Authors: Pat Jordan
The Orioles shipped him to Rochester of the International League, hoping that his arm might come around. But he pitched only 12 innings there, then 29 innings at Elmira. For the first time in his career he was unable to average one strikeout per inning. The following season he started at Elmira and then drifted down to Stockton, where he was 8–4 with a 2.83 ERA. His arm apparently had begun to heal, but he hurt it again in 1965 and was sent to Tri-Cities of the Class B Northwest League. In 1961 he had fanned 150 batters in 103 innings at Tri-Cities; in 1965 he managed only 62 strikeouts in 84 innings, the worst record of his career. In mid-season the Orioles released him, and he was picked up by the Los Angeles Angels and sent to San Jose. The following spring the Angels gave him his unconditional release.
Today, five years after he left baseball, Dalkowski’s name still evokes recognition from anyone who ever participated in professional baseball. Recently Dick Schaap, the noted sportswriter, asked Tom Seaver to name the fastest pitcher ever. Seaver did not hesitate in answering “Steve Dalkowski,” although he added he had never seen him pitch.
But Steve Dalkowski’s real fame rests not with the Tom Seavers in cities such as New York. Instead, it lies in all those low minor league towns like Wellsville and Leesburg and Yakima and Stockton, or wherever talented but erratic young players are struggling toward the major leagues. To these minor-leaguers Dalkowski will always symbolize every frustration and elation they have ever felt because of their God-given talent. They take pride in recalling his successes, as if his was the ultimate talent, and his struggle to discipline it, the ultimate struggle. If Steve Dalkowski had succeeded it would have given proof to their own future success. But even his failure does not diminish him, for it was not the result of deficiency but of excess. He was too fast. His ball moved too much. His talent was superhuman. To young players he is proof that failure is not always due to a dearth of physical talent. So, in a way, Dalkowski’s lack of achievement softens the possibility of their own imminent failures.
Dalkowski could only have succeeded if he had tempered his blazing speed with control and discipline—in short, had compromised his fastball, because with control inevitably comes a loss of speed. His wildness can be considered a refusal to give up any of his speed, even in the hope of gaining control and big-league glory. Instead, Dalkowski settled for those isolated, pure, distilled moments of private success attributable solely to talent. And those moments could never be dimmed, because their purity was inherent in his talent. That he never won a major league game, never became a star, is not important to young ballplayers who hold him in such reverence. All that matters is that once, just once, Steve Dalkowski threw a fastball so hard that Ted Williams never even saw it. No one else can claim that.
An Old Hand with a Prospect
Woody Huyke, smiling, blows Bazooka bubbles as he walks with quick pigeon-toed steps away from home plate. His shin guards click between his legs and his chest protector rises and falls against his chest as he moves. His gray flannel uniform is darkened with sweat. His cap is still on backwards, and his oval, olive-skinned face is streaked with red dirt and sweat and the lighter outline of his mask, which he carries tucked under his left armpit. Two swollen fingers, taped together, stick out from the fat, round catcher’s mitt on his left hand.
When Woody Huyke reaches the visiting team’s dugout he turns slightly to shake the hand of a tall, impassive Negro who has just walked in from the pitcher’s mound. Woody says something in Spanish and Silvano Quezada smiles. The rest of the Waterbury Pirates’ baseball team arrive simultaneously from their positions, and they in turn slap Huyke and Quezada on the back before disappearing into the dugout.
A voice from the dugout calls out, “Nice going, you old goat.” Both Huyke and Quezada smile. The remark could have been directed at either of the two men, who claim to represent the oldest living battery in the Eastern League. Together they have played 25 years of minor league baseball. Their combined ages is somewhere near 70. “That’s 70 years that are known,” Huyke will say with a raised eyebrow. “God only knows how old Quezada is. He is ageless. Me, I am a mere boy in comparison.” Soon Woody Huyke will be 34.
Before Huyke disappears into the dugout he pauses on the top step, rests his elbows on the tar-paper roof and scans the Elmira, N.Y., ball park. It is a chipped and sagging wooden structure with a high tier of roofed stands rising directly behind home plate and lower exposed stands lining each foul line. The outfield, which is nothing more than intermittent clumps of grass, is bordered by a high wooden fence painted with the faded advertisements of banks and gas stations and restaurants.
On this hot, muggy July afternoon there are less than 100 fans scattered throughout the ball park. The largest group consists of seven or eight heavily made-up young women seated directly behind the home-plate screen. These are the wives of the Elmira baseball players. Throughout the game they have chattered amiably, like colorful magpies, and now that it is over they seem not even to have noticed, for they are still chattering. Woody looks at the girls and the few old men sleeping high in the shade of the home-plate stands and the young boys fooling in the third-base bleachers and he shakes his head. Then he steps backward onto the field and, still facing the empty stands, says with just a trace of a Spanish accent, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your wonderful applause.” And he bows. It is the graceful and profuse bow of a conquering matador. He pulls off his cap with a flourish and sweeps it across his chest as he bows so deeply from the waist that his face almost touches the ground. And then Woody Huyke, too, disappears into the visiting team’s dugout.
