Pitcher

PITCHER

  By Russ Durbin

  Copyright © 2012 by Russell L. Durbin, RLD Publishing

  Cover Design: Charlene Lavinia

  PITCHER

  “God, I love this.”

  Will Farrell surveyed the field, meticulously manicured and sparkling green under the lights. Snowy bases were secured and the base paths carefully curried to remove any stones. All was ready.

  In just over an hour, William Hickok Farrell, Number 22 for the Toledo Thunder, would take the mound to pitch the most important game of his major league career – the opening game of the World Series. To pitch in a World Series game had been the life-long dream of Will and his dad, Big Bill. In all his years in the majors, Will had never played on a team that had made it to the world championship series until now.

  The weather was unusually mild for October and the humidity was high, just the right conditions for the home-run hitters of the Albuquerque Vaqueros, their American League opponents. As Will surveyed the flags blowing gently in the outfield, he thought, “I need to force the hitters into grounders.”

  As he stood there in the dugout, one foot on the top step, he thought about what it had taken to get to this point in his life.

  He had never known what it was to not play baseball. His earliest recollection was his dad tossing a ball to him, saying, “Hit it, Willie, hit it!” He would swing his little wooden bat awkwardly and miss.

  “Come on, Willie, you gotta keep your eye on the ball.” He and Big Bill, as his father was known, would repeat this scene again and again until he managed to make contact. Then, he and his dad would repeat this ritual until he could hit the ball every time.

  One day, Big Bill took a hammer and some tacks from the tool shed in back of their bungalow.

  “Whatcha doin’, Dad?” asked little Willie.

  “You’ll see,” his dad replied as he tacked a small target on the shed wall. Then, Big Bill rolled out his 100-foot tape measure and marked a spot 60 feet, six inches from the shed.

  “Come here, Son.” His dad pointed to the spot he had marked. “Stand right there.” Tossing a baseball to the youngster, Big Bill said, “Okay, Willie, throw the ball at the target.”

  His first pitch bounced in the dirt in front of the shed. “Let it go, Willie, throw harder. You can do it.” His second hit the wall of the shed nowhere near the target.

  “C’mon, Willie, do it again.” He learned that phrase quickly. “Do it again, Willie.” Over and over and over, Will threw until he couldn’t feel his arm any more. But he learned to hit the target. After hundreds of pitches, Willie could hit the target almost every time.

  As he grew, he went from throwing at the target to throwing to the catcher’s mitt his dad wore. Big Bill pounded his fist in the pocket of the glove and said, “Right here, Willie, here’s your spot. Now hit it.”

  Will threw to the mitt. Over and over and over, Willie threw to wherever his dad held the mitt. One day, his dad unrolled a piece of white cloth that was exactly the size and shape of the home plate on a baseball diamond.

  Big Bill would squat in a catcher’s stance and position the mitt behind the plate. He’d hold the mitt down and in, outside and high, waist high in the middle, low outside, high inside, and so on.

  Consistency. That was always the goal, stressed his dad. “Hit your spot. You have to hit it every time.” His dad drummed that thought into him. Will remembered waking up in the morning with his dad’s words ringing in his head.

  When he wasn’t hitting or pitching, Will was lifting weights and doing isometric exercises, strengthening his arms, shoulders, legs, back and core muscles. And he was running. Always running.

  “Constant roadwork,” according to his Dad, “You need roadwork year ‘round so you can stay in shape.” By the time he was in high school, Will was six-feet, four-inches tall and weighed a solid 200 pounds.

  Will was a good athlete, with natural coordination and superb reflexes. In high school, he could toss a football sixty yards on a line to a receiver. He could nail a 30-footer on the basketball court with 50% of his shots.

  But Big Bill was flatly opposed to his son playing any sport but baseball. “Basketball interferes with your conditioning for spring baseball,” he said. Regarding football, Big Bill was definite. “You’ll get hurt playing football. You can’t afford that. It could ruin your chances for a baseball scholarship and a pro career.” The other coaches would argue with his dad, but Big Bill wouldn’t give in.

