“How’s it moving?” Sean called out at one point, to my surprise. Then I recalled something Wakefield had told me. “I can’t really see it,” he’d said. “They say it shakes a lot—it goes back and forth. The only thing I can see is the break down or the break to the left or to the right.” For the full visual effect, catcher is where it’s at.
“We call that one the spinner,” Sean said at another moment, after the ball he’d just thrown forged a path almost like that of a roller coaster turning over. The “spinner” is what Hoyt Wilhelm used to call his corkscrew knuckler, perhaps because the pitch itself—not the ball—appears to spin around an invisible axis. Accomplished knuckleballers manage to throw it once in a while, usually by accident—it seems to require a lone, slow rotation of the ball while in orbit. It is, in a sense, the profession’s prize elixir—“If you could bottle one up, that’d be the one you want to keep,” Steve Sparks says—and catching it is a slightly nerve-racking and dizzying experience. Not just for a novice, either: Mirabelli warned me that the corkscrew “kind of hypnotizes you.”
The first pitch of this season’s ongoing Yankees–Red Sox showdown was thrown by—who else?—Tim Wakefield: a lazily arriving called strike. Boston won the game, 6–2, and the Yankees’ three heaviest hitters, Alex Rodriguez, Gary Sheffield, and Jason Giambi, failed to register a hit. Notwithstanding the Game Seven relief appearance, with its Boone misfire (home run balls remain his Achilles’ heel; no Sox pitcher has allowed more dingers in his Boston career), Wakefield has now beaten the Yankees in four consecutive starts, holding New York’s batters to a pathetic .163 average.
“I don’t want to see that thing again,” Giambi told reporters afterward, and later quipped, “They should pitch him every day against us.”
Wakefield didn’t lose his first game until the beginning of May, when he was outdueled on ESPN by an unheralded Texas Rangers pitcher named R. A. Dickey, who lacks an ulnar collateral ligament in his right elbow. Dickey, seemingly an unwitting descendant of Toad Ramsey, throws a specialty knuckle-gripped pitch that he calls “the Thing,” which Boston’s general manager, Theo Epstein, described to me as “one-third knuckleball, one-third breaking ball, one-third split-finger.”
More than once, while I was in Fort Myers, I heard a rumor that the Yankees’ owner, George Steinbrenner, fed up with watching his high-priced stars flail helplessly at Wakefield’s flittering moths, had ordered his legions to produce a knuckleballer of their own.
In the meantime, the Red Sox are slowly approaching the day when Giambi’s suggestion might not be so far-fetched. As of this writing, Zink is leading Portland in innings pitched, and in the last week of April the Sox signed the left-handed pitcher Joe Rogers from the discard heap—forgettable news, if not for the fact that Epstein had told me that the club planned to convert him immediately to the Zink regimen. Rogers, who is twenty-three, was relieved of his fastball-throwing duties with the St. Louis Cardinals organization at the end of spring training, and he has now been assigned to Boston’s Sarasota affiliate, where, throwing mostly knuckleballs, he allowed just one earned run in his first seven innings of work. “We’re trying to remind ourselves that there are lots of ways to get guys out,” Epstein said.
2004
GAME PLAN
DON DELILLO
Of the game itself, a spectacle of high-shouldered men panting in the grass, I remember little or nothing. We played well that night or didn’t play well; we won or lost. What I do recall are the names of plays and of players. Our opponent was West Centrex Biotechnical Institute. They were bigger than we were, a bit faster, possibly better trained, but as far as I could tell our plays had the better names.
At the kickoff, the receiving team dropped back and found its ground, holding a moment. Under the tumbling ball, the other team charged, verbs running into mammoth nouns, small wars commencing here and there, exultation and first blood, a helmet bouncing brightly on the phosphorescent grass, the breathless impact of two destructive masses, quite pretty to watch.
We huddled at the thirty-one.
“Blue turk right,” Hobbs said. “Double-slot, re-T chuck-and-go, gap-angle wide, near-in belly toss, counter-sag, middle-sift W, zero snag delay.”
“You forgot the snap number,” Onan Moley said.
“How about three?” Ed Jessup said.
“How about two?” I said.
“Two it is,” Hobbs said.
