High Heat (38 page)

Once in a blue moon, a debut actually turns out better than the hype. Such was the case when Stephen Strasburg, perhaps the most heralded pitching phenom in a generation, strode to the mound for the first time in Washington, D.C. In a performance for the ages, the right-hander electrified an overflow crowd in the nation's capital, striking out fourteen batters, one shy of the record for a major-league debut.

Overnight Strasburg had seemingly placed himself along such epic fireballers as Bob Feller, Sandy Koufax, and Nolan Ryan. The accolades—“14-K gold,” “National Treasure,” and “Merry Strasmas”—rained down from all corners. The game was instantly heralded as one of greatest moments in Washington sports history.

But before we knew it, the exhilarating ride was over—or at least seriously derailed. With five weeks left in his rookie season, Strasburg headed to the sidelines with a torn ulnar collateral ligament in his pitching elbow. Whether he would ultimately be recognized as an All-Star or just another enigma with unfulfilled potential remained an open question.

Too often we put such talent on a pedestal. It's certainly understandable. Nothing makes us sit up more in our seats than pure ability and untapped potential. But we need to remember that talent, no matter how breathtaking and seemingly invincible, often struggles to come into its own.

In writing
High Heat
, I was struck by how difficult things are in this line of work. Nobody has it easy. Steve Dalkowski, Jay Franklin,
David Clyde, Herb Score, and “Sudden” Sam McDowell are just a few of the pitchers who had plenty of potential but never reached baseball's Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. For every Randy Johnson, every Goose Gossage, there are plenty of others who never made it, whose talent became an albatross—a gift that in the end they perhaps would have gladly given away, if they could.

At its core, baseball is a game of balls or strikes, safe or out. The lines are clearly delineated. Yet when it comes to the epic fireballers, the game is arguably played at another level. Here things are often measured in shades of gray rather than black and white, and success or failure can come down to something less tangible, spoken of in terms such as blessing or curse.

Strasburg certainly wasn't alone is his struggle to do right by his gift. More experienced pitchers struggled to master what had been bestowed. In San Francisco, two-time Cy Young winner Tim Lincecum lost velocity, perhaps even faith, in his fastball for a time. But he certainly roared back in postseason play. In Denver, Ubaldo Jimenez dispelled the belief that Coors Field was nothing more than a launching pad for mile-high home runs. He fired the first no-hitter in Colorado Rockies' history and for a time even stirred echoes of 1968—the Year of the Pitcher—and the prospect of the first thirty-win season in the majors since Detroit's Denny McLain. Yet coming down the stretch, Jimenez, like so many fireballers before and after him, strived simply for consistency.

In a showcase of power arms, Jimenez squared off against Tampa Bay's David Price in the 2010 All-Star Game. Every time I saw Price pitch during the 2010 season, I was tempted to say that I knew him back when.

In researching
High Heat
, Price was the latest phenom, a season or so ahead of Strasburg and the new crop. Still, at the time, he was very much on the outside looking in. When I first interviewed Price, he was at Triple-A Durham, wondering if a move to the bullpen would hasten his final call-up to the majors. In 2010, though, the left-hander came into his own, establishing a club record for victories and perhaps providing a sense of confidence and solace for the young guns following in his wake.

From the starting rotation to the bullpen, guys who can throw hard are now in abundance throughout baseball. “It's hard to find a guy throwing only 85–86 miles per hour in most rotations,” says ESPN analyst Aaron Boone. “More starters throw hard and more relievers seem to be in the mid-90s or higher.”

When the dust settled, five no-hitters had been recorded in the 2010 regular season. (The modern-day record of seven was set in 1990 and tied in 1991.) The Phillies' Roy Halladay, a hard thrower in his own right, pitched just the second no-hitter in the postseason and tied Johnny Vander Meer (1938), Allie Reynolds (1951), Virgil “Fire” Trucks (1952), and Nolan Ryan (1973) as the only ones to throw a pair of no-no's in the same season.

“It's the time of the pitcher right now,” says New York Yankees manager Joe Girardi.

Still, when it comes to the fastest of the fast, one must always give a nod to the past. After
High Heat
came out, I returned to New Britain, Connecticut, the home of Steve Dalkowski, the subject of what is perhaps the ultimate tale of what could have been. The amphitheater room at Central Connecticut State University was filled with young faces much more familiar with today's stars. But shortly before I began, a half dozen older men filed in, taking seats in the front row. I recognized several as Dalkowski's boyhood friends.

