The Legend of Steve Dalkowski

[oldpro56]

THERE WERE NO STEROIDS

The 1960’s were an extremely explosive period in our history producing a deep division between leaders and youth of this country. The Vietnam War was viewed by many as being senseless and catalyst for change in many areas. Music shifted overnight from rock and roll to songs of protest.

Rioting in the streets was seen by the world to be illustrative of the “Ugly American” and memories of this carry over to this day in many countries. The use of drugs turned from experimentation with marijuana to hard line addiction. The demographics of our prison system changed also and drug offenders increased dramatically as they continue to do so with moral, legal and economic questions.

I can honestly say for the years I played (1963-1970), I only witnessed the usage of “greenies”. Drug usage wasn’t even mentioned in inner circles and there were no veiled references either. The sport of baseball seemed to be insulated as far as I could sense though living in California several off seasons made me aware of how much the general public was participating.

The term for the pills came from the color of the most commonly prescribed diet pill on the market at the time. Today this is known as “speed” and abused by many. Every clubhouse in 1969 had a direct source and ours in Elmira was no exception. Almost always any club’s supply came from the team’s doctor.

It was viewed as a performance enhancement for those who burned the candle at both ends, fitting the description of most professional athletes enjoying life to the fullest without regard to their future. I had no intention of ever taking greenies until an all night sortie caused me to reconsider. There was no way I would be able to stay awake for the entire game and it would have been embarrassing to fall off the bullpen bench.

[CA-ORIOLE]

THERE WERE NO STEROIDS

The 1960’s were an extremely explosive period in our history producing a deep division between leaders and youth of this country. The Vietnam War was viewed by many as being senseless and catalyst for change in many areas. Music shifted overnight from rock and roll to songs of protest.

Rioting in the streets was seen by the world to be illustrative of the “Ugly American” and memories of this carry over to this day in many countries. The use of drugs turned from experimentation with marijuana to hard line addiction. The demographics of our prison system changed also and drug offenders increased dramatically as they continue to do so with moral, legal and economic questions.

I can honestly say for the years I played (1963-1970), I only witnessed the usage of “greenies”. Drug usage wasn’t even mentioned in inner circles and there were no veiled references either. The sport of baseball seemed to be insulated as far as I could sense though living in California several off seasons made me aware of how much the general public was participating.

The term for the pills came from the color of the most commonly prescribed diet pill on the market at the time. Today this is known as “speed” and abused by many. Every clubhouse in 1969 had a direct source and ours in Elmira was no exception. Almost always any club’s supply came from the team’s doctor.

It was viewed as a performance enhancement for those who burned the candle at both ends, fitting the description of most professional athletes enjoying life to the fullest without regard to their future. I had no intention of ever taking greenies until an all night sortie caused me to reconsider. There was no way I would be able to stay awake for the entire game and it would have been embarrassing to fall off the bullpen bench.

How prevalent were the green weenies? Hard to iamagine drug use wasn't that prevalant in baseball in that era, but I guess it was a different and more conservative culture back then.

[oldpro56]

from my book "Beating About the Bushes"
a continuance of THERE WERE NO STEROIDS

“Ball Four” was a bombshell book published in 1970 setting the precedent for tattle tale writing within sports. The author, Jim Bouton, was a veteran pitcher picked up by the expansion Seattle club after a career pitching for the New York Yankees.

His book chronicled a major league season for the first time from an inside perspective giving the average person an accurate and shocking insight into the abnormal life of a professional athlete. There were no punches pulled and many heroes were shown not to be the deities created by the media, but human beings with many faults. This was accomplished without any of his teammates having knowledge since Jim kept notes on a small notepad and, when questioned as to what he was doing, offered evasive and bizarre explanations.

When “Ball Four” hit the market, everyone I knew rushed out to buy. It was interesting from our perspective because anyone who had been in the game could identify with situations or actually knew one or more of the players Bouton had written about.

I noted early in the book a mention of greenies and their use by the Seattle players. Bouton said the club was running low and since management had denounced them, the supply had to be shipped in by players from other organizations. I was cruising through the book astounded to be reading all the inside tidbits. Then, on page 211, I became involved.

“At dinner Don Mincher, Marty Pattin and I discussed greenies. They came up because O’Donoghue had just received a season supply of 500. “They ought to last about a month,” I said. Mincher was a football player in high school and he said, “If I had greenies in those days I’d have been something else.” “Minch, how many major-league players do you think take greenies?” I asked. “Half?, More?” “Hell, a lot more than half, he said, “Just about the whole Baltimore team takes them, most of the Tigers, most of the guys on this club. And that’s just what I know for sure.” There it was out in the open for all to see.

