Sixty Feet, Six Inches

by Bob Gibson

  Now hitters have to deal with the cutter, too—Mariano Rivera’s bread and butter.

  Bob Gibson

  A four-seam fastball will often take off and sail like a cut fastball. Joe Pepitone might mistake it for a slider, but it’s harder than a slider and doesn’t have the vertical break. I didn’t throw a cutter, per se, because I got the same kind of movement from my fastball. You hold the cutter a little off center, and it has a sideways rotation that makes it travel horizontally one way or the other.

  My four-seamer was more old-school than that. I held it across the seams where they’re wide, and that way you get the resistance of all four seams as the ball rotates. That puts a little hop or lateral movement on the ball. And you could alter that movement by just sliding your grip a smidgen or two.

  Reggie Jackson

  The four-seamer is the fastball that you have to set yourself for when you’re up against somebody like Gibson, Ryan, Palmer, Roger Clemens, Josh Beckett, or C. C. Sabathia.

  The velocity of the two-seamer isn’t that much different than the four-seamer. Some pitchers—Chien-Ming Wang is a good example—can throw it just as hard.

  Bob Gibson

  Generally, though, the fastball down low, which the two-seamer had better be, isn’t going to hit ninety-five miles an hour. You can put just as much effort into it and the ball simply won’t be arriving at top speed. It’s the four-seamer, up high, that comes in the hardest.

  People often said that I had a little extra when I needed it in a tight spot or in the ninth inning. They said that if I’d been throwing ninety-three, I could reach back in that situation and blow one in at ninety-seven if I had to. That might be true, but it wasn’t a matter of having a little extra. That implies that I’d been holding back. I never held back on a fastball.

  What would happen would be that I’d been throwing two-seamers, or maybe sliders, and then, in the do-or-die situation, I’d turn to the four-seamer and bring it up there high in the zone. But it’s not a matter of reaching back a little further and grunting a little louder and letting it all out. Every once in a great while, there might be a special occasion for that. As a rule, though, trying to throw the ball harder leads to overthrowing it, which might cause you to lose command and actually might cause you to lose velocity, as well. You might tense up too much—tighten up—and the pitch doesn’t come out of the hand as fast as the one before when you were nice and loose. It’s all a matter of self-awareness.

  Most of the time, there’s no extra. It just looked like that.

  Reggie Jackson

  The four-seam fastball is more of a strikeout pitch than the two-seamer. A two-seamer is good for getting the batter to hit the ball on the ground, but it usually doesn’t make him swing and miss like a four-seam or a split-fingered fastball.

  Bob Gibson

  A forkball is another good two-strike pitch, because it drops so much. Sandy Koufax got a lot of strikeouts on forkballs. Elroy Face, a great little relief pitcher, lived by it. So did Lindy McDaniel, who was our top reliever when I came up with the Cardinals.

  The splitter is thrown a little harder—it’s not jammed between the fingers so much—and after Sutter came along, you didn’t see the forkball as often. Jack Morris was one who got a lot of mileage out of it. Dave Stewart.

  Reggie Jackson

  The way a forkball tumbles down, it’s sometimes not much different than a spitball, except drier. A spitball has more of an unnatural, unpredictable fall because the ball is weighted on one side.

  Bob Gibson

  The spitball is different because it’s cheating. I’d throw it, though, if I thought it would be to my advantage.

  The reason I didn’t was that the ball would do all kinds of unpredictable things and I didn’t feel like I could command it. On a spitball, you don’t hold any seams. If you grab the ball between the seams, most of the time you can’t throw it straight anyway; it’s going to do something. The thing was, I didn’t really know what when it came to the spitball.

  But I did actually throw it for one game. It was against the Mets, and I just wanted to see if it would work. It was nasty, all right.

