I’d been observing coach Bleutrich all afternoon, looking to see what I could do to hook his attention. He was a tall distinguished looking man, maybe mid forties, with salt and pepper hair, sharply chiseled features, and slightly stooped shoulders. He was very taciturn, even restrained. He spoke softly and respectfully to his fellow coaches and to all of us kids. Definitely a Gary Cooper type.
You could see why his former players referred to him as “the Father.” Bleutrich’s demeanor reminded me a bit of my grandfather Hymie. Like my grandfather, he had an air of quiet dignity about him. He seemed at ease with himself. My hunch was that you could trust this coach to keep his word.
I managed to make it through infield tryouts without distinguishing or embarrassing myself. I handled each ground ball cleanly, my throws to first were right on the money, and I even turned the pivot neatly on the double play. But I knew I was playing mostly for myself. I didn’t stand a chance of making the team—even as a reserve infielder.
After my turn then, I sat alone in the bleachers, brooding about what a long summer it was going to be—working five days a week at the pharmacy, having no social life to speak of, and dreading having to start eighth grade with nothing to look forward to but another year of anonymity. I tried to resign myself to that inevitability. I’d made the best showing I could under the circumstances. Still, I couldn’t shake off my disappointment.
Hitting tryouts were the last hurdle of the day. I’d never been much of a hitter, so things weren’t going to get any better for me. After each batter took his turn, I’d watch Bleutrich take him aside and quietly inform him of his fate. You could tell by the body language and the looks on faces who’d made the cut. By the time I came up to bat, I already knew who’d made the team and who hadn’t.
Brownstein and Zeidner were shoo-ins. So was Lee. I was also pretty certain that the three Bayswater guys—Silverman, Frankel, and Moshan—would also make it. They were all good enough, but I bet it didn’t hurt that they were starters on Bleutrich’s PAL basketball team.
I was secretly pleased that not one guy from the clique was chosen. Not even Louie Mandel. But I was mildly surprised that Bleutrich kept Barry Aronson, an awkward, rangy kid who lived five blocks from my house. Barry was only a sub on the sixth grade softball team, but he was one of the best players on our synagogue’s basketball team. Who knows, maybe Bleutrich was doing a little advance recruiting for next winter.
The big shock was that Mike Rubin had made the first cut. As soon as I saw the look of joy on his face, I felt a manic surge of envy. It had occurred to me more than once that I probably would have had better chance if I’d tried out for third base. But that would have meant having to compete with Mike again—a scenario I didn’t want to repeat.
After I finished hitting, I trudged over to the third base bleachers where Bleutrich was standing, writing the final notes on his clipboard. I swallowed hard when he gave me the news. He was kind about it, but he still told me in no uncertain terms that I didn’t have the reflexes to be a middle infielder. Nor, he added, did I hit well enough to play the outfield. No surprises there.
I knew all along that it was coming. But now it was real, final. The prospect of not playing ball this summer was too excruciating to contemplate. My face was flushed with shame, and my ears were still ringing when I looked up and spotted a cadre of guys—Rubin among them—celebrating outside the gate. I wished I could just slip away without having to face the music. Then, in a split second, I knew exactly what I had to do. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
The only decent pitcher I’d seen all day was Lee Adnepos, a slender, wiry left-hander who’d just moved into our neighborhood. Lee was even shorter than I was. But he looked like someone had taught him how to pitch. He had a smooth three-quarter overhand delivery, a nice, easy leg kick, and a fluid, graceful follow-through. He even had a toe plate on his right shoe.
Whenever Lee threw a fastball in the strike zone, the hitters either whiffed or topped the ball off the end of the bat. So far as I could tell, his only weakness was erratic control. And that was because he’d sometimes get bored and lose his concentration. All day, I’d wondered where the other good pitchers were. Bleutrich must have a few other studs lined up. Probably, they’d show up tomorrow after the first round of cuts.
This would be a desperate gambit, I knew. But it was my only shot.