[oldpro56]

It was viewed as a performance enhancement for those who burned the candle at both ends, fitting the description of most professional athletes enjoying life to the fullest without regard to their future. I had no intention of ever taking greenies until an all night sortie caused me to reconsider. There was no way I would be able to stay awake for the entire game and it would have been embarrassing to fall off the bullpen bench.

Secretly, I slipped back to the clubhouse unseen by fans by going underneath the right field stands. Since it was mid-game I could go directly to the large glass jar where the pills were kept, out in the open for all to use. The recommended dosage was two but since I was near collapse, four seemed more appropriate to solve my problem. The return trip to the bullpen took less than two minutes, but I could feel the drug’s effect taking over.

Our field lights started increasing in intensity as my pupils dilated and it became impossible to sit for more than a moment or two. I started pacing back and forth from one end of the bullpen to the other just as big cats do in a zoo. This drug lived up to the reputation as everything sped up around and within me.

Suddenly, the signal from the dugout came to start warming up because our current pitcher was in trouble and I was going to be in the game. There were no telephones at this level so hand signals were required. Mine was hands raised with thumb and forefinger placed together indicating round eyeglasses. It was normal for me to take only a few pitches to get loose and this night was no exception. Harry Bright summonsed me and I came running at full speed. This should have been a tip off since I always walked in from the pen.

Harry handed me the ball and returned to the dugout totally unaware of what he left standing atop the mound. When I finished warm ups there was no doubt in my mind I was the fastest pitcher ever to play the game, including Steve Dalkowski, There was a question as to why my catcher hadn’t gone back to the locker room for extra padding in his glove.

The first signal was for a breaking pitch but that didn’t suit me. The next was for a fastball and this was what I had been waiting for. I wound up and threw a pitch that should have been leaving vapor trails, it was thrown so hard. The batter took a swing and pulled the ball out of the park foul. This had to be a fluke since nobody could get his bat around fast enough to do what he had done. I repeated the pitch with the same results.

My mind now understood what was happening and I struggled to pull myself together. There was real fear as to what this drug had done to my thinking and coordination. Somehow I got through the inning with no damage to the score or myself and made a vow to never try this again. This was a promise I kept and no one ever knew what I went through this night.

[oldpro56]

From my book "Beating About the Bushes"

IN THE BEGINNING

It was great to live in a neighborhood with enough talent to put together two teams if all the right elements came into place. Ages weren’t regulated and there was no restriction as to how long the game might last. It could be from dawn to dusk in North Canton, Ohio.

First person up threw pebbles against bedroom windows to awake as many players as possible. Occasionally mothers would dictate who would be playing but this was understood. Our games were influenced by daylight or until we ran out of baseballs. When it was the latter, we stopped and knocked on doors asking for bottles that could be returned for deposit money. I even sacrificed my 1954 Cleveland Indian autographed ball, won for being the MVP of the Knothole League in Norwalk, Ohio in order to keep playing one afternoon.

Our family had moved from North Canton to Norwalk, Ohio because my dad started an insurance agency from the ground up believing in himself and his ability to succeed. This gamble allowed him to break away from working as a supervisor in a commercial laundry with no prospect of advancement and an income that didn’t match goals he had for our family.

I was the proper age for Little League but there was no team in Norwalk, only the Knot Hole League. The organizer was a Norwalk High phys ed teacher by the name of Harry Shadle. The limitation was you couldn’t be more than sixteen and any lesser age became a personal decision as to whether you wanted to join. Our field was that of standard major league dimensions matching the pitching distance I was used to while throwing against grandma’s porch steps. On sign up day I was looking upward at everyone since my personal profile read five foot eight and one hundred fifteen pounds.

There weren’t enough adult volunteers to coach the teams so when word came I couldn’t play there was only one thing to do. My call was to Harry Shadle telling him he had a manager, even though I was just old enough to have a Social Security card. When I read a story about any youngster who displays virtuosity in his or her field at an early age, I better understand my internal drive.

I discovered how to make the ball bend during hours throwing a tennis ball against grandmother’s front porch steps any day we weren’t able to find enough players. This drill became so sophisticated there would be a radio broadcast within my head providing a mental image of the game.