  Dave Ricketts was catching me. I used to work on it on the sideline, and one day I said, “Dave, I’m gonna throw a spitball today, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Whenever a guy gets two strikes on him and he fouls one back, I’m gonna throw a spitball the next pitch. Because when he fouls the ball back, everybody cranes their neck to see where it’s going. Nobody’s watching me, so that’s when I’ll spit into my glove and I’ll load it up when the umpire tosses me a new ball.” So that’s what I did. Jesse Gonder was the catcher for the Mets, and he was bitching and moaning to the umpire about it. I forget who the umpire was, but finally he said to Gonder, “Come on, Gibson doesn’t throw a spitball.” I did that day. And I won.

  Reggie Jackson

  If it’s a good spitball, it’s pretty impossible to hit because it has abnormal flight and you can’t tell where it’s going. But a guy can throw a bad one. You can hit one on the dry side now and then. A spitball has that tumbling spin to it, and you can at least identify it.

  Bob Gibson

  A spitball is thrown harder than a forkball, and even harder than a split-finger. Most spitters go whissht, straight down, from the speed and weight.

  I don’t know how he did it, but Lew Burdette could somehow throw a spitter and make it go up. He had a couple different spit-balls. He could make it go both ways.

  Reggie Jackson

  Some of the best spitballs probably come from pitchers you didn’t know threw one. I’m sure there are guys who get away with it who aren’t even suspected. There are a lot of guys who sweat enough naturally that they don’t need anything else. That’s the one who’s got the best spitball. Watch out for guys who wear long sleeves in ninety degrees.

  Everybody knew that Gaylord Perry threw a spitter—he wanted you to know—but there was no telling how he did it. Against Gaylord one time, I asked the umpire to check the ball on eleven straight pitches and he still didn’t find anything.

  A lot of times, what we call a spitball is actually a scuff ball. There are all sorts of methods for scuffing or nicking it. Rick Honeycutt had a razor or a nail or a tack or something on his glove. There are guys who have sandpaper in their gloves. There are guys who’ll cut out a little circle of sandpaper and attach it to their glove hand so they can scratch the ball when they rub it up. When Mike Scott pitched, players on the other team would sometimes gather up a few of the balls he threw and sit in the dugout examining the scuff marks on them. There was a president of one team who kept a collection of balls scuffed by Don Sutton in his desk drawer.

  Bob Gibson

  Some guys throw over to first like they’re trying to pick off the runner, and the first baseman will scratch the ball for them before he tosses it back. Johnny Roseboro, the old Dodgers catcher, used to cut the ball on his knee pads for certain pitchers. Drysdale, Sutton.

  One time Sutton was pitching a game against us in St. Louis, and the first inning we just knocked the tar out of him. We must have gotten three or four runs and were still rallying. And he called time-out and walked into the dugout and disappeared. Went into the clubhouse. He was gone five minutes. Everybody was waiting for him. He’d started out naked and didn’t have his good stuff, so he went back in there and got outfitted.

  Reggie Jackson

  He may have had a tip before the game that somebody was going to check him.

  Bob Gibson

  We hardly touched him the rest of the way.

  Reggie Jackson

  When Gaylord Perry went out to the mound, he would pick up the resin bag, cover his hand with resin, and leave it on. The first pitch he’d throw, there would be this little cloud of powder when he released the ball. That was his puff ball.

  I saw a lot of spitballs, and I saw a lot of them from Gaylord alone. When he didn’t throw it, he’d fake it. He’d touch his cap, touch his glove, touch his belt, eve
rything, and then throw you a curveball. He threw a Vaseline ball. Had it all over him. Around his neck, in his sideburns, wherever. There are all kinds of places where pitchers can hide their goop. They can put it in the stripe of their pants. They can put it inside their belts so that when they hitch up their pants they can get some. Sometimes, Perry loaded the ball so much that it was too slippery for the catcher to throw it back; he’d have to walk it out there. Gaylord also had a good forkball, which confused the matter a little further.

