balefully toward the rubber like a Bolshevik entering the Union League Club. There is no shortage of thrilling fastballers among today's short-relief specialists-the Cubs' Lee Smith and the Yankees' Dave Righetti come to mind at once-but over the years the lonely specialty has in fact attracted a whole character actors' guild of different styles, quirks, looks, and dimensions. In my boyhood, relief pitchers seemed fatherly and calming; they were called "wily" in the papers. Johnny Murphy (Fordham Johnny Murphy) sometimes strolled in from the Yankees bullpen (then a shadowed alley between the grandstand and the bleachers in right field) to set things right in the late afternoons, especially if Lefty Gomez had started the game. Hugh Casey, toiling for the Dodgers in the nineteen-forties, ran up a lifetime winning percentage of .718 (fifty-one wins and twenty losses), which has yet to be topped by anybody out of the bullpen. Pitching against the Yankees in the fourth game of the 1941 World Series (I was there, sitting in the Ebbets Field upper deck in deep left field), Casey threw a spitball to Tommy Henrich that struck him out, swinging, to end the game-except that the ball, diving into the dirt, eluded catcher Mickey Owen, allowing Henrich to gain first base. Down a run, the Yankees rallied instantly for a 74 victory. A few years later, the ebullient Joe Page had become the celebrated Yankees stopper-the first young, or young-looking (he was almost thirty when he found his proper niche in the pastime), relief man in my experience. Jim Konstanty-a stolid, blue-collar sort of pitcher-won sixteen games and saved twenty-two, all in relief, for the Whiz Kid Phillies of 1950, and was the surprise starter in the first game of the World Series that fall; he lasted eight innings, giving up one lone run, but lost to the Yankees' Vic Raschi's two-hitter. Elroy Face, a forkballer, who looked almost dwarflike on the mound at five feet eight and a hundred and fifty pounds, pitched in eight hundred and forty-eight games (mostly for the Pirates) in the fifties and sixties, and accounted for a hundred and ninety-three saves; he was 181 in 1959-to this day, it scarcely seems possible-with all the decisions coming in relief. Once you start thinking about them, the relievers, the great extras, begin to come back in a flood: Ron Perranoski, the shining Dodger Stadium favorite, who went 163, with twenty-one saves and a 1.67 earned-run average, in 1963; Tug McGraw ("You Gotta Believe!), who pitched so stoutly and stood for so much in two unexpected Mets pennants and one glorious Phillies World Championship; Mike Marshall, the chunky, hard-burning righthander (he had a graduate degree in motion studies, or "kinesiology"), who worked for nine clubs during a fourteen-year career and twice somehow led his league in relief wins, losses, and saves, all in the same year; and d.i.c.k Hall, a lesser nova, perhaps, but a stalwart in innumerable significant games for the rising young Orioles of the sixties (he was a Swarthmore graduate who had started as an outfielder with the Pirates, and his cramped, twitchy pitching delivery, somebody once wrote, reminded you of a man feeling under a bed for a lost collar b.u.t.ton). Kent Tekulve, the Pittsburgh praying mantis (he went over to the Phillies this spring), saved thirty-one games for the Pirates in 1978 and again in 1979; his skulking, up-from-under mound style much resembled the Quisenberry mode-for reasons we shall get to in a moment. All these, then, and Hoyt Wilhelm, too. A silent, withdrawn man with an odd, twisted tilt to his neck and head, Wilhelm did not win a job in the majors until he was twenty-nine, but then stayed on, with the Giants and eight other clubs, for twenty years. A knuckleballer first, last, and always, he threw the pitch with so little strain to his arm and psyche that he was able to establish lifetime records in five different pitching categories, including most wins in relief (one hundred and twenty-four) and most games pitched (one thousand and seventy-eighty-three more than his nearest rival, Lindy McDaniel, and a hundred and sixty-four more than Cy Young). He went into the Hall of Fame this summer-sailed in, with all seams showing.

