(no subject)
My favorite baseball article of all time is the one that Tom Boswell wrote after game 3 of the world series last year. I love the language that Boswell uses -- after the rain, when you know the game has played a low-down rotten trick on you, when you know the other team sees you as a wounded animal -- but what I loved even more about the article is that it talks about what just-out-of-your-grasp-greatness must feel like. Though it hardly seems possible, Mussina will be 35 in a few weeks. Once, greatness seemed his certain destiny. Now, a lasting place in baseball history is almost out of his grasp; instead, mere excellence may be the consolation prize that galls him all his life.
It's not something that a lot of baseball writers are willing to talk about, but Boswell was able to write those words because he's the beat reporter for the Post and has been following Mussina from the very beginning of his career, and well.
Yesterday, I was talking about how much I love talented underperformers with highandinside. Today, I got a book in the mail with the words that Boswell wrote about Mussina when greatness seemed
Excerpt from "Mike Mussina: Under a Bell Jar" from Thomas Boswell's 'Cracking the Show'
March 1993 -- Imagine that it is September of 1992 and you are facing Mike Mussina.
Mussina has been in the major leagues for nearly a year and a half. He's been picking the brains of Oriles manager Johnny Oates, coach Dick Bosman, and veteran teammates Rick Sutcliffe and Mike Flanagan. As his remarkable 18-5 season has unfolded, he has added a cut fastball, which acts like a slider, to his rising fastball, his sinking fastball, his slow overhand curveball, his hard knuckle curveball, and his killer of a changeup.
He can hit the catcher's glove with all three fastballs and the change-up. That's called command. To have true command of four pitches is remakrable. Mussina can also hit some part of the strike zone consistently with both curves. That's control. A pitcher who has confidence that he can throw any of six pitches in any count should probably be declared illegal in all fifty states. Statistically, Mussina has as sharp control as any pitcher since World War II.
To make matters more difficult, all six of his pitches are thrown from an identical delivery and with the same arm speed. You can't tell one from the other until you pick up the spin on the ball halfway to home plate. All six pitches arrive at different speeds.
As a consequence, Mussina can practically calibrate his speed to the mile per hour. Think of his choices as 90 mph, 85, 80, 75, 70, and 65. We have a fellow here who can make the ball arrive at precisely the spot he wishes at exactly the velocity he desires and, in the process, make the ball go in any direction -- up, down in, or out; in any direction, that is, except straight. No one Mussina pitch is the best of its breed. Many men are faster. But, when it comes to a total, interlocking, analyitical, merciless aresnal, the Mussina of September '92 is like a pitching equivalen tof the Empire's Death Star.
Ironically, at this moment, Mussina may be more effective if he were able to throw 5 mph faster. A 90-mph riser is an ideal speed -- if it's in perfect spots. "He puts it right here, her, here, time afte rtime," says Bosman, holding his hands at that ideal, forbidde-nfruit level at the top of the strike zone. Hitters just can't lay off that heat at the letters. But they can't quite hit it solidly. That's why Mussina is one of baseball's best fly-ball pitchers. If he were faster, Mussina would watch hitters take more pitches or strike out after battling thorugh long counts. Nothing is better than a one-pitch out. Jim Palmer made a career out of sneaky high smoke. Obviously, if Mussina ever loses his amazing control within the strike zone, he'll have trouble. But he's had control all his life. Palmer never lost it.
On the other hand, who knows if Mussina will ever be as sharp with as many different pitches as he was at the end of last season? Mike Boddicker never returned to the magical zone he found in 1983 and 1984, when he was Rookie of the Year, Most Valuable Player of the ALCS, a World Series hero, a 20 game winner, an ERA champ, and the league's shutout leader all within eighteen months. Boddickerthen was lamost exactly as good -- for two years --as Mussina is now. The following year, he went 12-17, lost his air of total command, and has been a .500 ever since. Without question, that could be Mussina.