I backed into the middle of Pearl Court approximating major league distance and threw the ball over and over again, allowing my imagination to take over. If I hit the front edge of the step it would produce a line drive coming toward me with various arcs. Catching a carom in the air was out, on the ground was a base hit and there were no walks. A fantasy runner would make me adopt a stance designed to keep this opponent close to the bag. If there were no neighborhood interruptions I might continue this drill for eight hours straight. I was twelve with a drive allowing me to play professional baseball in a few short years. My fastball was freakish and word started to spread in small circles.

I read an article describing how Satchel Paige in his early years was so full of himself he ordered his outfield to come and sit on the edge of the infield because he was going to strike out the side. I did exactly the same in our game following this reading and had I been old enough to be at the same level of schooling as my opponents, there could have been a butt kicking in the future.

Mid game and dominating, I turned to my outfield motioning everyone to come forward. They responded slowly thinking their depth was too great. But due to my continuous waving it became obvious something was out of the ordinary and all three came sprinting at full speed.

Raising my arms like a symphony conductor I was able to slow their sprint and when they reached the outer portion of infield dirt, I lowered both upraised arms. They understood the signal and sat not knowing what was going on because no one knew what was in my mind but me.

My catcher was a fifteen year old by the name of Jim Zureich. He was the best athlete on our team and the only person able to handle my pitches. Unfortunately, Jim was left handed and his only glove was a first baseman’s mitt since there were no left handed catcher’s gloves on the market at the time. Because I knew what I wanted to throw we devised signals where I would give the indicator instead of him.

There was an adult managing the other team and he was going insane. Typical response for someone whose ego could be damaged in a normal setting but this was beyond the norm. After striking out the side with no one coming close to putting a ball in play, he melted into the corner of the dugout. Given my immaturity there was no way for me to understand what had happened. Almost every professional athlete I have encountered has some twist to this tale.

The smaller town of Milan, Ohio had an official Little League team that qualified for the post season district tournament with an average group of players. The one thing lacking was strong pitching and one night my parents got a phone call asking whether I would pitch for their team. This was against the rules since I hadn’t played one inning for them but more importantly, I lived outside their district. This didn’t matter to whoever was in charge since they were excited about going forward with a program that was only one year old.

What a change it was to go from throwing a baseball fifteen feet less than major league measurements I had adapted to during this summer. The greatest adjustment was for Milan’s catcher who had the job of catching me for the first time and often it appeared he had a boxing mitt on his left hand instead of a catcher’s glove.

The game was limited to five innings because of the ten run rule where if a team is ahead by this margin the embarrassment is over for the other guys. I struck out fourteen and the other batter tried bunting but his attempt came back to me in the air.

Soon there was a protest and the violations were discovered. No way for me to experience Williamsport and the Little League World Series, but it was a great measurement as to my abilities. From this point on, I became the big fish in the small pond. I was twelve years old without knowing there were larger ponds and bigger fish in the world ahead.

[oldpro56]

A portion from my book "Beating About the Bushes"


BANQUETS AND STARS

Elmira’s Sport Hall of Fame has been resurrected after years of mothballing. This event was similar to the mid winter Elmira Sports Banquet gathering but without the overhead. Because of inflated speaker fees and the lack of star quality available to generate ticket sales, the prime banquet in Elmira has died. Salaries in all sports have eliminated the need for supportive income during the off season and no reason to battle snow storms to reach Elmira and their paycheck.

The major event was held for more than thirty years and the diverse roster of sports celebrities was impressive. Local athletes were included providing their fifteen minutes of fame and always boosted extra ticket sales needed to support the banquet. In the early days, there were a few mistakes made as to the master of ceremonies and I’ll never forget the year Mel Allen was the MC.

The Mark Twain Hotel was a wonderful, historical place to house legendary people such as Mel. He was one of the most famous sports broadcasters of all time and had been the voice of the New York Yankees for many years. Even though I lived in Ohio, I was able to pick up his broadcasts occasionally and loved the differences between the Indian’s long time announcer, Jimmy Dudley, and Allen. Mel would occasionally drop references to past heroes, mentioning Ruth and Gherig..

I knew the banquet was being held this particular night and couldn’t resist stopping at the Twain bar to see who was hanging around. None of the featured guests were there except for Allen. He was surrounded by people and I didn’t have a chance to make contact. The story in the paper the following day was amusing. Apparently, Mel had been over served and later provided a rambling, sometimes incoherent, performance to more than two hundred people.

After attending many of the earlier banquets, I realized there was no reason to attend another unless there was one special guest and my family knew who this person was.