  He was throwing me spitters one night in Seattle, my first year with the Angels. This is in one of the baseball bloopers highlight films, and one of my great moments, if I may say so. It was the usual routine. He kept loading it up, and when he didn’t he’d go through all his gyrations. I kept swinging and missing. The umpire was David Phillips, nice guy, and finally I called time and said, “Dave, check him out, would you? Look at the ball. Look at the flight of the ball. It’s not normal. It’s a spitter. Everybody in the ballpark knows it. Why don’t you call it?”

  He said, “I can’t. I can’t prove it.”

  I said, “Well, I’m telling you.”

  He said, “Well, Reggie, he’s gonna tell me he’s not.”

  Of course, Gaylord was just looking in there and laughing all this time. Eventually, I struck out after about an eight-or nine-pitch at-bat. Instead of heading back to the dugout, though, I started shrugging my shoulders, throwing my hands up, arguing with the umpire, jawing with the catcher, and pointing at Perry, who’s just having a great ol’ time. Somehow I didn’t get thrown out of the game for all that. But I wasn’t finished. I walked over to the bench, grabbed the water bucket, and carried it out toward the mound. When I got to the foul line, I took the top off and started shoveling ice and water at Gaylord. That’s when I finally got thrown out of the game.

  Bob Gibson

  Taking more water out there for Gaylord to throw his spitter with. That’s a good move.

  Reggie Jackson

  On my way back to the clubhouse I walked past one of my teammates, Mick Kelleher, looked at Mickey, and said, “How was that?” He about doubled over.

  You know, only one time in his career did Gaylord get tossed out of a game for throwing a spitball. That was later that year in Boston. The umpire was Dave Phillips.

  Bob Gibson

  Joe Niekro had sandpaper in his back pocket once, and when the umpire came out to ask him what he had back there he reached into his pocket and said, “Nothing.” And the sandpaper fell out on the mound while the umpire was standing there watching. Kicked him out of the game.

  To me, though, throwing a spitball falls under the category of gamesmanship. It’s like an outfielder who traps a ball and knows he trapped it but holds it up to convince the umpire that he caught it. That’s part of the game. It’s not exactly the same, because there’s no rule against trapping a ball and saying you caught it; but the point is that everybody tries to get away with whatever they can. I don’t have a big problem with that. It’s competition.

  Bob Gibson

  My curveball didn’t bite. It would just sort of peter out. It was terrible. That’s why I only threw it to left-handers, and only rarely.

  It was almost always a hanger. Always, always up. A right-handed hitter would feast on that curveball, because he was probably bailing out to begin with and then the stupid thing would just stay right there where he could get lucky and lay into it. But more often than you’d think, I’d get away with hanging a curve to left-handed hitters. Left-handers would see it rolling in, slow and fat and tumbling right to them, and they’d get excited and take a mighty rip, but it wouldn’t break as much as they thought, or they couldn’t quite reach it, or they’d jump out there and jam themselves because they were so eager, and they’d hit it about twenty feet and go, “Damn!”

  Joe Morgan was one. I couldn’t throw a fastball by Joe Morgan. He’d pull it foul. Then I started throwing him that slop curveball and he’d hit nice little grounders to second base and shortstop.

  So I saved my curve for lefties, except for the couple I threw to Dick Allen.

  Reggie Jackson

  I grew up in Philadelphia, and I’d go watch Dick Allen—he was called Richie back then—at Shibe Park—well, it was Connie Mack Stadium by then—at Twenty-first and Lehigh. He’d be hitting home runs over that 447-foot sign in center field.

  Bob Gibson

  He hit one out there on me. Curveball.

  But it’s a two-part story. The first time, I’d gotten two strikes on him, and he didn’t know I had a curveball since I never threw it to right-handed hitters. But I just got the idea to throw one to Dick Allen and he kind of did a double take and cursed. “Strike three!” He just looked at me. That was back in St. Louis. The next time I faced him was in Philadelphia—this was in June 1964—and he was just looking for that curveball. First two times up I struck him out, nothing but fastballs, and he hadn’t swung yet. Third time, I threw him the curveball and he hit it over the flagpole in center field. He gave me a look when he got to second base, and I thought, “Yeah, you’ll never see another one.” He set me up.