Then again, perhaps what we have seen will merely become Mussina's norm for the next dozen years. In which case, he'd be Jim Palmer. History says both these possibilites are realistic. Boddicker or Palmer? Will it be 131 career wins and a sore shoulder or 268 wins and the Hall of Fame/ Mussina even looks like a hybrid of the two -- neat, black-haired, handsom, trim. For size, for speed, he's midway between them -- a couple inches taller and a few miles an hour fater than Boddicker and an inch shorter and a few miles an hour slower than Palmer.
Mussina is listed at 6-foot-2, 182 pounds. Take an inventory of the Hall of Fame, and you'll find that ithe ideal pitching size is 6'0 to 6'2 and 175 to 205 pounds. big enough to generate power, but compact enough to have it under control. Cy Young, Walter Johnson, Christy Mathewson, Gorver Alexander, Warren Spahn, Tom Sevaer, Nolan Ryan, Sandy Koufax, Catfish Hunter, Early Wynn, Robinson Roberts, Don Sutton, Bob Gibson, Bob Feller, and countless others fall into this Mussina-like range. Nevertheless, Mussina, who'll add 10 useful poudns with the years, seems a bit dainty, like a dapper misplaced Ivy Leaguer.
However, perhaps as comepsnation, Mussina also has an elitist's arrogance about him. He looks smarter. Smarter than who? Take your pick. Has any other pitcher in baseball gotten an economics degree from Stanford in three and a half years? Mussina looks more intense, in a Top Gun wya, than those around him. His father is a successful lawyer. He's never dreamed of failure. He's a yuppie type-A, all the way. Making the American League All-Star team only added to his poise. He's a slick, feline feilder with a quick pickoff move. Nobody bunts on him or runs on him. It all seems so easy for him. In high school, he'd catch the touchdown pass, then kick the extra point himself. Or dribble throughthe press, take a return pass, and hit the jumper. He has Sam Shepard's middle-distance stare, but with even more natural iciness.
He'll give you the firm handshake after he wins, but don't look for a hug or a slap on the butt. He doesn't specialize in buddies. He doesn't seem head-over-heels crazy about anybody. Oh, maybe himself, a little. But within reason. He carries with him an abnormal, distanced maturity. On the enthusiasm meter, he might as well be middle-aged. . .
He's the small-town Pennsylvania boy who passes as a polished preppie. He's the clean-cut player who likes heavy-metal Metallica. In spring training, before games are on TV, he grows a mustache and goatee. He'd look right playing rythm guitar in the Smithereens. Then, the day after he signs his contract and he no longer has a reason to tweak management, he shaves; he seems more comfortable that way -- hidden behind the appearance of being Just A Nice Boy. Mussina always seems to be one up on everybody, concealing a hole card. His own manager, Johnny Oates, says he's afraid to talk to the kid about anything except baseball because "I might say something dumb." Mussina doesn't want you to know what he's thinking. Or feeling.
Still, as you stand at the plate in Septmeber of '92, you figure he'd probably be pretty interested in throwing a perfect game. As he starts his windup -- a precise, compact motion that seems to be a quick succession of checkpoints -- you get the distinct feeling that you are a smallish person who has accidentally gotten in Mr. Mussina's wya. He would never stoop to being rude. Nevertheless, you must be removed. Don't worry, this won't take long.
First pitch, kncukle curve at the knees. If you swing, you ground out tos hort. If you don't, striek one. You're either out or you're behind.
Second pitch, fastball, six inches above the belt. If you swing, you fly out. If you don't swing -- although you probably will -- ball one.
Third pitch, change-up at the knees. If you swing, you dribbel to third and probably wrench your back lunging. If you take it, strike two.
Fourth pitch -- this is it fo ryou, buster. Mussina has better things to do than waste four pitches on one lousy hitter. Fastball. Right in your ktichen, up and in. In your face. On the black. It 's the big p itch of the at-bat, it's so perfect. If you take it, you're called out. if you swing, you end up with half a bat, bees stinging in your palms, and a popup.
