The Baseball Codes

by Jason Turbow

  Eventually, people began to catch on. Among them was Detroit Tigers ace Jim Bunning, who grew increasingly angry as Turley whistled and the Yankees teed off during one of his starts. Finally, with Mickey Mantle at bat, Bunning turned to Turley in the first-base coach’s box and told him that another whistle would result in a potentially painful consequence for the hitter. Sure enough, Turley whistled on Bunning’s first pitch, a fastball at which Mantle declined to swing. With his second offering, Bunning knocked Mantle down. The on-deck hitter, Yogi Berra, could only watch in horror. When it was his turn to bat, Berra turned toward the mound, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Jim, he’s whistling, but I ain’t listening.”

  Bunning was vigilant, but even vigilance has its limits; sometimes there’s nothing a team can do to keep an opponent out of its pantry. Take Marty Barrett, who played second base in Boston for nine seasons in the 1980s, every one of them with right fielder Dwight Evans. Even while playing the field Evans liked to know the pitch that was coming in advance, to help him get an early break on balls hit his way, so Barrett would make a fist and put it behind his back. If his hand didn’t move, a fastball was on the way. If his arm wiggled, it would be something softer.

  In Fenway Park, the bullpens for both teams are located in right field, allowing visiting relievers a clear view of Barrett’s machinations. The only club to pick up on his tactic, though, was the Toronto Blue Jays. Through much of the 1980s, bullpen coach John Sullivan would look over the fence at Barrett’s arm, then signal the hitter with a towel (draped over the fence meant fastball, off the fence meant curve). Sometimes, so as not to draw too much attention, Toronto pitchers would simply stand up or sit down, depending on the pitch type, in accordance with prearranged signals. During Barrett’s final two seasons as a full-time player in Boston, the Blue Jays went 13-0 in Fenway Park (as compared with 6-7 when the teams played in Toronto). “Haywood Sullivan [the Red Sox general partner] came down a couple of times and said, ‘I think they’re getting our pitchers’ pitches,’” said Bill Fischer, the Red Sox pitching coach at the time. “We would look at the videotape for hours, and we couldn’t find anything.”

  “You’re taught to catch things on the field,” said Blue Jays manager Bobby Cox, who helmed the sign-stealing operation. “You watch body language with coaches at first and third, and runners with their body language when the hit-and-run and squeeze is on. There’s tip-offs and tells throughout a nine-inning ballgame. If you pay attention, you might catch something.”

  Fischer eventually discovered the secret, but only after he joined Cox’s Braves staff in 1992, at which point the manager fessed up and told him that Toronto “had every pitch” the Red Sox had thrown.

  Really, the only way for a pitcher to be certain that the other team isn’t picking up his signs is to do away with them entirely. In 1973, Nolan Ryan responded to what he felt were the prying eyes of Detroit coaches by ignoring everything Angels catcher Art Kusnyer flashed, then calling his own pitches—touching the back of his cap meant fastball, the bill a curve. As a onetime experiment it worked out okay; the opposition never caught on, and Ryan ended up with the second no-hitter of his career.

  • • •

  Much of Bob Turley’s ability to read the opposing team was due to his expertise at at picking up pitchers’ tells, or inadvertent movements that indicate the type of pitch about to be delivered.

  Tells can be as simple as a pitcher keeping his glove snapped tight when throwing a fastball but flaring it out for a breaking ball, or coming set with his glove at his belt for one type of pitch but at his chest for another. Matt Morris, for example, was lit up by the Braves during his rookie season in St. Louis after they noticed that the exposed index finger on his glove hand pointed upward whenever he threw a fastball, but lay flat for curves. Once he pinpointed the trouble, Morris quickly fixed it by attaching a flap to his glove that covered the finger.

  Examples like this litter the game’s history. When Babe Ruth first came to the American League as a pitcher with the Red Sox, he curled his tongue in the corner of his mouth whenever he threw a curveball—a habit he was forced to break once enough hitters became aware of it. Kansas City’s Mark Gubicza was cured of his tendency to stick out his tongue when throwing a breaking ball under similar circumstances. Ty Cobb regularly stole bases against Cy Young, abetted, said the outfielder, by the fact that Young’s arms drifted away from his body when he came set before throwing to first; when he was preparing to pitch, he pulled his arms in.