  That was the last curveball he ever got from me. It was also the last and only home run he ever hit off me.

  Reggie Jackson

  The curveball became hittable for me when I learned to look for slider speed and adjust. That meant I was waiting longer and was willing and able to take a ball to the opposite field. It was the same approach that helped me against all kinds of off-speed stuff.

  When I came into the league, the Orioles had a little relief pitcher named Stu Miller who was famous for his changeups, and his changeups off his changeups. The first time I faced Stu Miller was my rookie year, 1967. I didn’t have a prayer. He had me crawling on my knees.

  Baltimore always seemed to have crafty little guys—usually lefties—who gave me fits. Tippy Martinez had a good fastball but got me out consistently with a tough breaking pitch that I just couldn’t stay with. Scott McGregor wasn’t small, but he was a left-hander with a great knowledge of pitching, and he tied me up in knots. For years, I couldn’t even touch the ball off McGregor. Then, in 1982, I hit three home runs against him. I guess I finally figured him out.

  I can say that now, but I wouldn’t say it at the time. It may sound strange coming from me, but you can get too cocky if you make an assumption like that while you’re still playing. If you think you’ve got something figured out in baseball, you’re asking for trouble. I found it wise to remember the age-old saying: Take it one day at a time. There are no guarantees about tomorrow.

  Eventually, when I refined my approach and become more patient, I did better against the finesse guys. I can’t brag about how I handled the off-speed stuff, but if you look at a list of pitchers I did the most damage against, it includes the likes of Wilbur Wood, Doyle Alexander, Bill Lee, Geoff Zahn, Bob McClure, Mike Cuellar, Jerry Augustine, Luis Tiant, and Dave McNally. You had to be on your game against those characters, because they knew how to pitch … and win.

  I managed to hit a home run off McNally—another Oriole—early in my career, in Oakland, and I distinctly remember touching first base and thinking, “I just got me a real twenty-game winner!” It was a real lefty, besides. In fact—to my surprise, actually—a lot of the guys on that list were left-handed.

  When you’re a left-handed hitter up against a left-hander, that means you can’t bail out on the curveball. You cannot give anything.

  Bob Gibson

  And that’s not easy. All through youth ball and college I was a switch-hitter, so I never had to face a curveball breaking away from me. I was still switch-hitting in Triple-A ball, and in fact the first home run I hit was from the left side. But the Cardinals said they didn’t want me batting left-handed because it would expose my pitching arm. I thought that was dumb, because if a ball came in on me I would have turned away and probably been hit in the left arm; but that’s what they said, so I stopped.

  After that, I started seeing t
hose breaking balls that would start out right at me. That was horrible. Sam Jones struck me out with a pitch that I thought was going to hit me in the middle of the back. I fell down and the umpire said, “Strike three!” The ump was Frank Dascoli, and he was looking straight down at me while I was lying on my back. I was embarrassed to death. I said, “That ball hit me!” Dascoli just laughed and said, “No, it didn’t.”

  Sam Jones had a curveball you could actually hear.

  So did Koufax.

  Reggie Jackson

  Hearing a pitch—now, that’s a cut above.

  What I heard was Nolan Ryan’s fastball hitting the catcher’s mitt. You could hear that if you were eating peanuts in the second deck.

  Reggie Jackson

  Sal Bando taught me how to hit the knuckleball. I was struggling with it early in my career. Sal was our captain, and he was a good knuckleball hitter, so I just asked him, “How do you do that?” He told me to just stand at home plate and follow the speed of the ball to get it timed.

  The next knuckleballer I saw was old Hoyt Wilhelm. It was in Milwaukee, because it was 1968 and the White Sox were playing part of their home schedule there. I was just a kid, and when Wilhelm came in they announced, “Hoyt Wilhelm is now making his nine hundred and seventh appearance, which breaks the all-time record held by Cy Young …” The first pitch he threw, I hit the ball over the right-field stands at County Stadium.