Woody Huyke is smiling because the Waterbury Pirates, a farm team of the Pittsburgh Pirates, have just won the first game of a twi-night doubleheader from the Elmira Royals, 1–0, behind Silvano Quezada’s four-hit pitching. The victory has moved the Pirates into second place in the Double A Eastern League behind first-place Reading, Pa. If the Pirates ever hope to catch Reading they must also win today’s second game before they leave tomorrow morning for a three-game series in Reading.
Just three hours earlier the Pirates had stepped off a Trailways bus after a six-hour ride from their home in Waterbury, Conn. They had had only enough time to change into their uniforms in the Mark Twain Hotel and wander conspicuously about town for a few minutes before reboarding the bus to the ball park.
The ride through the beautiful Hudson Valley had been both long and tiring, and it had made that first game victory only partially satisfying. A second victory would make it almost worthwhile. But not quite. It had been too tedious a trip ever to be worthwhile, opined one Waterbury player.
During the six-hour ride, which began at 9:30 in the morning, many of the players tried to sleep. They jacked their knees up into their stomachs, flattened their hands into knuckled pillows and closed their eyes to the pines and lakes that flashed before their windows. In between naps, many of the players drifted in and out of an endless, shifting game of pinochle that had been organized in the front of the bus by their manager, Red Davis. Before the ride would end, every player but two would be devoured by that pinochle game.
At 20 years old, Bruce Kison had no patience for pinochle; and at 6 feet, 5 inches tall, he had not experienced enough Trailways buses to be able to fold his frame into a cramped seat to sleep. Instead, Bruce passed much of his time glancing through a copy of
The Sporting News
. Bruce bypassed most of the stories about Tom Seaver and Sam McDowell, and turned instead to the back pages, where he scanned the many columns of statistics that told of the accomplishments of other minor-leaguers like himself. Bruce always looked first for news of other Pittsburgh farmhands, specifically pitchers, so that he could see just who stood in his way to Three Rivers Stadium.
Woody Huyke did not sleep or play pinochle either. He had been on too many 28-hour bus rides to be impressed by a mere six-hour jaunt, so he did not need to divert himself with cards or sleep to escape boredom. Nor did Woody read
The Sporting News
. He did not have to read of other Pittsburgh farmhands because there was no one, either beneath or above him, who could cause him anxiety. Instead, as was his custom, Woody talked ceaselessly to anyone who would listen, and finally, after three hours, he would talk only to himself. He spoke in a slurred, stammering English with only a slight Spanish accent. When he spoke his lips pulled up into his left cheek so that every word seemed punctuated by a wink.
Woody talked first about his 12 years in minor league baseball. He said that he had played organized baseball in three countries—the United States, Canada and Mexico—and not many players could claim that. Then, when he saw he was losing his audience, he began talking about his winters in Puerto Rico, where for three months of every year he played baseball with some of the most famous major-leaguers: Roberto Clemente, Frank Robinson, Orlando Cepeda—men he would not meet during the regular season because he had never played one inning of major league baseball.
“I caught some beautiful games in Puerto Rico,” Woody said. “But the most beautiful game was in 1965 when I caught Louis Tiant against Juan Pizaro. That was when both still threw good. The game went 10 innings before Pizaro won 1–0.” Huyke paused. “Ah . . . that was a beautiful game—you know what I mean? I would have paid to be a part of it.” Woody turned in his seat and elbowed Ray Cordiero, a balding 32-year-old relief pitcher, who was trying to sleep. “Heh, Rook, you know what that means to catch such a game?” Cordiero grumbled an obscenity and turned toward the window. “Rookie!” said Woody in disgust.
After four hours of traveling the bus stopped at a roadside diner and the players got out to stretch their legs and eat lunch. When the journey resumed the players were still grumbling about the greasy food they had just eaten. Woody, who sat up front, immediately began smacking his lips and rubbing a flattened hand over his stomach. “That was a great meal, eh, Rook?” he said to Cordiero. The 11-year veteran looked sideways at Huyke and then said it was the greatest meal he’d ever eaten. Huyke nodded emphatically. “I loved it, too,” he said. “I love it all.” Then Woody turned in his seat and faced his grumbling teammates. “Heh, boys, this road trip is great, isn’t it? Tell the truth, don’t you love it as much as old Woody?” The players began to hoot and swear, and someone threw a rolled up
Sporting News
at him. “Bah!” said Woody, as he flung the back of his hand at his teammates. “These young kids, what do they know? Always complaining. They don’t appreciate the finer things in life, eh, Rook?” He nudged Cordiero again. “What are they gonna do when they get our age, huh, curl up and die?”
Cordiero turned toward the window again and put his hands over his ears. “Why the hell don’t you shut up, you old goat?”