It shouldn't be surprising that so many vivid and stout-hearted bullpen performers come flooding forth in this fashion once we pull the cork, but I still think that relief pitchers are slighted or faintly patronized in most fans' and writers' consideration. Ask somebody to pick an all-time or all-decade lineup for his favorite team or for one of the leagues and the chances are that the list will not include a late-inning fireman. Even with the best of the short men, the brevity of their patchwork, Band-Aid labors; their habitual confinement in faraway (and often invisible) compounds during the long early stretches and eventful midpa.s.sages of the game; their languorous, cap-over-eyes postures of ennui or la.s.situde-are they asleep out there?-for the first two or three hours of the event; their off-putting predilection of disorder and incipient disaster; the rude intrusiveness of their extroverted pitching mannerisms into the staid game-party; their reckless way of seizing glory, or else horridly throwing away a game nearly in hand, all in the s.p.a.ce of a few pitches-all these confirm some permanent lesser status for them: scrubs, invisible weavers, paramedics, handymen. The slur persists, I think, in spite of clear evidence that relief men-the best of them, at least-are among the most highly rewarded and most sought-after stars of contemporary baseball. Five short-relief specialists-the Dodgers' Mike Marshall in 1974, the Yankees' Sparky Lyle in 1977, Bruce Sutter in 1979, Rollie Fingers in 1981, and the Tigers' Willie Hernandez last year (he appeared in eighty games for the World Champions, with thirty-two saves and an earned-run average of 1.92)-have won the Cy Young award in their leagues, and Fingers and Hernandez also walked off with Most Valuable Player honors in those same years.

Scouts and players, managers and writers whom I consulted on the matter this summer were, nearly unanimous in their selections of the best relief pitchers ever. They placed Fingers at the top of the list and then, in differing order, named Sutter, Gossage, and Sparky Lyle (who retired in 1982 with two hundred and thirty-eight lifetime saves). Almost none of them mentioned Quisenberry, and it seemed peculiar that when I brought up his name nearly everyone said something like "Oh, yes-I guess you'd have to put him in there somewhere, wouldn't you? He's a strange one, but he sure gets the job done." I couldn't tell from this whether it was Quisenberry's gently weird pitching style or his refreshing off-the-field manner (he is quick and comical, and much given to startlingly free-form images and put-ons during interviews) that has caused this persistent oversight, but I knew by now that it would come as no surprise to Quis himself, who has yet to win a Cy Young Award, even though he outpolled Hernandez last year by winning both the Rolaids and the Sporting News "Fireman of the Year" awards in the American League, each for the third straight year. If there is anything to my theory that relief pitchers are still a bit patronized in baseball because of their oddity, then here, too, Quisenberry belongs up near the head of the line.

"Relief pitchers like to pitch-that's what we all have in common. We're banded together in that small environment, and then the call comes and we're catapulted out into the screaming ma.s.ses. It feels good to start thinking and getting ready to pitch. Then you run in-past the umpires and the in-fielders. That's when I feel absolutely the best-the moment when I'm back in there, into things, in a close game. Until that happens, you're not really part of the game. You're not part of anything."

Dan Quisenberry and I were sitting in the March sunshine at Terry Park, the Royals' spring-training camp, in Fort Myers, Florida. It was early in the day, before the morning calisthenics and the first batting-practice pitches, and there was an easy, beginning-of-things taste to the place and the time of day and the part of the year we were in. This was the first of several meetings I had with him during this baseball year-one-inning or two-inning talks, so to speak, almost like his own forays into the game-during which I hoped to get a clearer idea of his difficult profession. It was pleasant work, it turned out. Quisenberry's face is open and untroubled, and he speaks in a cheerful, self-deprecating fashion that seems to preclude silences or hesitancies on either side of a conversation. On this day, he was wearing his white, home-uniform pants, royal-blue spikes, and a pale-blue T-shirt. Up close, he seemed bigger than I had expected (he is six feet two and weighs a hundred and eighty pounds). He was thin but not frail, and although he is thirty-two his upper body somehow looked as if it might have grown an inch or two overnight, like a teen-ager's. It was late in the spring preseason, but his naturally pale skin didn't show much of a tan; it was more like a glow, and the hairs on his forearms were an odd, yellow-gold color. There was a dab of chewing tobacco tucked in the middle of his lower lip.

