Pitching the keynote of defense—The pitcher’s job—Why young pitchers
fail—Control as a pitching factor—How to obtain control—Alexander the
old master—Shocker gets by on “nothing”—Shawkey gives a few words of
advice to “rookies”—Practice counts most.
Pitching is the most important single item in the defensive play of any
ball club. But I mean real pitching, not just throwing. I guess there
isn’t a kid in the country but at some time or another dreams of being
a great pitcher. And here’s the first thing for him to remember.
Pitchers—real pitchers—learn early that their job isn’t so much to keep
opposing batsmen from hitting as it is to make them hit at someone.
The trouble with most kid pitchers is that they forget there are eight
other men on the team to help them. They just blunder ahead, putting
everything they have on every pitch, and trying to carry the weight of
the whole game on their shoulders. The result is that they tire out
and go bad along in the middle of the game, and then the wise old heads
have to hurry out and rescue them.
I’ve seen a lot of young fellows come up, and they all had the same
trouble. Take Lefty Grove over at Philadelphia, for instance. There
isn’t a pitcher in the league who has more speed or more stuff than
Lefty. He can do things with a baseball that make you dizzy. But when
he first came into the league he seemed to think that he had to strike
every batter out as he came up. The result was that he’d go along great
for five or six innings, and then blow. And he’s just now learning to
conserve his strength. In other words, he’s learning that a little
exercise of the noodle will save a lot of wear and tear on his arm.
Owen Carroll, the Holy Cross star, who went to the Tigers, is another
of the same type. Ownie was a whiz in college, but when he got up into
the big show he found out that there was something more to pitching
than just breezing that fast one past. It took him a whole season to
get wise, and he is just now beginning to develop as a real pitcher.
He’s getting smart.
You see when a kid pitcher starts out he tries to carry the game
himself. Then when he finds out that he’s being hit a little he tries
to bear down harder and harder. And the more he bears down the worse he
gets.
I broke in as a pitcher and I was like all the rest of the beginners.
And I couldn’t understand why that fast ball didn’t fool the big league
hitters like it had the kids back at school. I had another bad fault,
too. I wouldn’t accept advice and how I managed to blunder along is
more than I can understand.
The boys are still telling a story about me that always gets a laugh
even if it isn’t very complimentary. In the 1918 world series we (the
Boston Red Sox) were playing the Chicago Cubs, and they had Leslie Mann
and Max Flack alternating in the outfield.
I was slated to pitch one game and the first time up Mann socked me for
a base hit. When I went back to the bench Bill Carrigan, our manager,
called me over to give me some advice.
“That fellow Mann is a tough hitter against left handed pitching,” Bill
said. “The only thing to do is loosen him up a bit. The next time he
comes up to hit dust him off! Drop him in the dirt! Maybe that will
stop him!”
I promised Bill I would do it, and went on about my business.
Meantime the Cubs had sent Flack in to replace Mann, and when Max came
up to hit I promptly turned loose a fast one that flattened him.
When I went back to the bench I was feeling pretty proud of myself.
“Well,” I said, “I guess I showed that guy Mann a thing or two, didn’t
I?”
I thought Carrigan would explode. He cussed me up one side and down
the other. And I don’t blame him. Can you imagine a pitcher not even
knowing the difference between hitters and hitting Max Flack in the
ribs thinking all the time that he was making Leslie Mann a victim?
But it just goes to show how careless young pitchers can be, and it’s
typical too of the thousand and one things which inexperienced pitchers
will do to get in bad.
The first thing any pitcher has got to develop—the biggest single
item in his whole stock of trade—is control! Don’t let anyone kid you
about it. The curve and the fast one are important; the change of pace
and the other trick deliveries are great—but they’re not worth a
plugged nickle unless you have control to go with them.
And by control I don’t mean the ability to put the ball over the plate
somewhere between the shoulders and the knees, either. I mean the
ability to hit a three inch target nine throws out of ten. I mean the
sort of control that lets you put that ball in the exact spot you want
it, and to play a corner to the split fraction of an inch.
I’ve seen a lot of good pitchers in my day. That gang I broke in with
up in Boston was a pretty fair outfit. And there wasn’t a man in the
lot who didn’t spend hours on end getting control. Ernie Shore could
just about drive a nail at sixty feet and Dutch Leonard was just as
good. When they pitched they didn’t guess where that ball was going.
They knew.
In the 1926 world series when Alexander struck out Tony Lazzeri in
that crucial inning and won a championship a lot of fellows raved
about Alex’s great curves. Let me tell you a little secret. Alex threw
Tony just one curve ball in all those pitches. And the ball that Tony
fanned on wasn’t a curve at all. It wasn’t even a fast one. It was a
half-speed ball that cut the corner of the plate within a half inch of
the spot Bob O’Farrell called for.
No sir, the thing that fanned Tony Lazzeri that day and the thing
that cost the Yankees a world championship was Grover Alexander’s
uncanny control. He was putting that ball right where he wanted it, on
every pitch. And the fellow who was up there at the plate with a bat on
his shoulder felt like a sucker. For he knew that the balls were so bad
he couldn’t hit them squarely, yet they were good enough that they were
sure to be called strikes if he let them go.
I know. I stood up there. And I felt like a sucker along with the rest
of the boys.
Of course there aren’t many pitchers who have the control that Alex
has. Alex is a tall, loose-jointed easy-going chap who refuses to
become excited. Just to see Old Pete out there on the mound with that
cocky little, undersized cap pulled down over one ear, chewing away
at his tobacco and pitching baseballs as easy as pitching hay, is
enough to take the heart out of a fellow. I’ve got a hunch that if Alex
suddenly found himself on the moon, he’d just grin, pull his cap over
his ear, and keep on chewing. He’s that kind of a chap. Nothing rattles
him.