  Pitcher Todd Jones dished similar dirt on several competitors in an article he wrote for Sporting News in 2004: “When Andy Benes pitched, he always would grind his teeth when throwing a slider. In Hideo Nomo’s first stint in L.A., he’d grip his split-finger fastball differently than his fastball. Randy Johnson would angle his glove differently on his slider than on his fastball. I’ve been guilty of looking at the third-base coach as I come set when gripping my curveball. When hitters see this, word gets around the league. In fact, my old teammate Larry Walker was the one who told me what I was doing. He said he could call my pitches from the outfield.”

  Even position players get in on the action. In 1986, Toronto slugger George Bell noticed that in the process of calling for breaking balls, Red Sox catcher Marc Sullivan moved his right elbow away from his body, something he didn’t do for a fastball. So notified, someone on the Blue Jays bench called out to the batter whenever it happened. Similarly, there wasn’t a first baseman in the league Yogi Berra wouldn’t talk to as a baserunner—until the moment he got a hit-and-run sign, at which point he began to concentrate and grew quiet. Teams noticed, and Berra found himself the consistent victim of pickoff throws until he learned to keep up the chatter.

  Then there was Brooklyn Robins second baseman Pete Kilduff, whose tell cost his team a victory against the Indians in the 1920 World Series. As Brooklyn’s noted spitballer Burleigh Grimes threw a complete-game shutout in Game 2, Cleveland scout Jack McAllister noticed that Kilduff picked up a handful of dirt before each pitch. “If he saw our catcher signal for a fastball, he dumped the dirt,” said Grimes, who found out about it after the fact. “For a spitter, he hung on to it. Didn’t even know he did it.” The dirt, of course, afforded Kilduff a better grip should a wet ball be hit to him. In Game 5, it also allowed Indians hitters, alerted to keep their eyes on second base, to lay off Grimes’s best pitch and focus instead on crushing his fastball. The right-hander gave up seven runs in three and a third innings—including the first grand slam in series history, to right fielder Elmer Smith—and the Robins (who later changed their name back to the Dodgers) lost 8–1.

  The Robins deciphered Cleveland’s strategy before Grimes’s start in Game 7, and though Cleveland won the game 3–0, the pitcher did his part to keep things close, holding the Indians to two earned runs over seven innings while throwing nearly all spitballs.

  However much Billy Martin appreciated stolen signs as a player, by the time he became a manager it had turned into full-fledged fanaticism—and he was as obsessed with protecting his own signs as he was with stealing those of his opponents. While managing the Texas Rangers in 1974, Martin came up with what he felt was a surefire way to safeguard his signals—he installed a transmitter in the dugout that broadcast his orders to earpiece receivers worn by each of his base coaches, eliminating signs entirely. Such technology has since been outlawed, but even then it wasn’t always useful. With a runner on third and Cesar Tovar at the plate against the Red Sox, for example, Martin told third-base coach Frank Lucchesi to give the suicide-squeeze sign. The transmission was fuzzy, however, and Lucchesi couldn’t make out Martin’s order.

  “Billy says, ‘suicide squeeze,’” recalled Rangers catcher Jim Sundberg, “and Frank hits his ear like he can’t hear Billy’s command. Billy says it a little bit louder: ‘Suicide squeeze.’ And Frank’s tapping his ear again and shaking his head like he can’t hear.” Finally, Martin yelled into the microphone, “Suicide squeeze!” I
t didn’t matter; Lucchesi couldn’t hear a word. Red Sox pitcher Luis Tiant, however, could. He stepped off the mound, looked at Lucchesi, and said, “Frank, Billy said he wants the suicide squeeze.”

  16

  Don’t Peek

  Imagine—a major-league baseball player who had never come to the plate as a professional. It doesn’t happen often, but by his second big-league season Jose Nunez, a pitcher for the Toronto Blue Jays, had played only on teams—in the majors, minors, and winter ball—that used the designated hitter. When Nunez was finally called upon to pick up a bat, during a spring-training game against the Phillies in 1988, he made his estrangement from the offensive end of the game all too clear.