In a nod to them, I talked at length about the left-hander nicknamed “White Lightning.” While I suspect the students didn't know much about Dalkowski or Nuke LaLoosh, his cinematic alter ego from
Bull Durham
, talk of this select brotherhood resonated with all.

The morning after it became official—Stephen Strasburg would require a ligament replacement operation, a.k.a. Tommy John surgery—I received an intriguing e-mail from a baseball insider.

“Did you catch this?” he asked, alluding to the attached story about how Aroldis Chapman, the promising left-hander from Cuba, had been clocked at 105 miles per hour the night before in a Triple-A game.

A few nights later, when Chapman hit 104 in winning his first game at the major-league level, I was struck once again by the threads that
run through and bind the game together and how in looking back at the history of baseball, one can simply follow the epic fireballers. How the era of Walter Johnson and Smoky Joe Wood rolls into Bob Feller's heyday. How Sandy Koufax steps away from the game just as a young Nolan Ryan strives to gain a place in it. How “The Express,” along with such hard-throwing peers as J. R. Richard and Bob Gibson, became the standard for a new generation to emulate.

Blessing or curse? That's the question baseball's hard throwers, the fastest of the fast, will always struggle with. And therefore, in a sense, there's a story to be told with every fastball. Triumph and tragedy, epic moments and colossal failures, can be often encapsulated in a single pitch.

Of course, the rest of us are more fortunate. For it seems that just as one fireballer fades from view, another one steps up to take his place. Then once again we can gaze upon the pitching mound with anticipation and enjoy one of the greatest parts of the game.

In this hectic world, nothing is finer than to slow down and shoot the breeze with a guy who really knows his baseball. That's what I've been doing with Phil Pote, the self-proclaimed “Ancient Mariner,” since my days at
Baseball Weekly
, and my work always has been the better for it.

Greg Downs, another good friend, accompanied me on one of the first road trips for this book, the visit on a winter's afternoon to Green-Wood Cemetery. He saved the day by finding the grave site of James Creighton, the original fireballer, and then was kind enough to read several sections of this book, too. Thanks, Greg.

Jonathan Crowe, my editor at Da Capo Press, not only did a great job of directing this project but he went out of his way to listen. The day after seeing David Price in Durham, North Carolina, I suggested we scrap the chapter outline and go with sections based on the phases of a pitching delivery instead. He agreed and made sure the new organization worked. Renee Caputo and Margaret Ritchie were there to help me bring it home.

Chris Park believed in this project when few did and improved upon it significantly with her insight and encouragement. Thanks to Peter McGuigan and the good folks at Foundry Media, and Gary Brozek for once again paving the way.

This book wouldn't have happened without the help of Bill Francis, a top-notch researcher at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. Also, thanks to other guiding lights on the banks of Lake Otsego—Jeff Idelson, Jim Gates, Tim Wiles, Ted Spencer, Erik Strohl, Mary Quinn, Tom Shieber, John Odell, and Pat Kelly. Closer to home, Thomas Mann and David Kelly were there for me at the Library of Congress in Washington.

Paul Dickson, Dave Raglin, Tom Stanton, Barbara Mantegani, Frank Ceresi, and David Whitford kept me on the straight and narrow, while Sam Moore made sure I got in touch with many of the people I needed to talk with. Anne-Marie McNally and Jose Luis Villegas unearthed key photographs of several classic fireballers at the eleventh hour.

I am grateful for interviews and conversations with Jim Abbott, Bruce Adams, Mike Andrews, Bud Anzalone, Ralph Avila, Budd Bailey, Dusty Baker, Mike Berger, Scott Boras, Dick Bosman, Larry Bowa, Jim Bowden, Nellie Briles, Mike Brito, Kevin Brown, Pat Cain, Orlando Cepeda, Tom Chiappetta, Roger Clemens, Jerry Coleman, Leonard Coleman, Chris Colston, Billy Conigliaro, Billy Coward, Steve Dalkowski, Bob DiBiasio, Rob Ducey, Dave Duncan, Andy Etchebarren, Bob Feller, Phil Garner, Tim Gay, Pat Gillick, Peter Golenbock, John-William Greenbaum, Jack Hamilton,
Roland Hemond, Derek Holland, John Holway, Tom House, Frank Howard, Bill Huber, Monte Irvin, Reggie Jackson, Tommy John, Dick Johnson, Bill Koenig, Tony La Russa, Jim Leyland, Tim Lincecum, Mike Maddux, Howard Mansfield, Juan Marichal, Rob Matwick, Buck Martinez, Tim McCarver, Tim McQuay, Kevin Millwood, Orestes Minoso, Robb Nen, Rob Neyer, Jim Palmer, Jonathan Papelbon, Len Pare, Tony Pena, Troy Percival, Johnny Pesky, Boog Powell, David Price, Debbie Price, Jimmie Reese, Bill Rigney, Billy Ripken, Mike Rizzo, Frank Robinson, Nolan Ryan, Mike Scioscia, Mike Sowell, Hank Thomas, John Thorn, Syd Thrift, Jeff Torborg, Joe Torre, James Vilade, Billy Wagner, Earl Weaver, Don Welke, John Wetteland, Paul White, Pete Williams, Lisa Winston, Rick Wolff, and John Young.