Urban Shocker is another one who makes good control take the place
of a lot of other things. Shocker is a mighty smart hombre out there on
the mound, believe me. Time was when he used to have a good assortment
of “stuff” too—but now, as he gets older, he’s losing a lot of the
“swift.” And his “hook” doesn’t break any more, it just bends a little.
But Shocker has got two things that most amateur pitchers lack. He
has control—and he’s got a lot of knowledge up there under that old
baseball cap of his. And the two get him over many a rough, tough spot,
believe me.
As I said, the first thing any pitcher has to get to become something
besides a “thrower” is control.
And there’s just one way to get it—that’s by constant practice. Some
day when you’re out at the ball park during fielding practice, watch
the pitchers warming up. You’ll see them all out there playing toss,
old timers and youngsters alike. But if you watch closely you’ll see
one big difference.
The young fellows are just throwing—loosening up their arms and getting
the kinks out of their muscles. But the old fellows! They’re pitching
to a target with every ball they throw! Watch the fellow who is warming
them up. You’ll see him hold his glove up as a target on every pitch
Sometimes he holds it over one corner of the plate, sometimes over
the other. Sometimes he holds it low and sometimes high. But always the
pitcher is in there trying to hit the mark—and if he happens to be on
form he’ll do it twenty-nine pitches out of thirty. If he can’t, then
he’s still a long way from a pitcher.
I’ve seen Shawkey pitch to a target for an hour at a time, perfecting
his control. He doesn’t pitch hard, and he doesn’t strain his arm with
a lot of “stuff.” He just pitches away at that old mark. And other
players on the club do the same thing. Our fellows, most of them, are
veterans. They’ve been around. They know what it’s all about. And they
know just how important control is.
Walter Johnson is another pitcher who was great on control. He had
to be. If Walter had been wild with that fast ball of his, a hitter
wouldn’t have dared to stand up there. It would have been murder. But
you never heard fellows complain about hitting against Walter.
You might not be able to see them, and he might make you look like a
sucker when he sent that fast ball whizzing past your shoulders like a
bullet. But always you could dig in there at the plate knowing deep in
your gizzard that whatever else happened, he wouldn’t “bean” you.
For every time he pitched he knew right where that ball was going. He
had to. If he had been inclined to wildness with all that speed, there
isn’t a catcher in the business could have caught him.
Believe me the catchers are the fellows who suffer when a pitcher is
wild. In one game down South last year, when Hug was trying out his
young pitchers, Johnny Grabowski was so bruised and battered that he
had to take a four day rest. Those kids had him diving in the dirt and
jumping in the air. They had him running to the right and hopping to
left and when the game was finished he had big blue bruises up and down
both shins, on his arms and in about every other spot on his anatomy
that didn’t happen to be covered with pads. Believe me, Johnny is one
boy who knows the importance of control all right.
Yet some other pitchers, like Matty or Coombs, or Herb Pennock—fellows
who have a lot more “stuff” on the ball than any youngster—are what the
catchers call “rocking chair pitchers.” Which means that their control
is so good that you could sit in a rocking chair and catch them.
To be a good pitcher you’ve got to have a lot of things. You’ve
got to have a fast ball with a “hop.” You’ve got to have a good curve
to mix in with the fast one to make it effective. You’ve got to have
a change of pace—for it takes a change of pace to throw a batter off
balance and keep him from peppering that curve or fast one against the
wall.
Then you’ve got to have pitching knowledge—the sort of knowledge that
comes from experience, and study and hard work. It takes more than a
sturdy pair of shoulders to get by in the big leagues these days.
But first you’ve got to have control, for that’s the A, B, and C in the
pitcher’s alphabet. The greatest curve ball in the world isn’t worth a
thin dime if you don’t know what to do with it. The “swift” of Walter
Johnson would be worthless to a chap who couldn’t get the ball over the
plate.
Control, that’s the system.
And control isn’t a gift that is born to a man. It’s the result of
hard, hard work and long hours of practice.
And in striving for control there are these things to remember. First
of all you’ve got to develop a smooth, easy, pitching motion. Overhand,
side arm or underhand it doesn’t make any difference. The best one
is the one that is easiest and most natural.
And you can’t afford to strain. The moment a pitcher starts to
strain—“bearing down” we call it in baseball—he becomes wild. The first
rule of golf which says “make your swing easy and natural, and don’t
press,” could well be named as the first rule in pitching, too.
After that one’s mastered there’s time enough to start work on the
other details of curve and fast one.
After all, the whole thing can be summed up in a little story of an
incident that happened in training camp two years ago. Hug had a lot of
young pitchers in camp that year and he appointed Bob Shawkey as a sort
of advisory coach.
The kids were all anxious to make good and the minute Bob would show up
they’d start calling him to watch their curves or take a look at their
trick stuff.
Bob stood it awhile without comment.
Finally he called the gang together.
“Now listen, you fellows,” he said, “I’ve looked at curved balls until
I’m cockeyed and I’ve watched fast ones until my eyeballs ache. Now you
fellows line up there and try throwing at that backstop. After you’ve
learned to hit that we’ll put up a barrel and maybe in a week or
two some of you will get good enough to throw a ball over the plate.
“When you get that good, then I’ll be glad to talk to you about
pitching. Until then I’m too busy to be bothered.”
Which may sound a little hard boiled, but if you were a baseball man
you’d understand. Shawkey wasn’t talking through his hat at all. He
just knew his onions, that’s all.