  It started even before Philadelphia’s Kevin Gross could throw a pitch. When Toronto third-base coach John McLaren noticed that Nunez had failed to remove his warm-up jacket before coming to the plate, he called time and had the hitter return it to the dugout. Jacket-free, Nunez again returned to the batter’s box, but for the second time, play was halted before Gross could throw a pitch. This time it was plate umpire Dave Pal-lone, who informed the right-handed hitter that he was wearing a lefty’s helmet, with the protective flap covering the wrong ear. In an effort to avoid another trip to the dugout, Nunez simply spun the helmet around, with the bill facing the rear of his head but the ear flap properly positioned. Though amused, Pallone wouldn’t allow it, so Nunez opted to step over the plate and bat left-handed. By this point, both Pallone and Gross were laughing out loud.

  For the third time, Gross looked in for the sign from catcher Lance Parrish, but was shocked to see that he wasn’t the only one with eyes on Parrish’s fingers—Nunez had his head swiveled around and was himself peering in to see what the catcher was calling. “What are you doing?” asked a surprised Parrish, looking up. “I want to see the signs,” said the unabashed batter.

  It was only spring training, and with Nunez’s comedy act already well under way, Parrish played along. “Okay,” he said. “What pitch do you want?” Nunez requested a fastball, if Parrish didn’t mind. The catcher accommodated him, and Nunez fouled the pitch off. He then turned toward Parrish for his second request. “That was too fast,” he said sweetly. “Could you make it a changeup this time?” That was all it took. Pallone was shaking so hard with laughter that he was unable to call balls and strikes—which was fine, because Gross was also doubled over. Nunez even acquitted himself at the plate, hanging in for five pitches before grounding out. “Did you see me swing?” he asked reporters proudly after the game. “Just like George Bell.”

  Nunez’s at-bat may have been a highlight of big-league comedy, but it was also noteworthy as one of the few instances in which a major-league hitter has been caught peeking at the catcher without a shred of repercussion. If on-field sign stealing is generally considered a gentleman’s challenge, peeking is its evil twin. “You do that,” said Mark Grace, “you’re going to get squashed.”

  There are many ways to go about it. Players can glance back while stepping out for a practice swing, or make a pronounced act of getting into their stance. “I hit .350 in the Pacific Coast League one year,” said infielder and longtime manager Gene Mauch, who made a habit of the former during his playing days. “If I couldn’t have read signs, I couldn’t have hit .350 in batting practice.”

  Modern peekers often wear wraparound sunglasses to hide their wandering eyes—which, glasses or not, don’t have to wander far. A successful peek doesn’t even require head movement—just a quick drop of the eyeballs. Picking up the sign is beneficial but hardly essential; all a hitter really needs is a general survey of the landscape—if he sees any part of the catcher in his peripheral vision, he can reasonably assume that he’s setting up outside; seeing nothing indicates an inside pitch.

  Catchers have different ways of dealing with this. There’s subterfuge, such as slapping a glove on the inside corner loudly enough for a hitter to notice, then moving outside once the pitch is released. In some instances, catchers don’t set up at all until the last possible moment, when the hitter’s full concentration must be focused on the mound. These approaches are common, but throwing peekers off the scent too effectively can prove disastrous.

  In 1979, the Rangers fingered Royals outfielder Al Cowens as a peeker. “He stands in the batter’s box,” said Texas catcher Jim Sundberg, “and his eyes would just glance back.” When Cowens saw Sundberg position himself outside, he made a habit of leaning over the plate as he swung, extending his reach for better contact with pitches that were tailing away from him. That was the upside. The downside came courtesy of pitcher Ed Farmer.

  Both Farmer and Sundberg denied intent, but when Cowens looked back to see an outside setup and leaned accordingly, there was little he could do to avoid the fastball that rode up and in. Intentional or not, the pitch had all the markings of a peeker-deterrent, wherein the catcher calls for a pitch away, knowing that the pitcher will be sending one high and tight. The ball crashed into Cowens’s jaw, crumpling the hitter instantly. Pete LaCock, who had been standing in the on-deck circle, was the first member of the Royals to arrive. “His glasses were still on and his eyes were bouncing up and down and I didn’t know if he was still breathing or not,” said LaCock. “I reached into his mouth and grabbed his chew, and right behind it came pieces of teeth and blood. It was an ugly scene.”