Now, after catching the first game of the doubleheader, Woody Huyke sits in the shade of the Elmira dugout too tired to unbuckle his shin guards and chest protector. Steam rises from his face. It is a handsome, boyish face with full lips that make it look almost puffy. Woody has tanned skin, a heavy beard, warm brown eyes and shiney black hair that is beginning to recede from his forehead. He stands about 5-11 and weighs 195. At 33 years of age he is just beginning to be stocky, although he claims that his uniform size is the same as the one he wore as a 20-year-old rookie. What he does not admit, however, is that the uniform no longer fits him the same way. The buttons at his waist seem about to explode, and his pants fit his calves like an added layer of skin. But that is not entirely due to the refried rice and beans Woody loves so much. It is also due to the constant bending and standing a catcher suffers each game, which make his legs round and muscular like gigantic bottles of Coke. Woody worries a lot about his weight, although if he was in the majors he could afford the luxury of a few extra pounds. But as a minor-leaguer he knows that if he gains too much weight he will be out of a job.
Because of his age, Woody ordinarily wouldn’t have to catch the second game of this doubleheader. Today is an exception. His backup catcher is on military reserve duty, and furthermore, Bruce Kison, the Pirates’ talented young pitcher, will be making his first start in over two weeks after tearing a muscle in his right elbow.
A few minutes before the second game Cordiero returns to the dugout with a Coke and a hot dog for Woody. Woody eats slowly in the dugout and then goes down to the left-field line where Kison has already begun to warm up with one of the Waterbury utility players. Woody stands behind Kison and watches carefully as the young right-hander throws.
Bruce Kison’s small, pink face is covered with “peach fuzz” which makes him look no older than 15, so his teammates have nicknamed him “Sweetie.” Whenever they call him that in shrill, affected tones, with pinkies raised, Bruce will smile good-naturedly, although his face grows noticeably pinker and his eyes, which are a clear, almost cold blue, seem suddenly much too intense for such a babyish face.
His teammates have also called him “The Stick” at various times, because at 6-5 and 170 pounds he has the long limbs and small chest of a stick figure. His uniform shirt billows at the waist like a sail and his pants billow at the calf like harem pants. At no point does his body impose any definition on the uniform he is wearing. Because of his youthful face and awkward build, it seems incredulous that Bruce Kison is a superb, mature athlete. And yet, when he begins throwing a baseball in that easy, loose-limbed way of his, both his awkwardness and his innocence are dissipated and he looks proficient beyond his years.
Now, with Woody Huyke watching him, Kison is throwing much too hard and too rapidly after his layoff. The ball is dipping into the dirt and sailing over the head of his catcher, who must repeatedly run back to the left-field fence to retrieve it.
After each wild pitch Kison, whose face is expressionless, paws the dirt with his spikes only to throw even harder and more rapidly once the ball is returned to him. When he does throw, his arm sweeps out from the side of his body and crosses in front of his shirt waist-high, right to left. It is the same trajectory a bat takes when swung. When he finishes up, his arm rises noticeably, which makes his fastball go up and in to a right-handed hitter. (“A very tough pitch to hit,” says Woody.) It is a fluid, sidearmed motion that appears to be effortless, and it is not unsimilar to that of other great sidearmed pitchers such as Don Drysdale and Ewell “The Whip” Blackwell. But like the motion of those pitchers, it often produces sore arms. When an overhand pitcher throws a curveball his elbow twists downward, its natural direction; a sidearmed pitcher twists his elbow upward, which puts great strain on muscles and tendons.
Two weeks ago Bruce Kison’s meteoric rise from the Pirates’ lowest minor league team in 1968 to its second highest team in 1970 was halted when he threw a curveball and strained an elbow muscle in his right arm. This was the first sore arm of Kison’s career, and now, throwing in the Elmira bullpen, he is wondering if it will be his last. That is why he’s throwing so hard so quickly. He wants to prove that his arm is no longer sore, and also punish the arm for having let him down for the first time in his life.
After Kison’s sixth wild pitch his catcher looks up at Woody. Huyke nods and walks over and takes his catcher’s mitt. Kison throws a low fastball that Woody expertly scoops out of the dirt. Before returning the ball to Kison, Woody says a few words to Kison’s previous catcher. Kison waits for the ball. He takes a deep breath. Woody finally returns the ball to him, and Bruce immediately fires a fastball over the catcher’s head. Woody gets up from his crouch and walks slowly back to the fence for the ball. He picks it up and walks back to the plate and returns the ball to Kison, who by this time has taken three deep breaths. The next pitch is a strike. Woody gets out of his crouch and walks a few feet toward Kison and shakes the ball at him, saying, “Atta boy, Bruce, use your head.”
Before long Kison has calmed down considerably and is throwing fastball after fastball into Woody’s glove. Finally, Woody calls for a curveball. Bruce spins one up cautiously. Woody looks to see if he winces on it. He calls for another curve, and again Kison just spins it up softly. After a few more halfhearted curves Woody shrugs and goes back to calling for fastballs.
“I know how the kid feels,” says Woody. “He’s afraid to cut loose on the curve. He knows what a sore arm can mean to his career at this stage.” Woody goes on to say that it is not the seriousness of this particular sore arm that is causing both the Pirates’ front office and Bruce Kison any anxiety, but the feeling that this sore arm may be the beginning of an irreversible pattern that will follow Kison wherever he goes. Bruce knows if he is still to be considered a prospect he must prove he will not be a perpetually sore-armed pitcher. That’s why today’s game is so important to him. It will determine to a great extent when and if he ever makes the major leagues.