His name was Greg Hannon. He was a sexist and racist pig and he wasn’t all that bright. He was one of those guys that just never seemed to shut up and never seemed to really know just what the hell he was talking about. Although he was born and raised in western Pennsylvania, I always assumed it must have been Alabama … he was a redneck in every sense of the word. I simply couldn’t stand being in the same room with him. Lucky for us, we were outside.
On that sunny March morning, there was nobody in the world I would rather have had standing sixty feet and six inches away from me. Although he was as irritating as a person could be, behind the plate he was an idiot savant. He knew his pitchers and he knew hitters. He could formulate a game plan instantly. He was a true student of the game and was able to identify issues with his pitchers instantly. If I was having difficulty with my mechanics … if my arm slot was wrong, if my release point was off, if my plant foot wasn’t landing properly … he recognized it and addressed before the pitching coach ever caught on. He was going to get me through this.
He, and most of the players on the field, had a year's experience in the minor leagues. I was a nobody. I had just walked on. I was the undersized pitcher who wasn’t likely to develop any additional power and speed and who was skirting by on location and three average pitches. I didn’t deserve to be there … and this was my audition. I was nervous as hell.
I had warmed-up and felt pretty good … but I was battling my nerves. I would think I was in control for a moment or two and then would be overcome with panic for a few seconds. That cycle was repeating itself as the umpire shouted, “Play ball!” I took a deep breath and tried to convince myself that this wasn’t my only shot. The lead-off hitter took his place in the batter’s box … and we were underway.
I didn’t even look at the sign Greg had put down. It didn’t matter. We both knew exactly how I was going to start this off. Fastball away. No reason to over-think this thing. I dug my cleats in next to the rubber and, in one fluid motion, went directly into my wind-up. “Nothing more than a session in the ‘pen,” I tried to convince myself. With a little more muscle than normal and a little longer stride than normal, I released my first pitch. Fastball away!
I missed the corner of the plate by a couple of inches. That much was obvious. Ball one.
Ask anybody who has every played the game and they will tell you about the importance of first-pitch strikes. Its common knowledge … it’s a cliché. I never much cared for clichés. It felt good; it calmed my nerves … so what if I was off the plate a bit? For the first time that entire day I felt like I could actually do this.
Greg didn’t deviate from the game plan at all and called for a curve … considered by most in camp as my best pitch. It was the right plan. The ball would start inside and finish in about the same spot as the previous pitch. If I didn’t hang it, we were going to be right back in this thing. Taking my time and feeling loads more relaxed, I threw a solid knee-buckling curve … and it crossed the plate in the exact same place as the previous pitch. Ball two.
Already our perfect game plan had gone to hell.
Two pretty good pitches. Two balls. What good is being the one guy in camp that everybody says is only there because of his control and not be able to throw strikes? Shit.
Greg liked that last pitch. I liked that last pitch. From the ooohs and aaahs coming from the stands, a lot of people liked that pitch. So we decided to go to it again … just scoot it a little more over the plate.
Only it didn’t scoot. It wound up in exactly the same spot. Ball three. Three pitches in and I had hit the same location three times … only that location was an inch or two off the plate. This was my big break, my audition, my chance to prove I deserved to be there … and I was behind 3-0 on my first batter. Shit.
Greg didn’t even put down a sign. He didn’t need to. We both knew what was coming. The batter knew what was coming. Everybody in the dugout knew what was coming. Everybody in the stands knew what was coming. Hell, you probably know what was coming. Fastball … right down Broadway. Nothing fancy … just throw a strike.
And I did. Belly-button high. Right over the meat of the plate. Ball four.
Ball four?
Greg was furious and began chattering with the ump. He called it high. “High, my ass.” I mumbled. As the batter took his base I couldn’t bring myself to look at home plate, or at Greg, or the ump or my dugout. I just watched the guy trot to first base. “First time playing professional ball and I walk the first guy on four pitches.”
And suddenly the nerves that I had kept under control for the past few minutes came raging in. I could feel my body tremble. I could feel the beginnings of tears welling-up in my eyes. I took deep breaths and repeated to myself, “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.” I might have been the victim of a bad call, but that didn’t make it any less bullshit.