  “I have to say he was throwing at me, maybe not in the face, but it was intentional,” Cowens said angrily after the game, through a wired-together jaw. “That was his first pitch, and the two times before, he was throwing outside. He pitched me so well before. I can’t figure out why he pitched on the outside corner, struck me out, and then hit me.”

  Farmer’s reply was equally pointed, though he avoided a direct accusation. “[Cowens] thinks I’m guilty of throwing at him,” he said shortly afterward. “I think he’s guilty of looking for an outside pitch and not moving.” It may not have been the result he intended, but the pitcher felt justified in protecting his own interests. “It’s a fine line out there,” he said. “You don’t want to hurt anybody, but you don’t want anybody to take advantage of you.”

  It’s a rule by which most pitchers live. Even Jose Nunez—the original peeker of this chapter—played by it. After being traded to the Cubs prior to the 1990 season, he had to pick up a bat in games that counted, and he didn’t once look back at the catcher. Of course, without the privilege of a free peek, he didn’t fare well. Nunez was hitless in eleven trips to the plate that season. It’s likely that his 6.53 ERA had more to do with his never again pitching in the majors than his lack of hitting, but he can always say it was the rest of the peekers around baseball who drove him out.

  17

  Sign Stealing (Stadiums)

  Allan Worthington was a quality pitcher, a right-hander who came up with the New York Giants in 1953 and moved with them to San Francisco five years later. By 1959, he was not only one of their most trusted bullpen members, but one of the most reliable relievers in the major leagues.

  Then, over the course of a single season, everything changed. He was traded twice within a span of six months, playing for three teams in 1960 alone, and shortly thereafter quit the game altogether, at age thirty-one. Worthington was neither a bad character nor a headcase. He was throwing as well as he ever had. In fact, he had only one problem, which was enough to sour him in the eyes of more than one ballclub: Al Worthington wasn’t a cheat.

  At the tail end of the 1959 season, San Francisco was battling the Dodgers and Braves for the National League pennant, holding first place into the season’s final week. In an effort to gain an edge on its competition, the club asked former coach and proven sign stealer Herman Franks, who had left the Giants the previous year, to return and set up an espionage system. His resulting handiwork had various members of the organization, armed with binoculars, placed in the far reaches of San Francisco’s Seals Stadium to pick up signs and relay them to the dugout. When Worthington first heard about the operation, he was ap
palled.

  The pitcher had seen a similar system over the first four years of his career, when the Giants played in New York’s Polo Grounds before moving west. Although it bothered him, he was never certain enough about his standing on the team to speak his mind. In 1958, however, Worthington found religion at a Billy Graham rally at San Francisco’s Cow Palace and from that point forward refused to tolerate inequities on the field.

  When he found out about Franks’s scheme in ’59, Worthington pulled Giants manager Bill Rigney aside and demanded that the practice cease, threatening to abandon the team if it didn’t. Rigney was stuck: Worthington was a valuable member of the bullpen, and losing him would be a blow. The binoculars were shelved, and the Giants immediately lost three straight to the Dodgers (and seven of their last eight), to finish four games back in the National League.

  At that point, of course, Worthington’s fate hardly hinged on the team’s success; when the season ended, the Giants couldn’t get rid of him fast enough, trading him to the Red Sox for spare parts prior to the 1960 campaign. Boston in turn shipped him to the White Sox that September. Chicago, only three games behind the Orioles, was looking to bolster its bullpen, but nobody in the organization bothered to ask the Giants about their new acquisition. This would have been beneficial, considering that the White Sox used a sign-stealing system even more complex than the one in San Francisco. When the team played at home, Chicago’s pitching instructor and former Tigers standout, Dizzy Trout, watched the opposing catcher from inside the recently installed Comiskey Park “exploding” scoreboard—a pyrotechnic exhibition unlike any seen in baseball up to that time. Trout then triggered a light hidden amid many others in the center-field display, that signaled hitters to the type of pitch about to be thrown—blinking meant breaking ball, solid meant fastball. It could be seen from both the plate and the White Sox dugout along the third-base line, but not from the visitors’ dugout near first. The scheme was incredibly effective, helping the Sox build a 51-26 record (.662) at home that year, even as they struggled to a 36-41 mark (.468) on the road.