3
It seems ridiculous for me to state unambiguously that I had no idea through most of my high school years that I was destined for a baseball career. I tell that to folks and they look at me like I have ten ears. After all, I was dominating hitters as few prep pitchers ever had. And scouts were beginning to frequent my games in vast numbers. Yet I had no clue. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine such a future for myself.
Two primary factors entered into the equation. One was that no level of success could have improved my self-image. From any rational, objective view, I could hardly have been more accomplished as a teenager. Not only had I emerged as the premier pitching prospect in the country and gained such notoriety that I was eventually invited to speak about my talents and announce my signing of a professional contract on national television, but I had blossomed academically into a straight-A student. Yet how does one define success? If it is finding a strong sense of pride and happiness, if it is gaining drive and determination while seeking a purpose in life and embracing a passion for a talent that could result in a career, I had fallen woefully short. It is not that my self-esteem was lacking. I had no self-esteem at all. I went through my daily routines on and off the field robotically. It was not a matter of misunderstanding the opportunity in front of me, the interest in me as a pitcher. It was that I never gave it any thought.
The other element was ignorance. It seems unbelievable to many people but I was greatly unaware of major league baseball through most of my childhood and adolescence. I never attended Pirates games. My initial experience with professional baseball was pitching my first game for Class D Lakeland. We did not have a television until I was in high school and beyond that I never watched a game or listened to one on the radio. With ten mouths to feed and bodies to clothe we did not have the money to attend ballgames. Nor did I have the time. I was always out playing at the amateur level or working at one of many jobs over the years, such as the paper route I inherited from my brother, cleaning out neighborhood cellars and garages, or toiling as a soda jerk and delivering prescriptions in an open Jeep after earning my driver’s license. The sport of baseball outside of my world remained a mystery.
My coaches during my amateur career in Pittsburgh often urged me to display my talents at various training camps. But I generally refused. I neither cared about nor understood their importance. I did attend one and was sorry I did when a thrown ball smacked me in the right side of my skull and left an indentation the size of a silver dollar that I can still identify.
This lack of awareness of opportunities to further my career or even to forge one at all seems odd given the time and effort my father put into maximizing my talent. He did not focus specifically on me—he toiled ad nauseum on the football abilities of his namesake son, who eventually blossomed into a fine quarterback and the premier prep punter in Pittsburgh. But my dad worked tirelessly on my pitching mechanics. The two major newspapers became aware of my exploits on the mound, which in turn allowed the Pirates to take notice. They summoned me to pitch batting practice before games at Forbes Field, which was just two blocks from my high school. I believe now they patronized me so I would sign with them out of high school for less money (the amateur draft that evened the playing field and ended the bidding for high school and college talent had yet to become a reality).
It might have worked given my craving for attention. Most teenage prospects would have been wowed to be not only pitching batting practice to big leaguers but meeting many of the greats of their day. But I knew very little about those greats aside from faint recollections of hearing their names on the radio. I was not bowled over when I met stars of the Pirates and their rivals such as Ted Kluszewski, Stan Musial, Warren Spahn, Lew Burdette, even Hank Aaron. I did not even know who most of them were. The media made a big deal out of the fact that the immortal Roberto Clemente refused to get in the batter’s box against me—I assume because he felt I was a bit too wild, though my control was fairly strong at that point in my career.
I spent time before batting practice in the Pirates locker room. The muscle-bound Kluszewski, who was fading as a player by that time, was always checking up on me, ensuring I was not overwhelmed. He had nothing to worry about. I remained my same mechanical self. One cold day I was sweating after batting practice at Forbes Field and a clubhouse worker gave me a jacket to keep me warm until I could shower and go home. He later returned to make certain I returned the jacket. I must admit I was seriously considering taking it. Though as a youth I generally stopped short of partaking in illegal activity, I was not against bending the rules to suit my desires.
Most significant about my experiences at Forbes Field is that nothing would have impacted me given the fog in which I was walking around. I had no realization of the honor or even the significance of a high school kid throwing batting practice to big leaguers, including those who played for one of the top teams in the National League and in a year or two would be beating the juggernaut Yankees in the World Series. I never even stuck around to watch the games to which I was invited. They began at 8 p.m., which would have allowed me to stay for several innings, but I could not have been less interested since it did not involve me. I viewed myself as a stagehand for the Pirates—just someone to set up the stage. Such a role meant nothing to this narcissist. Others my age would have given their two front teeth to be in my position. They would have been thrilled to have placed themselves on the precipice of greatness. I could not even work up a sense of excitement when I threw a no-hitter. I remained unaffected.
And if anyone should have been positively affected as an amateur player, it was me. I had emerged as the top pitcher on the Pittsburgh Central Catholic team as a junior. I went 8–0 my senior year without allowing an earned run and fanned practically every batter I retired—152 in 63 innings. I struck out 2.4 batters per inning, which is mind-boggling given that 1 per inning back in the late 1950s was considered dominant. I threw two no-hitters and one one-hitter to lead our team to the championship. I also played first base and even shortstop and hit well.
That same year I served as the ace of our team in the Colt League World Series in Pasadena, California. I had tossed mostly no-hitters and one-hitters to help us qualify for that prestigious event. I then crafted a one-hitter with twelve strikeouts in my only outing in the World Series. We lost our second game and returned home.
I certainly welcomed the competition and—of course as was typical of me—the attention. Very few schools were willing to play Central Catholic in football or baseball because of our dominance. We had to schedule outside the city to find teams brave or talented enough to compete against us. Our baseball team even scheduled the University of Pittsburgh in exhibitions. Among its best players was eventual NFL Hall of Fame tight end and coach Mike Ditka, who was also one hell of a baseball player.