“Dad, guess who’s going to be at the All Sport’s banquet”? This was my daughter’s greeting on our front porch before I could enter the house. It was mid January, the temperature ten below zero, and not hard to figure out who this mystery person would be. Once inside, Jeff offered the most unique challenge. “Dad, I’ll believe all your bull**** as to whether you even played pro ball if Jim Palmer recognizes you.”

[oldpro56]

This is not in my book “Beating About the Bushes”

For those of you who are coaching or will be coaching, here is a drill the Orioles used while I was playing. Over the years I have never seen it used in any camp I've attended and I don't know if Baltimore is still doing it. I used it over the years in my teachings and found it to be one of the best teaching tools ever. It is used to demonstrate second base is stolen on the pitcher and his actions, not the catcher.

Take the fastest player on your team and have him take what he thinks is the biggest lead off first he can get away with. Then have him take two more steps toward second. His instruction is to not take off for second until the pitch thrown by the pitcher hits the catcher's mitt. The result is the runner will be thrown out by 50 feet the first time. You will find the runner will be a little over half way to second before the play is close. Then you work with the pitching staff to get the ball to the plate quicker, quick pitch, shuffle step, etc. This is a real eye opener for everyone on the team.

[oldpro56]

Many thanks OleHippi

Book



Tim -

I absolutely loved your book. You're a funny guy, and spun some really good stories. Hopefully the exposure here on OH generates a bunch of sales for you. The book is definitely worth every dollar.

When I finished the book, I loaned it to my brother, Jeff. I knew he would love it because he was one of those high school phenoms you mentioned. He was a line-drive machine with some power and was heavily scouted coming out of high school in 1969. I remember a Pirates scout came to the house and talked to him and my parents, and he went off to play ball for some scout team in Virginia. Unfortunately, the Vietnam war got in the way of his career, and a knee injury suffered in the military ended any professional hopes. Still, he played baseball in local summer leagues, and every year went to Orioles Dream Week in Florida to play against former Orioles players. He was also on an amateur team composed mostly of Dream Week players that went to Russia sometime in the late-80's and played a series of games against some Russian baseball teams that included Russian Olympic team players.

My brother's wife, an avid Orioles fan, also read your book, and then loaned it to a church friend of her and my brother. Sorry, this isn't generating any sales for you, and now I'm concerned I may never get my copy of your book back.....LOL.

I just wanted you to know how much I enjoyed reading "Beating Around The Bushes."

Larry
OleHippi

[weams]

Many thanks OleHippi

Book



Tim -

I absolutely loved your book. You're a funny guy, and spun some really good stories. Hopefully the exposure here on OH generates a bunch of sales for you. The book is definitely worth every dollar.

When I finished the book, I loaned it to my brother, Jeff. I knew he would love it because he was one of those high school phenoms you mentioned. He was a line-drive machine with some power and was heavily scouted coming out of high school in 1969. I remember a Pirates scout came to the house and talked to him and my parents, and he went off to play ball for some scout team in Virginia. Unfortunately, the Vietnam war got in the way of his career, and a knee injury suffered in the military ended any professional hopes. Still, he played baseball in local summer leagues, and every year went to Orioles Dream Week in Florida to play against former Orioles players. He was also on an amateur team composed mostly of Dream Week players that went to Russia sometime in the late-80's and played a series of games against some Russian baseball teams that included Russian Olympic team players.

My brother's wife, an avid Orioles fan, also read your book, and then loaned it to a church friend of her and my brother. Sorry, this isn't generating any sales for you, and now I'm concerned I may never get my copy of your book back.....LOL.

I just wanted you to know how much I enjoyed reading "Beating Around The Bushes."

Larry
OleHippi

Very excellent review.

[oldpro56]

A segment from my book "Beating About the Bushes"


CULTURE SHOCK

The first trip to Thomasville produced sensitivity to a racial slur never heard while growing up in Norwalk. The word “******” was something that occasionally came up in movies but never in my everyday life. In our community I can only remember two black families, the Woods and Oglvies. I am sure there were others, but these were the people in my classes. Thomasville was no different than any other city or town in the south, it just provided my introduction to this offensive word.

One day, at our favorite bar, one of the regulars turned and yelled out, “Hey ******, get over here and give me a shine!” From a dark corner never noticed, a young boy about ten or eleven came running up to the patron. He had a small stool, a box with cans of polish, rags and a well worn brush. “Yes boss, I give you a real good shine.” I watched this action to see if there would be anger for having been called “******” or an air of superiority by his employer. There was nothing I could sense and wondered why this young person wasn’t in school learning there was a potential better way of life.