I waited until everyone had drifted away. While Bleutrich was packing up the bats and balls, I walked right up behind him. When he turned, he was a little startled to see me still standing there.
“Coach,” I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “I know how to pitch.”
Actually, it was more of a fib than an outright lie. I was thinking about those marathon stickball games in Mike Rubin’s driveway, the winter afternoons when I’d pitch to Mike and Peter in the P.S. 114 gym, and the times I used to throw batting practice to my kid brother in the backyard. And what about the schoolyard pickup games? I could always throw strikes, so in time I became the designated batting practice pitcher. In reality, I’d probably put in more time pitching than I had at shortstop. Yet until this moment I’d never thought of myself as a pitcher.
Bleutrich looked away while I held my breath. I could sense that he was thinking about it.
He turned slowly back toward me, shaking his head up and down like he was having a private conversation with himself. He was probably wondering if this short, chubby, unathletic-looking kid was for real.
Finally, he said. “I can use a batting practice pitcher.”
I exhaled. Maybe the coach had seen the same thing today as I had. Maybe there really were no other pitchers waiting in the wings. If that was so, aside from Lee and Zeidner, who was also Bleutrich’s best shortstop, there wasn’t much to choose from. Besides, when you thought about it, what could he lose by taking on a batting practice pitcher? Especially one who volunteers.
For a second, I wished my father had been there to witness this. He’d have been proud of my gumption.
“Show up tomorrow morning,” Bleutrich said.
I left tryouts feeling vindicated. So, okay, I was only a batting practice pitcher. But Mandel and those guys didn’t even get that far. Perhaps, I’d learned something from Manny’s boys, after all. A year ago, I’d have never had the balls to do this.
The next day, Bleutrich gave me an old faded uniform with patches on the knees of both pant legs. For a minute I felt like an impostor. I had six days to make myself into a reasonable facsimile of a pitcher. The coach told me to come back in a week for the first practice. In the meantime, he said, work on throwing strikes. Right. As if he even had to tell me that.
At thirteen, I was what baseball coaches called a “shlepper”—a slightly awkward but not entirely inept athlete. I knew I’d never be one of the top baseball players. I’d seen a lot of games, and I could spot the good jocks in an instant. They have an effortless grace, an ease and fluidity that infuses every gesture. I’d never have that kind of raw ability. Still, I was driven to play ball.
That summer then, I literally taught myself how to pitch. I read dozens of how to books and I scrutinized the mechanics and flaws of the major league hitters I watched on TV and in person. I went to Ebbets Field and sat directly behind the plate—the best angle for studying pitchers’ habits and delivery. And I took pages and pages of notes.
Preacher Roe was tall and lanky, all arms and legs. He had a big sweeping motion and high leg kick that shielded the ball from the batter’s vision. Don Newcombe was built like a lumberjack. He had a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball and a perpetual scowl designed to intimidate opposing hitters. Carl Erskine was the pitcher I identified with most. He had a slender build—narrow shoulders and a tapered waist. He looked more like a distance runner than a pitcher. But he had a sneaky fastball and a wicked overhand sinker that induced hitters to beat the ball into the ground. I noticed too that he threw all his pitches, including the change up, with the same motion. What made him so effec
tive was that the hitters couldn’t pick up the ball’s rotation until it was right on top of them.
Moreover, I liked his cunning and resilience. In a Sporting News interview, an opposing manager said that unless you got to him right away, you were in for a long day. But even when he got roughed up in the early innings, I noticed that Erskine rarely lost his composure. Usually, he’d settle down by the third inning. Just like the article said, he’d get stronger as the game went on. That summer, I studied him more carefully than the others.
When workouts began, Bleutrich kept his word. He started me off as a batting practice pitcher. There were other pitchers ahead of me besides Lee. They all threw harder than I did. It didn’t take much to do that. But none of them were very savvy. Nor did they seem interested in learning anything about the craft of pitching. Lee and I were the only pitchers who practiced in between scrimmages. It wasn’t long then, before Bleutrich began giving me more innings in the intra-squad and preseason games.