Six plays later, we left the huddle with a sharp handclap and trotted up to the Centrex twenty, eager to move off the ball, sensing a faint anxiety on the other side of the line.
“How to hit!” George Dole shouted out to us from the bench. “Way to pop, way to go, way to move! How to sting them, big Jerry! Huh huh huh huh! How to play this game!”
We scored, and Bing Jackmin kicked the extra point. I went over to the sideline and got down on one knee, the chin strap of my helmet undone—material for a prize-winning sports photo. Commotion everywhere. Offensive Backfield Coach Oscar Veech was shouting into my left ear.
“On the 32-break I want you to catapult out of there. I want you to really bulldoze. I want to see you cascade into the secondary.”
“Tremendous imagery,” I said.
“But be sure you protect that ball.”
“Right.”
“Get fetal, get fetal.”
“Fetal!” I shouted back.
Our defense rolled into a gut 4-3 with variable off-picks. Down at the end of the bench, Raymond Toon seemed to be talking into his right fist. I got up and went over there. When he saw me coming, he covered the fist with his other hand.
“What are you doing, Toonie?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“I know what you’re doing.”
“Broadcasting the game,” he admitted.
Their quarterback, Artie Telcon, moved them on the ground past midfield. At the sideline, I listened to one of our backfield coaches lecturing Garland Hobbs: “Employ the aerial game to implement the running game whereby you force their defense to respect the run, which is what they won’t do if they can anticipate pass and read pass and if our frequency, say on second and long, indicates pass. If they send their linebackers, you’ve been trained and briefed and you know how to counter this. You counter this by audibilizing. You’ve got your screen, your flare, your quick slant-in. Audibilize. Audibilize. Audibilize.”
They tried a long field goal, wide, and we went out. Hobbs hit Ron Steeples for good yardage. Steeples was knocked cold on the play, and the ref called a time-out to get him off. Chuck Deering came running in to replace him, tripping and falling as he reached the huddle. His left ankle appeared to be broken, and the ref called time again to get him off.
When we rehuddled Hobbs said, “Stem left, L and R hitch and cross, F weak switch to strong. On hut.”
“What?” Flanders said.
“On hut.”
“No, the other thing. F something.”
“F weak switch to strong.”
“What kind of pattern is that?”
“Are you kidding? Are you serious?”
“What a bunch of turf-eaters.” Co-Captain Moody Kimbrough said.
“When did they put that pattern in, Hobbsie?”
“Tuesday or Wednesday. Where were you?”
“It must have been Wednesday,” Flanders said. “I was at the dentist Wednesday.”
“Nobody told you about the weak switch to strong?”
“I don’t think so, Hobbsie.”
“Look, run out ten yards, put some moves on your man, and then wait for further instructions.”
“I’m co-captain to a bunch of turf-eaters,” Kimbrough said.
“On hut. Break.”
Centrex sent their linebackers. Hobbs left the pocket and I had Mallon, their psychotic middle linebacker, by the jersey. He tripped and I released, moving into a passing plane for Hobbs. He saw me but threw low. I didn’t bother diving for it. One of the coaches, Vern Feck, screamed into our chests as w
e came off. “What in the hell is going on here? What are you feebs doing out there? What in the goddam goat-smelling hell is the name of the game you people are playing?”
Head Coach said nothing.
Lenny Wells came off in pain—groin damage or hamstring. Telcon spotted a man absolutely alone in the end zone and hit him easily, and I looked around for my helmet.
“Our uniforms are green and white,” Bing Jackmin said as we watched them kick off. “The field itself is green and white—grass and chalk markings. We melt into our environment. We are doubled in the primitive mirror.”
Centrex called time because they had only seven men on the field. We assembled near our own forty-five while they got straightened out. Ed Jessup, our tight end, was bleeding from his mouth.
“That ass-belly 62 got his fist in,” he said.
“You’d better go off,” I said.
“I’m gonna hang in.”
“A tough area to bandage, Ed. Looks like it’s just under the skinbridge running to the upper gum.”
“I get that 62. I get that meatman,” he said.
“Let’s ching those nancies,” Flanders said.
“Maybe if you rinsed with warm water, Eddie.”
Their left tackle was an immense and very geometric piece of work, about six-seven and two-seventy—an oblong monument to intimidation. It was the responsibility of our right guard, Cecil Rector, to contain this man. Offensive Line Coach Tweego had Cecil Rector by the pads as I crossed the sideline.