Visual observations of Thomasville offered contrasts everywhere you went since there seemed to be no middle class. Beautiful mansions with Georgian columns and well manicured lawns were within sight of wooden shacks that hadn’t seen a coat of paint in decades. Grocery stores catering to blacks had hams hanging outside with insects crawling on or flying around them.

Signs of segregation were everywhere and everything seemed to be in a loop for the three springs I spent in camp. Nothing changed, including the slowness in finishing any project. One year there was a simple brick arch entrance to the city placed into construction and the following spring it still wasn’t finished. I believe the same four guys who started were there when we returned.

[oldpro56]

From my book "Beating About the Bushes"

One of the banquets I did attend without my family was when Rocky Blier was a key note speaker. Our connection went back to the 1964 season in Appleton, Wisconsin and sticks in the memory.

Rocky was an all state star in three sports and Baltimore wanted to sign him desperately before any college could lock him up via scholarship. This was professional baseball and they were going to dangle money unavailable from NCAA regulated programs.

I was Rocky’s personal tutor for practices because I was a starter only working every fifth day. My control was perfect and, more importantly, delivered batting practice pitches at the required speed and location for showcasing his talent in a positive way. Baltimore had put me in a difficult position since I was being told to do something that potentially could be harmful to my arm and career by throwing multiple days between starts.

Blier powered everything I fed him in all directions and out of the park often. One of the toughest things to do as a professional pitcher is to throttle back. Adjusting the velocity upward to real game conditions would have shown Rocky lacking. Even in locker room conversations, I could sense baseball was not his game. Still, it was exciting to be this close to the person since he was a local athlete who had potential, even if it wasn’t in my sport.

Blier’s Tavern was a great combination of food, drink, atmosphere, and Rocky’s dad behind the bar playing host most of the time. One exceptionally cold Saturday afternoon I decided to stop and be warmed by the usual weekend sports crowd. I was only overshadowed by Rocky in this establishment. This bar could have been “Cheers” due to the diversity of the patrons.

Rocky’s dad was called away to the phone and came back visibly agitated about something. Someone asked, “Anything wrong?” His response was, “It’s that *******ed kid of mine. He said some alum called and told him, “Look out the window”. The bastard bought him a Mustang convertible and parked it out front of the frat house with the keys in the glove compartment.” Most were impressed with this generous gift, but I knew what was coming.

“I told him he couldn’t keep it and he got pissed at me. I reminded him of the NCAA’s strict rules and if he got caught, it would be the end of his scholarship and his football career.” Rocky never drove the car, pop knew better. Rocky went on to a NFL career after being the 18th pick of the Pittsburgh Steelers in the football draft and was the only one to survive from that level or below.

Blier was drafted into the army and served in Viet Nam. During combat he was shot in the left leg and had a grenade explode under his right foot, blowing a portion away. Upon release from duty he was awarded a forty per cent disability because of these injuries. Imagine the drive within this person when he reported to football summer camp determined to succeed.

Rocky became the starting fullback for the Steelers in 1974 and played during the period where the team won four Super Bowl titles in six years. Even though he was primarily a blocking back, he gained a thousand yards one season along with Franco Harris. After retiring, Blier developed into one of the countries best motivational speakers and now commands fees of $10,000 per appearance.

[Tony-OH]

It was viewed as a performance enhancement for those who burned the candle at both ends, fitting the description of most professional athletes enjoying life to the fullest without regard to their future. I had no intention of ever taking greenies until an all night sortie caused me to reconsider. There was no way I would be able to stay awake for the entire game and it would have been embarrassing to fall off the bullpen bench.

Secretly, I slipped back to the clubhouse unseen by fans by going underneath the right field stands. Since it was mid-game I could go directly to the large glass jar where the pills were kept, out in the open for all to use. The recommended dosage was two but since I was near collapse, four seemed more appropriate to solve my problem. The return trip to the bullpen took less than two minutes, but I could feel the drug’s effect taking over.

Our field lights started increasing in intensity as my pupils dilated and it became impossible to sit for more than a moment or two. I started pacing back and forth from one end of the bullpen to the other just as big cats do in a zoo. This drug lived up to the reputation as everything sped up around and within me.