There were brief moments when pitching seemed to come naturally to me. If I concentrated hard enough, I could throw strikes, change speeds, and make the ball sink or break sharply away from the batter. I even had a knack for sizing up a lot of hitters’ weaknesses. I could tell what a particular batter’s blind spots were just by studying his habits and mannerisms.
As a pitcher, my inhibitions and self doubts seemed to dissolve. Whenever I was out there on the mound, I felt as self-assured as I did when I was sitting in the stands at Ebbets Field, explaining the ins and outs of the game to my cronies.
Every new inning and batter was a challenge. On the mound, all of my senses were open. I could feel the warm breeze on my cheeks, hear the muffled noise of the crowd, my teammates’ chatter, and the other team’s barbs. None of it distracted me. In fact, it made me bear down harder.
Even the little gestures and rituals felt natural: tossing the spongy resin bag nonchalantly to the ground and watching the swirl of dust kick up, inhaling a baseball’s pungent scent, and rubbing up its smooth, slick surface. I also loved the feeling of wrapping my thumb and middle fingers around the ball’s raised seams, searching for the right grip on the curve, fastball, sinker, or change up. Most of all, I relished the cat and mouse game that went on between pitcher and hitter—me deciding what pitches to throw, the hitter trying to read my mind.
I didn’t throw hard enough to have what coaches call a live arm. To build my strength and endurance, each morning I got up early and ran on the beach—wearing army boots and a rubber jacket. I soon began to think of myself as a pitcher. During the day, I pedaled my bike harder when I delivered prescriptions. After work, I’d go down into our cool, damp cellar and lift weights. Even in the hottest weather, I emulated the big leaguers by draping a satin warm up jacket across my right shoulder. Whenever anyone made a sarcastic remark or questioned me about it, I’d explain that it was to keep my pitching arm warm between ballgames.
In the evenings, I set up a regular practice routine. First, I cut a twelve-inch hole (the size of home plate) in a bed sheet, and hung it on the backyard clothesline. Then every night, until it got dark, I threw hundreds of rubber covered baseballs at the target. I got those balls by trading my Topps and Bowman bubble gum cards with Arnold Berkowitz, who worked at the local batting range.
By mid July I could throw four out of every five pitches through the bed sheet hole. By the end of the summer I could throw three of five with a blindfold on. Some evenings Alan stood in front of the garage door with a bat in his hand while I pitched shaved tennis balls to him. By trimming the ball’s fuzz, you could make it break and dip crazily.
One night when I was pitching to my brother, the four guys in the clique happened to walk past my house. They were on their way to a party up the street, but when they spotted Alan and me they slowed down long enough to make a couple of snide cracks about playing their own “night games.” I didn’t respond, but I was thinking, “Keep it up guys. Someday, you and your stuck-up girlfriends’ll be paying a half a buck to watch me play.”
The more I worked at pitching, the more instinctive it felt. By midsummer it was as natural to me as reading a book. I was convinced that with the right guidance and coaching I could get a lot better at this.
In the early season games Bleutrich was hesitant to use me. You couldn’t blame him. I was inexperienced, and I still couldn’t throw very hard. In fact, my ex-high school teammate, Andrew Makrides, to this day, still ribs me about it.
“You had three speeds, Mike,” Andrew has said, “slow, slower, slowest. And your sinker was a dying quail. You were lucky that the pitcher’s mound was sixty feet, six inches from home, because if someone ever moved it back a half a foot, your pitches would have bounced in the dirt six inches before they got to the plate.”
Nevertheless, I continued to pitch well and with confidence in all the practice and intra-squad games. And I’d looked pretty good whenever I got a few innings in preseason exhibitions. But no one could predict how I’d fare in a league game. A lot of players look great in practice and then get rattled when the games really count.
For the first few weeks Bleutrich experimented with Ronnie Zeidner as his second pitcher. Zeidner was even better than Lee. He was also our best hitter and shortstop. It’s hard to pitch and play shortstop. There’s a big difference between throwing a hundred plus pitches from sixty feet six inches away, and making a half dozen throws from shortstop. Not to mention the different mind-set that each position requires.