You go back to the bench with only your bat handle for company. You can hardly wait to face this SOB for the next fifteen years.
For the record, Mussina recorded a 4.46 ERA in 1993. It stood as the second-highest ERA of his career for ten years -- until this past season, in fact, when people started to think that maybe Mussina's control had started to leave him.
It's not something that a lot of baseball writers are willing to talk about, but Boswell was able to write those words because he's the beat reporter for the Post and has been following Mussina from the very beginning of his career, and well.
Yesterday, I was talking about how much I love talented underperformers with highandinside. Today, I got a book in the mail with the words that Boswell wrote about Mussina when greatness seemed
Excerpt from "Mike Mussina: Under a Bell Jar" from Thomas Boswell's 'Cracking the Show'
March 1993 -- Imagine that it is September of 1992 and you are facing Mike Mussina.
Mussina has been in the major leagues for nearly a year and a half. He's been picking the brains of Oriles manager Johnny Oates, coach Dick Bosman, and veteran teammates Rick Sutcliffe and Mike Flanagan. As his remarkable 18-5 season has unfolded, he has added a cut fastball, which acts like a slider, to his rising fastball, his sinking fastball, his slow overhand curveball, his hard knuckle curveball, and his killer of a changeup.
He can hit the catcher's glove with all three fastballs and the change-up. That's called command. To have true command of four pitches is remakrable. Mussina can also hit some part of the strike zone consistently with both curves. That's control. A pitcher who has confidence that he can throw any of six pitches in any count should probably be declared illegal in all fifty states. Statistically, Mussina has as sharp control as any pitcher since World War II.
To make matters more difficult, all six of his pitches are thrown from an identical delivery and with the same arm speed. You can't tell one from the other until you pick up the spin on the ball halfway to home plate. All six pitches arrive at different speeds.
As a consequence, Mussina can practically calibrate his speed to the mile per hour. Think of his choices as 90 mph, 85, 80, 75, 70, and 65. We have a fellow here who can make the ball arrive at precisely the spot he wishes at exactly the velocity he desires and, in the process, make the ball go in any direction -- up, down in, or out; in any direction, that is, except straight. No one Mussina pitch is the best of its breed. Many men are faster. But, when it comes to a total, interlocking, analyitical, merciless aresnal, the Mussina of September '92 is like a pitching equivalen tof the Empire's Death Star.
Ironically, at this moment, Mussina may be more effective if he were able to throw 5 mph faster. A 90-mph riser is an ideal speed -- if it's in perfect spots. "He puts it right here, her, here, time afte rtime," says Bosman, holding his hands at that ideal, forbidde-nfruit level at the top of the strike zone. Hitters just can't lay off that heat at the letters. But they can't quite hit it solidly. That's why Mussina is one of baseball's best fly-ball pitchers. If he were faster, Mussina would watch hitters take more pitches or strike out after battling thorugh long counts. Nothing is better than a one-pitch out. Jim Palmer made a career out of sneaky high smoke. Obviously, if Mussina ever loses his amazing control within the strike zone, he'll have trouble. But he's had control all his life. Palmer never lost it.
On the other hand, who knows if Mussina will ever be as sharp with as many different pitches as he was at the end of last season? Mike Boddicker never returned to the magical zone he found in 1983 and 1984, when he was Rookie of the Year, Most Valuable Player of the ALCS, a World Series hero, a 20 game winner, an ERA champ, and the league's shutout leader all within eighteen months. Boddickerthen was lamost exactly as good -- for two years --as Mussina is now. The following year, he went 12-17, lost his air of total command, and has been a .500 ever since. Without question, that could be Mussina.
Then again, perhaps what we have seen will merely become Mussina's norm for the next dozen years. In which case, he'd be Jim Palmer. History says both these possibilites are realistic. Boddicker or Palmer? Will it be 131 career wins and a sore shoulder or 268 wins and the Hall of Fame/ Mussina even looks like a hybrid of the two -- neat, black-haired, handsom, trim. For size, for speed, he's midway between them -- a couple inches taller and a few miles an hour fater than Boddicker and an inch shorter and a few miles an hour slower than Palmer.