Suddenly, the signal from the dugout came to start warming up because our current pitcher was in trouble and I was going to be in the game. There were no telephones at this level so hand signals were required. Mine was hands raised with thumb and forefinger placed together indicating round eyeglasses. It was normal for me to take only a few pitches to get loose and this night was no exception. Harry Bright summonsed me and I came running at full speed. This should have been a tip off since I always walked in from the pen.

Harry handed me the ball and returned to the dugout totally unaware of what he left standing atop the mound. When I finished warm ups there was no doubt in my mind I was the fastest pitcher ever to play the game, including Steve Dalkowski, There was a question as to why my catcher hadn’t gone back to the locker room for extra padding in his glove.

The first signal was for a breaking pitch but that didn’t suit me. The next was for a fastball and this was what I had been waiting for. I wound up and threw a pitch that should have been leaving vapor trails, it was thrown so hard. The batter took a swing and pulled the ball out of the park foul. This had to be a fluke since nobody could get his bat around fast enough to do what he had done. I repeated the pitch with the same results.

My mind now understood what was happening and I struggled to pull myself together. There was real fear as to what this drug had done to my thinking and coordination. Somehow I got through the inning with no damage to the score or myself and made a vow to never try this again. This was a promise I kept and no one ever knew what I went through this night.

Very interesting stuff. I guess you should have went with the recommended dosage.

[weams]

Very interesting stuff. I guess you should have went with the recommended dosage.

I was never certain what that was. I don't think I ever checked.

[oldpro56]

This story is not in my book "Beating About the Bushes"

Our club in winter '68 had 13 players who eventually reached the major leagues. One of these was Roger Freed. Roger was a power hitter who had great success throughout his career in the minors but couldn't match that in his 8 years in the major leagues. His best season was for AAA Denver in 1976 hitting 42 HR's, 102 RBI's and hitting .309. In 8 seasons in the majors he only hit 22 HR's while hitting 225 in the minors.

Baltimore liked to use winter ball for experiments in strategy and this year the strangest I was ever to see was put into our game plan. The daily routine in winter ball was to practice from 10 am to noon, have lunch and then either play a home game or travel to one of the nearby Florida cities to play. We were playing Tampa at our home park in Clearwater when Cal Ripken had the perfect opportunity to try our trick play.

In theory, one could induce the opposing pitcher to commit a balk with a runner on third base by dropping the bat while still maintaining a stance in the batter's box. But the timing had to be perfect. Too early and the pitcher steps off the mound. Too late and you give him a free pass while you stand at the plate looking stupid.

In the sixth inning, the perfect storm occurred. Rip gave the signal and Roger acknowledged. We couldn't wait to see if this would work and moved up to the dougout steps. Roger timed it perfectly but instead of just dropping his bat, he threw it straight up in the air. The pitcher did stop his motion but the bat came straight down landing on the head of the umpire with the bat perfectly vertical. After the umpire got up from his knees he threw Roger out of the game and wouldn't entertain any of Rip's protests that it was a balk.

[weams]

This story is not in my book "Beating About the Bushes"

Our club in winter '68 had 13 players who eventually reached the major leagues. One of these was Roger Freed. Roger was a power hitter who had great success throughout his career in the minors but couldn't match that in his 8 years in the major leagues. His best season was for AAA Denver in 1976 hitting 42 HR's, 102 RBI's and hitting .309. In 8 seasons in the majors he only hit 22 HR's while hitting 225 in the minors.

Baltimore liked to use winter ball for experiments in strategy and this year the strangest I was ever to see was put into our game plan. The daily routine in winter ball was to practice from 10 am to noon, have lunch and then either play a home game or travel to one of the nearby Florida cities to play. We were playing Tampa at our home park in Clearwater when Cal Ripken had the perfect opportunity to try our trick play.

In theory, one could induce the opposing pitch to commit a balk with a runner on third base by dropping the bat while still maintaining a stance in the batter's box. But the timing had to be perfect. Too early and the pitcher steps off the mound. Too late and you give him a free pass while you stand at the plate looking stupid.

In the sixth inning, the perfect storm occurred. Rip gave the signal and Roger acknowledged. We couldn't wait to see if this would work and moved up to the dougout steps. Roger timed it perfectly but instead of just dropping his bat, he threw it straight up in the air. The pitcher did stop his motion but the bat came straight down landing on the head of the umpire with the bat perfectly vertical. After the umpire got up from his knees he threw Roger out of the game and wouldn't entertain any of Rip's protests that it was a balk.

Another extraordinary tale. Thanks.


http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fGqdXwafyh...dBaltimore.jpg