"Most relief pitchers are pretty aggressive," Quis said a bit later. "They want to get a lot of attention, and you can see some of them getting psyched up out there on the mound. Gossage gets psyched. Al Holland gets psyched. There are guys who-you know, jump around and raise their fists and all. But there's such a thing as a casual aggressiveness, too. Sutter and Rollie Fingers are more calm. They're cool under pressure, and you can see them figuring things out out there."

I asked him if he thought Sutter and Fingers were better at their profession than he was, and he said, "Yes, they're the best. They've done it longer. It's nice to have a couple of good years and good stats and all, but the great ones are the ones who get it up year after year after year. But sometimes I see them getting roughed up, too, and suddenly giving up three or four runs in a game, and I think, Boy, they can do that, too-it can happen to them, just like it happens to me! Being a relief pitcher is such a roller-coaster sort of thing. You're either a hero or the exact opposite, depending on what just happened. Everybody's coming down on your head, or else you're almost a religious icon if you've won. Neither reaction is totally accurate. If things go wrong, I think you always feel bad. You've failed the starting pitcher and let down your teammates, who have played two hours to get that lead, not to speak of your family and the fans who live and die with you every day. But somehow we can deal with that-which isn't to say there isn't a kind of a stab about taking a loss. I think short-relief people are always anxious for the next thing. We know we're always about to get another chance. We'll be back out there the very next day, most times, while the starting pitcher has to wait four or five days before he gets back in there, and the long reliever or fifth starter might have to wait ten days. There are different kinds of strain. The starting pitcher has to get the same guys out there or four times in a night, which I don't, but then he doesn't need any mental toughness for the next four days. I think I'd hate that."

I asked him if he ever felt overmatched in a game, or oppressed by the fact that he always had to work in difficulties, a perpetual underdog.

"Well, I was a fan of the Braves and the Orioles when I was growing up, in the early sixties, and after that, of course, I was for the early Mets, like everyone else," he said. "I always liked Tony Cloninger, who wasn't all that good a pitcher. So I guess I identified with underdogs. I still prefer the underdog position, but with my numbers it's harder and harder for me to feel that way. Sometimes I think I should be the underdog, because I'm a major-league pitcher with very few resources. I just don't match up physically with the real athletes in the league. I can know these things, but when I'm on the mound I forget all that, and there are some days when I know I'm being effective. Now it's more like playing King of the Hill. I'm not supposed to lose in a save situation, ever, and there's a weight that comes with that, with trying to be the best. But there gets to be a kind of an appet.i.te about getting saves. It almost can't be fulfilled-you want that 'S' after your name, you want to maintain that level."

Some short-relief specialists prefer to come into a game at the beginning of the eighth or ninth inning, instead of a bit later, when there are men on base and more trouble at hand; Goose Gossage, for instance, always liked the full-inning option when he was with the Yankees, and fretted because his last Yankee manager, Billy Martin, did not often oblige him. I asked Quisenberry how he felt about this, and he told me that he had no preference at all. He said it in such an uncharacteristically vehement way that I thought at first I had misunderstood him. There was a gang mower working up and down the outfield lawn near us at that moment, and I repeated the question in a louder voice; just then the machine cut off suddenly and my words came out in a shout, and we laughed together.

"I have no preference," Quis went on, more peaceably. "I think I'm going to pitch every night, and I like the uncertainty of that. It doesn't matter to me if I come in to start an inning or with the bases loaded, and it doesn't matter to me who's up at bat. I don't have any choice, so it doesn't matter. If I had a choice, I'd say bring up your Cla.s.s A team and I'll pitch to them. I also don't like it if my manager or my pitching coach asks me if I want an inning tonight, just to get my work in, or asks me if I'm tired after a lot of appearances in a row and might want the night off. My answer is that I want to be told what to do. I want to pitch when you need me."