Mussina is listed at 6-foot-2, 182 pounds. Take an inventory of the Hall of Fame, and you'll find that ithe ideal pitching size is 6'0 to 6'2 and 175 to 205 pounds. big enough to generate power, but compact enough to have it under control. Cy Young, Walter Johnson, Christy Mathewson, Gorver Alexander, Warren Spahn, Tom Sevaer, Nolan Ryan, Sandy Koufax, Catfish Hunter, Early Wynn, Robinson Roberts, Don Sutton, Bob Gibson, Bob Feller, and countless others fall into this Mussina-like range. Nevertheless, Mussina, who'll add 10 useful poudns with the years, seems a bit dainty, like a dapper misplaced Ivy Leaguer.
However, perhaps as comepsnation, Mussina also has an elitist's arrogance about him. He looks smarter. Smarter than who? Take your pick. Has any other pitcher in baseball gotten an economics degree from Stanford in three and a half years? Mussina looks more intense, in a Top Gun wya, than those around him. His father is a successful lawyer. He's never dreamed of failure. He's a yuppie type-A, all the way. Making the American League All-Star team only added to his poise. He's a slick, feline feilder with a quick pickoff move. Nobody bunts on him or runs on him. It all seems so easy for him. In high school, he'd catch the touchdown pass, then kick the extra point himself. Or dribble throughthe press, take a return pass, and hit the jumper. He has Sam Shepard's middle-distance stare, but with even more natural iciness.
He'll give you the firm handshake after he wins, but don't look for a hug or a slap on the butt. He doesn't specialize in buddies. He doesn't seem head-over-heels crazy about anybody. Oh, maybe himself, a little. But within reason. He carries with him an abnormal, distanced maturity. On the enthusiasm meter, he might as well be middle-aged. . .
He's the small-town Pennsylvania boy who passes as a polished preppie. He's the clean-cut player who likes heavy-metal Metallica. In spring training, before games are on TV, he grows a mustache and goatee. He'd look right playing rythm guitar in the Smithereens. Then, the day after he signs his contract and he no longer has a reason to tweak management, he shaves; he seems more comfortable that way -- hidden behind the appearance of being Just A Nice Boy. Mussina always seems to be one up on everybody, concealing a hole card. His own manager, Johnny Oates, says he's afraid to talk to the kid about anything except baseball because "I might say something dumb." Mussina doesn't want you to know what he's thinking. Or feeling.
Still, as you stand at the plate in Septmeber of '92, you figure he'd probably be pretty interested in throwing a perfect game. As he starts his windup -- a precise, compact motion that seems to be a quick succession of checkpoints -- you get the distinct feeling that you are a smallish person who has accidentally gotten in Mr. Mussina's wya. He would never stoop to being rude. Nevertheless, you must be removed. Don't worry, this won't take long.
First pitch, kncukle curve at the knees. If you swing, you ground out tos hort. If you don't, striek one. You're either out or you're behind.
Second pitch, fastball, six inches above the belt. If you swing, you fly out. If you don't swing -- although you probably will -- ball one.
Third pitch, change-up at the knees. If you swing, you dribbel to third and probably wrench your back lunging. If you take it, strike two.
Fourth pitch -- this is it fo ryou, buster. Mussina has better things to do than waste four pitches on one lousy hitter. Fastball. Right in your ktichen, up and in. In your face. On the black. It 's the big p itch of the at-bat, it's so perfect. If you take it, you're called out. if you swing, you end up with half a bat, bees stinging in your palms, and a popup.
You go back to the bench with only your bat handle for company. You can hardly wait to face this SOB for the next fifteen years.
For the record, Mussina recorded a 4.46 ERA in 1993. It stood as the second-highest ERA of his career for ten years -- until this past season, in fact, when people started to think that maybe Mussina's control had started to leave him.