“I want you to fire out, boy,” Tweego said. “You’re not blowing them out. You’re not popping. You’re not putting any hurt on those people.”
I sat on the bench next to Billy Mast as Telcon riddled our secondary with seam patterns. Billy was wearing his helmet. I leaned toward him and spoke in a monotonous intonation.
“Uh, this is Maxcom, Robomat.”
Billy Mast looked at me.
“Robomat, this is Maxcom. Do you read?”
“Uh, Roger, Maxcom,” he said.
“You’re looking real good, Robomat. Is that affirm?”
“Uh, Roger. We’re looking real good.”
“What is your thermal passive mode control?”
“Vector five and locking.”
“Uh, what is your inertial thrust correction on fourth and long?”
“We read circularize and non-adjust.”
“That is affirm, Robomat. You are looking real super on the inset retro deployment thing. We read three one niner five niner. Twelve seconds to adapter vent circuit cutoff.”
“Affirmative, Maxcom. Three one niner five niner. Twelve seconds to vent cut. There is God. We have just seen God. He is all around us.”
“Uh, Roger, Robomat. Suggest braking burn and midcourse tracking profile. Blue and holding.”
Hobbs faked a trigger pitch to Taft Robinson and handed to me, a variation off the KC draw. I was leveled by Mallon. He came down on top of me, chuffing like a train. In the huddle, Hobbs called the same play. For some reason, it seemed a very beautiful thing to do. More than the thoughtful gesture of a teammate—a near-philosophic statement. Hobbs received the snapback, Roy Yellin pulled, and there I was with the football, the pigskin, running to daylight, to starlight, and getting hit again by Mike Mallon, by No. 55, by five five. A lyrical moment, the sum of something doubled.
Three firecrackers went off in the stands. The crowd responded with prolonged applause. I flared to the left, taking Mallon with me. Taft Robinson held for a two-count and then swung over the middle. Hobbs threw high under pressure. Third and four, or maybe fourth and three. The gun sounded and we headed for the tunnel.
Here before our cubicles we sit quietly, content to suck the sweet flesh out of quartered oranges. We are preoccupied with conserving ourselves for the second half and do not make work by gesturing to each other, or taking more than the minimum number of steps from here to there. A park bench has somehow found its way into the dressing area.
From nearby, I hear Sam Trammel’s voice: “Crackback. Crackback.”
I get to my feet and take six steps to the water fountain. Cecil Rector stands against the wall. Tweego has him by the shoulder pads once again.
“Contain, contain, contain that man,” Tweego says. “Rape him. Rayyape that sumbitch. Do not let that sumbitch infringe.”
Slowly I swing my arms over my head. I see Jerry Fallon and approach him. He is standing in front of his cubicle, hands at his sides, headgear on the floor between his feet.
“Jerry boy, big Jerry,” I say.
“Huh huh huh,” he mutters.
George Owen, a line coach, stands on a chair. His gaze moves slowly across the room, then back again. He holds his clenched fists against the sides of his head. Slowly his knees begin to bend. “Footbawl!” he shouts. “This is footbawl. You throw it, you ketch it, you kick it. Footbawl! Footbawl! Footbawl!”
Bing Jackmin squib-kicked down the middle. Andy Chudko hit the ballcarrier at full force and skidded on his knees over the fallen player’s body. I watched Head Coach assume his stance at the midfield stripe. Dennis Smee, our middle linebacker, shouted down at the front four: “Tango-2. Reset red. Choke off that sweep!”
Garland Hobbs opened with a burn-7 hitch to his flanker off the fake picket. I moved into my frozen-insect pose, ready to pass-block. Their big tackle shed Cecil Rector and came dog-paddling in. I jammed my helmet into his chest and brought it up fast, striking his chin. He kept coming, kept mauling me, finally driving me down and putting an elbow into my neck. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Hobbs looked toward the head coach for guidance on a tough third-down call. Head Coach said nothing. His arms remained folded, his right foot tamping the grass. This was his power, to deny us the words we needed. He was the maker of plays, the namegiver. We were his chalk-scrawls. Something like that.