  Will was well aware of the risks. His buddy, Charlie “Spock” Spencer, had gone out for football. He never even got in a game. The last day of football camp, he nailed the ball carrier during a practice game and dislocated his right shoulder, tearing ligaments that required surgery. It also knocked “Spock” out of basketball that year. And when baseball season rolled around, “Spock” could no longer snap the ball across the diamond from third base. He wound up playing his last baseball game as a junior. No scholarship for “Spock.”

  Over the years, Will had lost count of the number of games he had played. Graduating from backyard games to Babe Ruth League games, Will played them all. He pitched on his Little League travel team as well as played outfield and hit over .400 before going on to Legion baseball. Baseball had dominated his growing-up years.

  Big Bill was always there, teaching, coaxing, cajoling, cursing and criticizing him. Sometimes, he even ridiculed Will. His dad forced him by whatever means possible to be better than he was, to be better than others, and to be the best he could be.

  There were times when he hated his dad. Big Bill was always pushing, always criticizing and showing how he could be even better than he was.

  “You can do it better than that!” was his dad’s favorite line. At times when he was younger, he remembered crying, “I can’t, Daddy. I’m too tired.”

  But his dad wouldn’t let him quit. “C’mon, don’t be a sissy. Do it right! Do it again! Just a few more times!”

  Some parents thought Big Bill was a bully and too hard on the boy, but his dad thought he was doing the right thing. He wanted Will to be the super star than he never was.

  One time when Will was in high school, Big Bill was particularly rough on him after losing a game to their cross town rival. Will had lost his control and was wild, walking five during the game, hitting two batters and throwing three wild pitches that the catcher had no chance to block.

  A couple of blocks from their home, Big Bill stopped the car.

  The year before, Will’s mom had laid down the law to her husband and son about arguing in the house. “No more arguments or you don’t eat. That goes for both of you.” No one dared challenge Mary Frances Farrell in her own home. There she was the boss.

  As he switched off the engine, Will’s dad turned to him and cursed him for failing to throw the pitch the catcher had called. “You crossed up your catcher and threw the ball away on a wild pitch, not once but three times. You ever do that again and, by damn, I’ll bench you.” Dad was the coach.

  “Fine! Do it. Kick me off the team!” Will screamed at his dad as he got out of the car.

  Big Bill was out of the car in a flash, grabbed his son by the arm and whirled him around. As Will turned, he let go with a roundhouse swing. His fist caught his Big Bill on the chin and floored him. By that time, Will was an inch taller than his dad’s six-three and was solid muscle.

  Will stalked off across the neighbor’s yard in the direction of his home. He remembered the stunned look in Big Bill’s eyes. It was the first and only time Will had ever struck his dad. Neither spoke about it again. But that year his team had won the state baseball championship and he had pitched a one-hitter in the championship game. He also hit a home run.

  As a result, his dad had been named Ohio’s high school baseball Coach of the Year
and Will won All State honors as a pitcher and as an outfielder.

  “Will.” A voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Will, time to warm up,” said Zack Powell, the pitching coach for the Thunder.

  “Right!” Will replied automatically.

  As Will walked to the mound, his catcher, Marcio Lopez, snapped the ball to him. “Marcio is the best,” thought Will. “I’m lucky to have him calling the game.”

  Concentrating on his pitches, Will tried to visualize a small strike zone. He knew Chief Umpire Bill Allen usually called strikes in a fairly tight area.

  With his final warm-up pitch, Will nodded to Lopez who fired an accurate throw to third baseman, Digger Lewis, who sent the ball around the horn. First baseman Hank Montana tossed the ball to Will.

  Inning 1

  Will looked in to get Lopez’s signal. Fast ball down the middle.

  Johnny Devon, the Vaqueros