Every fireballer seemingly has his own advocate, often his own Boswell at the ready to chronicle and even champion his accomplishments on the mound.

Walter Johnson has several esteemed wordsmiths in his corner. Shirley Povich's profile of the Big Train in
Sport
, January 1950, has few equals. In 1914, Johnson told his life story to that point to Billy Evans, a former player, umpire, and newspaper columnist. That interview can be found in the October 1914 issue of
St. Nicholas Magazine.
But sometimes it's good to talk with somebody who's still alive. Nobody carries the torch for Johnson like Hank Thomas, who is also his grandson. In
Walter Johnson: Baseball's Big Train,
Thomas makes several key moments of the Hall of Famer's career, especially the 1924 World Series, come alive. When Thomas and I would meet, I'd pepper him with questions about his grandfather to the point where Thomas would say, “Check out the book. It's all in there.” Indeed, when it comes to the Big Train, it usually is.

The thick files on Johnson and Leroy “Satchel” Paige were the first two that I requested upon my initial visit to the research library in Cooperstown. They just seemed like logical places to start, as I didn't know much about Amos Rusie, Pud Galvin, or Lefty Grove at that point. Soon I discovered that Paige has several storytellers in his corner, too.
Maybe I'll Pitch Forever,
as told to David Lipman, moves as quickly as Satch's old “bee” ball and also offers a better understanding of a pitcher who many believe should have been the first to break the color barrier.

As part of my travels, I was one of several hundred who helped Bob Feller celebrate his 90th birthday in Washington. All I can say is that I hope I'm still as enthusiastic about life at that age as “Rapid Robert” is. Not only did Feller show me the footage of his famous motorcycle test, but he also detailed other attempts to clock his fastball, as well as his days barnstorming with Paige. Feller has two entertaining books to his credit:
Now Pitching, Bob Feller,
which he coauthored with Bill Gilbert, and
Bob Feller's Little Black Book of Baseball Wisdom,
which he did with Burton Rocks.

When it comes to Sandy Koufax, there's no better place to start than Jane Leavy's
A Lefty's Legacy
. Interviews with Norm Sherry helped me understand how and when Koufax turned the corner from troubled prospect to Hall of Fame hurler. Conversations with Jeff Torborg, another top-notch catcher and student of the game, fleshed out the rest of Koufax's story and led to Nolan Ryan. After all, Torborg caught them both in their prime.

Most athletes' autobiographies aren't much to write home about. But I was struck by how candid
Throwing Heat,
Ryan's autobiography with Harvey Frommer, was. This is where I learned how close Ryan came to walking away from the game in his early years—all because he was so frustrated by his inability to do right by this
gift of a great fastball. That became the starting point for an extended interview we had in Arlington, Texas. I thank “the Express” not only for his time but for his thoughtful answers. A special nod to Rob Matwick, Dale Petroskey, and John Blake for again getting me in the door. In Durham, North Carolina, Matt DeMargel made sure I caught up with the people I needed to see, especially David Price. Thanks to Dick Bosman, Milton Jamail, and Rick Vaughn with the Tampa Bay Rays. And, of course, when it came to one of baseball's newest pitching phenoms, nobody knows him like his mother, Debbie Price.

Perhaps it takes one star-crossed pitcher to understand another. I've followed Pat Jordan's writing for some time, starting with his memoir,
A False Spring
. Time and again, Jordan can be found writing about Steve Dalkowski. His profiles for
Sports Illustrated
(October 12, 1970) and
Inside Sports
(July 1982) remain classics.