“Okay, new start,” I told myself and returned to the mound. Greg put down the sign and I knew we were changing our game plan a little. Normally I was the kind of pitcher who hit spots, painted the corners and left you guessing. But judging from the one finger being slapped against his left thigh, I could tell that Greg had decided we would come right out and challenge this guy. Fastball in.
That’s exactly what I delivered and it obviously caught the plate. “Yes,” I half said to myself. “Ball,” the umpire replied. What? Greg chattered some more. He called that high? My God, I was being squeezed … it was well below the letters. Greg returned the ball and put three fingers down before he even was in his crouch. He wanted me to go to my split and I agreed. It may not have been my best pitch, but it was my most accurate. But because I took a little something off of it, it was also the most hittable thing I threw. Then again, at this point, who cares? Let the defense work … just so long as I throw a damn strike.
I threw the split (I called it a fork, but it was really more of a split-finger fastball … its just in those days, we didn’t have the term “split-finger fastball”) and it dropped beautifully. The batter checked his swing as the ball trailed into the dirt. Ball two. Shit.
I shook off Greg’s call for a fastball. “Hell no,” I thought. “Let me throw a big looping, hanging curve and have this guy tee off on it. I would rather let this guy smash one rather than throw my seventh consecutive ball.” Greg relented and I threw yet another beautiful curve … which wound up in the exact same place as the previous two and was called Ball Three.
Shit, shit and more shit!
And here I was … the kid who didn’t belong there … starting off my first professional ballgame on the verge of walking the first two batters I faced. I glanced over to the dugout to see my pitching coach and skipper both standing with arms folded. They were going to yank me … and then cut me … right then and there. I could feel it. My baseball career was going to end right here and now. I glanced over to Greg as the batter stepped back in. He was angry … not at me, but at the circumstance … and the ump who had squeezed me seven pitches in. He just flashed one finger … over and over again.
“Well, if I’m going out today, I’m going out throwing the hardest, fastest fastball I’ve ever thrown.” I took a long deep breath and went into my wind-up as tense as could be. I was going to burn the ball’s stitching into Greg’s mitt. There were going to be mini-sonic booms coming off this damn thing!
Ask anyone who has ever pitched, or who has ever even just thrown a ball, and they can tell you about the weird sensation when the ball seems to stick in your hand for just a millisecond too long. How that late release could completely ruin a simple thing like throwing a ball. It happens from time to time. It happened right then and there.
Even as the ball left my hand, in my head I was screaming, “Noooooooooooo!” The next second and a half seemed to take forever as I watched (in seeming slow motion) as the ball trailed down, down, down. This was going to be Ball Four … or rather, Ball Eight. I was done.
Then, a silly thing happened … the guy swung! The worst pitch I’ve thrown today and the guy swung! What’s more … he hit the damn thing!
It was a sharp one-hopper to my right. On instinct I reached across and snagged it. The momentum of that action pivoted my body towards second base and I slung it to the shortstop to get the runner coming from first. He tagged the base and, on a hop, threw a rocket to first. Double play!
Two up, two down. No harm done. And I hadn’t even thrown a strike yet.
I share this story to convey a truth I have learned about the world and our lives on it. Sometimes when things seem their bleakest, pure dumb luck will step in and set things right. You just have to keep plugging away … like I was on that mound … and trust that something good is right around the corner. Lucky breaks come … you just have to gut it out until they do.
I remember the rest of that game fairly well, but not as well as I remember those first two batters. I struck out the next guy to get us out of the inning. I gave up a run on consecutive doubles in the second. I struck out the side in the third. That was supposed to be my day, but the coach sent me out for the fourth even though my pitch count was high because he wanted to see if I could gut it out. I pushed myself through that inning giving up a hit and a walk, but no runs. We would eventually win that game 4 to 1.
Something that started off poorly … a disaster even … ended well. So remember, next time you are going through a rough patch in life (as we all do) that if you keep struggling through … some dummy is going to hit into a double play and everything will be okay.