It took me a while before I quite saw the elegance and usefulness of this att.i.tude. Relief pitchers, of course, deal almost exclusively with dire straits: it comes with the country. If they start to worry about this, if they think about worst-case or best-case situations or which hitters they'd rather not pitch to in a jam, they have made matters infinitely harder for themselves. Quis had simply turned off that kind of anxiety; it had ceased to exist for him. He is good at this-it is almost as much a part of his repertoire as his sinkerball. "When I'm away from the park or at home, I try not to think about my work at all," he told me on another occasion. "This job would be a killer if you couldn't do that. There's plenty of time for me to worry from the sixth inning on."

One finger down, by ancient tradition, is the catcher's signal for a fastball, but whoever is catching Dan Quisenberry knows that one finger means the sinker. Quis doesn't have a fastball. For the sinker, he holds the ball with the seams and tries to throw without undue stress or snap; it arrives at about seventy-eight or eighty m.p.h. and, ideally, executes a small hip swerve as it crosses the plate. Quisenberry likes to give the impression that he has nothing much to do with the action of the pitch or its results. "I've always felt that when I throw it something wonderful is going to happen-something good for us," he said to me once. On another day, he suddenly asked, "Have I ever told you about my agreement with the ball?" I said no, and he said, "Well, our deal is that I'm not going to throw you very hard as long as you promise to move around when you get near the plate, because I want you back. So if you do your part we'll get to play some more." He watched my reaction to this with considerable relish, and then elaborated in less Oz-like fashion. "I've got good control and some movement, but there are guys around with better sinkers than mine. Greg Minton is one. Jim Acker, who's with Toronto. Bob Stanley. Mine is generally around the plate and low. You can't start it out at the batter's knees, because if you do it's a ball. If you want it inside on a right-hander, you kind of throw it over the middle a little and let it run in-hopefully down and in. If it's going to be outside to a left-hander, you're throwing it to the outer half-the outer half of the plate to him, that is-and it's supposed to go down and away. If you want it inside to him, you throw it off the plate, and it's meant to run back over. But of course if the ball doesn't do its job, if it starts dancing all over the place-well, then it's going to get hurt."

Even when it is doing its job, the Quisenberry sinker is apt to have adventures. He gives up something on the order of one hit per inning, and a lot of his outs come on hard-hit b.a.l.l.s that seem to be hit right at one of his infielders. "Magical things keep happening behind me," Quis often says, and he points out that the Kansas City second baseman, Frank White, has extraordinary range and hands, and that White's two partners at shortstop in recent years-first U.L. Washington and now Onix Concepcion-are scarcely less talented. The infield at Royals Stadium is AstroTurf, which should be a considerable handicap for a man who throws so many ground b.a.l.l.s, but his defense makes up for that, it seems. George Brett, the Royals third baseman, told me that when the team won a pennant in 1980 Quisenberry's infielders ragged him with references to his "303030 Club"-thirty saves, thirty strikeouts, and thirty great plays made behind him. "He's a comfortable guy to bat against," Brett said. "Guys go up there looking to hit the ball. He's like Scott McGregor, of the Orioles. You feel good batting against him, every time, and at the end of the game you realize you've gone oh-for-four-a comfortable oh-for-four."

Quisenberry, in any case, has some other pitches, and he has worked incessantly to widen his repertoire. It took him until 1982 to develop an effective breaking ball, and last year he came up with a changeup that he at last felt confident about. He tinkered with a forkball for a time but had to junk it. When the Royals made a barnstorming visit to j.a.pan at the end of the 1981 season, Quisenberry mastered the knuckleball-a nasty shock for American League batters the following summer. But the knuckler doesn't quite work for him anymore, for some reason. "If the knuckleball was my wife, I'd divorce her," Quis said. "She's not consistent, she's not reliable-I just can't depend on her at all. I can throw it great in warmups or playing catch, but in a game now I just use it to show the batters that it's there. If it's done right, it's the most fun pitch to throw in the world. The good knuckleball pitchers throw it just about all the time. With them, it's a stronger relationship. I think I'm just about out of new pitches. I can work on locations and different speeds, but there isn't much more I can think of. I wish I could throw the overhand curveball. Wouldn't that be a surprise!"