Hobbs said, “Zone set, triple tex, delta-3 series, jumbo trap delay, cable blocking, double-D to right, shallow hinge reverse.”
The crowd was up and screaming—a massive, sustained, but somehow vacuous roar. I slowed to a walk and watched Taft Robinson glide into the end zone. Touchdown. He executed a dainty little curl to the left and casually dropped the football. Moody Kimbrough lifted him up. Spurgeon Cole stood beneath the goalposts, repeating them, arms raised in the shape of a crossbar and uprights, his fists clenched.
Jessup to No. 62: “Suckmouth. Nipplenose. Bluefinger.”
I walked down to the end of the bench. Raymond Toon was all alone, still broadcasting into his right fist.
“There it goes, end over end, a high spiral. The deep man avoids—or evades would be better. Down he goes, woof. First and ten at the twenty-six or thirty-one. Here they come and Andy Chudko, in now for Butler, goes in high, No. 61, Andy Chudko—Fumble! Fumble!—six feet even, about two-twenty-five, doubles at center on offense. Chudko, majoring in airport-commissary management, plays a guitar to relax, no other hobbies, fumbles after the whistle. College football—a pleasant and colorful way to spend an autumn afternoon.”
“It’s nighttime, Toonie,” I said.
“There he goes—five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven yards, power sweep, twelve yards, from our vantage point here at the Orange Bowl in sun-drenched Miami, Florida. John Billy Small combined to bring him down. John Billy, as they break the huddle—what a story behind this boy, a message of hope and inspiration to all those likewise afflicted, and now look at him literally slicing through those big ballcarriers! Flag, flag, flag—a flag down. All the color and excitement here. Oh, he’s got it with a yard to spare off a good block by 53 or 63. Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh or Cincinnati. Perfect weather for football. He’s a good one, that Telcon. Multitalented. Woof! Plenty of hitting down there. I’m sure glad I’m up here. D.C. Stadium in the heart of the nation’s capital. Crisp blue skies. A new wrinkle in that offense, or is it a broken play? Time-out on the field with the score all locked up at something-something. And now back to our studios for this message.�
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I watched Lloyd Philpot, Jr., come toward the bench. His jersey wasn’t tucked into his pants. Tape was hanging from his left wrist and hand. He squatted down next to me on the sideline.
“I didn’t infringe,” he said sadly. “The coaches wanted optimum infringement. They insisted on that all week in practice. But I didn’t do the job. I didn’t infringe.”
Centrex was running sweeps. I went over and sat with Garland Hobbs. Somebody in the stands behind us, way up high, was blowing into some kind of air horn. It sent a prehistoric cry across the night.
“String-in left, modified crossbow, quickside brake and swing, flow-and-go, dummy stitch, on two, on two,” Hobbs said.
“You’re always giving us on two, on two,” Roy Yellin said. “All freaking night—‘on two, on two.’ What about four for a change? ‘On four’?”
“Four it is,” Hobbs said.
More firecrackers went off in the stands, and newspapers blew across the line of scrimmage. I ran a desultory curl pattern over the middle, putting moves on everybody I passed, including teammates. The stadium was emptying out. I returned to the huddle. We went to the line and set. The left side of our line was offside. The gun sounded, and we walked off the field and went through the tunnel into the locker room.
Onan Moley is already naked as we walk in. We sit before our cubicles and pound our cleated shoes on the stone floor ten times. One of the school’s oldest traditions. The coaches gather at one end of the room. Onan’s right arm is in a cast and he stands against a wall absently waving his left hand to keep a fly away from his face. There are blades of grass stuck to the dried blood on his cheekbone. Next to me, Garland Hobbs takes a long red box from the bottom of his cubicle. The label on it reads: “All-American Quarterback. A Mendelsohn-Topping Sports Motivation Concept.” Hobbs opens the box and puts it on the bench between us. He arranges twenty-two figurines on a tiny gridiron and then spins a dial. His team moves smartly downfield. Before it gets to be my turn to spin, the coaches call for quiet, clapping their hands and whistling. Head Coach is standing before a blackboard at the front of the room. His arms are crossed over his chest and he holds his baseball cap in his right hand. We are all waiting. He looks at his watch and then nods to Rolf Hauptführer, his defensive backfield coach.
The Only Game in Town Page 48