I liked that games against top-caliber opponents in high school or the Colt League playoffs attracted a large number of fans. Local prep contests generally drew only the parents of players. But during our state championship run the stands were filled. I recall there were twenty-one scouts representing all sixteen major league teams for the title game. They were not all there to see me, but they certainly took notice when I pitched a no-hitter to outduel my talented rival Gary Wright. The only hit he allowed was my home run. I find it strange recollecting that I pitched in the Little League World Series, Pony League World Series, Colt League World Series and American Legion World Series yet never even sniffed the playoffs during a fifteen-year major league career.
It may also be hard to believe for many who know my story that through those early years I still did not foresee a future in baseball. It had become obvious for years that it was my best sport. I played defensive and offensive end and a little quarterback as a freshman and sophomore. I competed on my eighth-grade basketball team but was certainly no standout. I then played on the junior varsity and varsity teams, working my way up to first string and specializing in rebounding. (I had grown six inches so I certainly had the height for it.) But I had become such a dominant pitcher that the newspapers began printing articles about me and scouts started buzzing around.
Only then—only when the facts bludgeoned me over the head—did I finally gain some inkling that a career as a pitcher appeared inevitable. I should have gained that awareness years earlier. I earned a spot on the varsity baseball team as a freshman, which speaks volumes given the strength of the Central Catholic program. I pitched a no-hitter with fourteen strikeouts as a sophomore—against the University of Pittsburgh team, no less. The no-hitters the local media was marveling at piled up. Though my high school athletic director exaggerated the number, claiming to the newspapers that I had hurled fifteen no-hitters, I actually pitched nine. Yet I still did not grasp my greatness or understand my destiny until a professional baseball career was practically at my doorstep. That shows the depth of my immaturity and poor self-image as well as ignorance about the professional game. The emotional issues were part and parcel of what I learned later to be an “addictogenic” personality.
The reasons that enter into this contradiction are complex. They prevented me from reaching a healthy level of self-actualization until after I nearly destroyed my life. What I did not understand is that the self-esteem of most people is strengthened through accomplishment. But those with the personality traits common to alcoholics react neither positively nor negatively to achievement. I started hearing people talk about my “God-given talent” or “natural ability” as a pitcher. Rather than being perceived as a compliment, it prevented me from taking credit for my successes because I figured since I was born with such ability I had not really done anything. That proved exasperating throughout my career. I felt like nothing I achieved athletically could satisfy me—or anyone else for that matter.
What I learned nearly twenty-five years later to be an alcoholic personality adversely altered my personal life as well. Those with my disorder are narcissists who experience psychotic periods and are incapable of love in the proper sense. It is a form of obsessive-compulsive feeling. I could very strongly like somebody. I could want to be with that person and protect her. I could want her to idolize me. I could mouth the words, express love, because that’s what I thought she wanted to hear. But I was incapable of feeling love or feeling loved.
All of which was a shame for the high school girlfriend who eventually became my wife. She attended a public school but I met through her two neighbors with whom I played sports. I sometimes visited Carol Ann and her sister and I would serve as a third wheel when we went out together. Her sister drove us all to the swimming pool and other destinations. For the first year of our relationship I did not consider Carol Ann my steady. I spent much time playing basketball or other games with her neighbors. Only later did I begin to date her as a girlfriend.
Carol Ann basically just put up with me. We lived five blocks apart and I was too busy with sports, particularly baseball, to spend an inordinate amount of time with her, plus I was holding down a job as a soda jerk. That was not the only kind of jerk I was as we became a couple. I often wondered in high school why I could not hang out with the boys more, an attitude that she felt shunned her. I was being pulled in many directions—baseball, school, work, girlfriend, boyfriends, family. It seemed I had no time for myself. I did not treat her well, especially after we wed. She was a perfect wife—beautiful inside and out, wonderful friend and lover, ideal mother, and mentor to the children. But the only love I could muster was for my obsessive-compulsive feelings and behavior. Love was like any other beauty in the world that I could not recognize or appreciate. It escaped me.
My immaturity negatively affected all aspects of my life mentally and emotionally. But it could not ruin the physical act of pitching. The fastball, curve-ball, slider, and change-up combination that super-slugger Reggie Jackson once called the best he had ever seen had already been established, though I did not often use them all in amateur competition. I threw hard but not nearly as fast as I did in the majors. I unleashed my curve from three different angles. I even delivered an occasional spitball. I only needed my fastball and curve to get batters out. And I knew pitchers in Pittsburgh alone who threw harder than me, including my teammate Bob Gordon, who also signed with the Indians, as well as Wright, who surprised me by not landing a professional contract.
What all the success in amateur ball, as well as the repetition and training with my father, did not instill in me was a productive mental approach to pitching. That made me wholly unprepared for the challenges of professional baseball. My talent alone overwhelmed batters in little league and high school. I did not have to consider pitch sequence or location. I was lost when it became apparent early in my career in the minors and majors that I could not simply blow fastballs by batters at that level. That tough discovery took a toll on me. I did not boast the maturity to deal with it, to channel the challenges to a positive direction.
Remember that the 1950s was not exactly an era of keen awareness regarding body and soul. Few amateur or even professional athletes worked to maximize wellness physically, mentally, or emotionally. One example is that the dangers of smoking cigarettes had yet to be proven—the evidence, though suspected, was not cemented and released until the early 1960s. I began smoking at age sixteen. I got cigarettes from the father of former major league pitcher Mel Queen, who served as a youth baseball volunteer and raised a son who enjoyed a productive career as a starter and reliever. I also stole cigarettes from my mother and father and snuck out to the backyard or a wooded area behind the garage to smoke them.
The smoking habit that remained with me, even after I had beaten alcohol and turned my life around, had no real impact on my pitching. At age sixteen I would not have known that danger anyway. I never considered a baseball career to be on the horizon.