Back at Terry Park, Quisenberry had told me about his conversion into a submariner, which came about on that very field in the spring of 1980. He had been called up from Omaha in the middle of the previous season, at a time when the Royals were desperate for any kind of a middle-innings relief man who could get people out; he was far from their first choice for the job, but he stuck on, and even accounted for five saves; mostly, he was the setup man for Al Hrabosky, who was then the club's short-relief honcho. Quisenberry was a standup sidearm pitcher then, with virtually no breaking ball. Jim Frey succeeded Whitey Herzog as the Kansas City skipper the next spring, and early in the training schedule Quisenberry had a very bad outing against the Pirates. After the game, Frey asked him to throw for him on the sidelines, to see what he had. After about fifteen pitches, Frey began saying things like "Are you throwing as hard as you can?" and "Is that the way you throw your breaking ball?" and Quis concluded that there might be a quick turnaround just ahead in his career. A day or two later, Frey told him that he'd set up a sidelines appointment for him with Kent Tekulve, the great Pittsburgh submariner, when the Pirates next came down from Bradenton to play.

"I thought he was just going to give me a few pointers," Quisenberry said, "but when the day came Jim said to Tekulve, 'We want this guy to be like you. He throws a little like you already, but basically he doesn't have s.h.i.t.' So it was a total makeover. Tekulve showed me there were three basics to the motion, which were: sit on your back leg, bend at the waist, and, most important, extend the left leg-my front leg-way beyond the normal point out ahead. He told me to open up about six or eight inches beyond what's normal, coming right at the plate with the leg, and not to put that foot out heel-down at first, which is your natural instinct. This opens your body up a whole lot more, and it lets you stay low and keeps your arm low. If I don't get way out there and do that, I land here"-Quis was on his feet now-"with this front leg locked, and I start and end standing up, throwing the old sidearm way. I've always got to fight that. It's a battle for me, in spring training and all through the season, because when the ball comes up, the way it wants to, I've got nothing. Staying down like that is a strange feeling when you first try it, because you're totally off balance and you keep thinking you're going to fall over sideways. If I don't make this little hop at the end of the motion, I do fall over.

"Well, I didn't like this at all. Frey and a lot of our coaches were watching, and I was throwing all over the place and bouncing the ball before it got to the plate. Teke kept saying, 'Hey, that's a good pitch, that's the way to throw,' and I'm thinkin', I have no idea what I'm doing. But Jim liked it, and two days later he put me in another game-it was against the Pirates again, but Tekulve wasn't here-and I did real well. I was on my way."

Yes. That summer, Quisenberry, who had never run up more than fifteen saves in a season during his five-year stay in the minors, saved thirty-three games for the pennant-bound Royals, and also went 127 in the won-lost accounting, while appearing in a league-leading seventy-five games. He won a game and saved another one against the Yankees in the American League playoffs. He had another win and another save in the club's losing six-game World Series against the Phillies, but in fact pitched poorly in the cla.s.sic, unexpectedly giving up some walks and being charged with two of the team's losses. It was clear that he was very tired at this point, but by most measurements it had been quite a year.

Other submarine-style pitchers have thrived in the majors, to be sure, though never in great numbers. The list is headed by the unfortunate Carl Mays, a starting pitcher who won two hundred and eight games while in the employ of the Red Sox, Yankees, Reds, and Giants, more than sixty years ago, but is remembered now only as the man who threw the pitch that struck and killed Ray Chapman, of the Indians: the majors' only fatality. Eldon Auker, another starter, won a hundred and thirty games while toiling for the dangerous Tigers of the nineteen-thirties, and subsequent underhanders included d.i.c.k Hyde and Ted Abernathy, relievers who both worked for the