After the first few games we could all sense that we had the talent and chemistry to contend for the borough championship. Bleutrich also knew that our strongest lineup was with Lee (or someone else) pitching and Zeidner at short, especially when we played the better teams.
As we approached the halfway point in the season, I’d only pitched a few innings of middle relief—mostly in games that were blowouts. But none of the other pitchers were especially effective, including Burt Levy, another kid from our neighborhood. Burt was big and husky, and he could throw good heat. But he had a tendency to get spooked with men on base.
I was getting antsy to show Bleutrich what I could do. Let’s face it, he was going to have to pitch me sooner or later. We must have been thinking the same thing, because right at the beginning of the second round he took me aside after practice and told me to just be patient. He’d work me in as a second starter once the schedule got heavy.
A good coach has to be part psychologist, part tactician. Coaches always want their players to be on edge. That’s why they rarely tip their hand when it comes to who plays and who sits. There’s a fine line between keeping a bench warmer’s spirit alive and breaking his spirit. No doubt, there was a certain amount of expediency in Bleutrich’s promise to me. Just the fact that he took the trouble to inform me settled me down. And it gave me even more incentive to prove that his confidence was justified.
Just as he’d promised, Bleutrich started me in the next game. It was the vote of confidence I was looking for. It’s an old cliché, but when opportunity meets preparation good things happen. That day I pitched five shutout innings before I got tired. I left with a six run lead and two men on base. Levy relieved me, and I sat on the bench chewing my nails to the quick, hoping he wouldn’t blow my lead. Burt gave up four runs before he got out of the inning. Zeidner pitched the seventh and set them down one, two, three. We were lucky to win the game. Unkind as it sounds, Burt’s failure to come through worked in my favor. It made me look even better in Bleutrich’s eyes.
By early August I’d improved so much that I even took Bleutrich by surprise. At the end of the league season Lee and I were each pitching every other game. To chart my progress I recorded my game stats in a spiral notebook—along with the notes I’d made on opposing hitters and pitchers. After each game I wrote a detailed description of what I was thinking and feeling before, during, and after each inning. I specified what pitches and strategies had worked and hadn’t worked. And I described in detail the adjustments I plann
ed to make next time. I even noted what I ate before the game and how much sleep I got the night before.
I enjoyed writing in my notebook almost as much as I relished pitching the actual games. When I think back, my happiest childhood moments seemed to involve either writing or playing baseball.
Our team moved through the rest of the season and the playoff elimination round without a loss. In the borough championships we would face the 102nd precinct from Richmond Hill in a best two out of three playoff. The first two games would be played on successive days on each team’s home field. The third, if necessary, was scheduled for the following weekend at a neutral site, Franklin K. Lane High School, in Jamaica.
To everyone’s surprise, especially mine, Bleutrich started me in the first game. It was just as well that he didn’t tell me in advance, because I’d have had too much time to dwell on it. All during warm ups I noticed that Lee sat on the bench scowling at me, as if to say, “What the hell are you doing out there? This game is mine.”
I tried to block the image out of my mind, but I was so shaken that I kept losing my concentration. I gave up three early runs before settling down in the third inning. I was angry at myself for losing my focus in such a big game. Once I regained my confidence I didn’t give up another run. Luckily, we rallied and won it 5-3.
I was glad that I’d come through for Bleutrich. But I was a little disappointed that that no one from my family showed up to watch. My most pressing concern, though, was Lee. He was ticked off. Never even said “Nice game” on the bus ride back. What could he be thinking? About me, and about Bleutrich? Was he doubting his ability? Even I believed that he hadn’t gotten a fair shake. After all, he’d carried us for the first half of the summer. It reminded me of the tense situation with Mike Rubin back in sixth grade. After the game, I saw Bleutrich take Lee aside and put his arm around his shoulder.
Still Pitching Page 9
