Read Online Ball Four (RosettaBooks Sports Classics) by Jim Bouton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim Bouton
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in our half of the first we scored five runs and we went on to get nineteen in the game. I couldn’t believe it. I think the people in Seattle will now start believing we have a good team. And, my God, maybe we do. We scored all those runs without Tommy Davis, or Don Mincher or Rich Rollins. Or Jim Bouton, for that matter.
I’ve started slowly tossing the real big overhand curve ball that once made me famous. I also threw the knuckleball to Freddy Velazquez and was gratified when McNertney came over with the big knuckleball glove and asked Velazquez if he could catch me for a while. Still can’t believe I’m pitching day after tomorrow, although mentally I’ve started getting ready—I mean I’m getting scared. I love to pitch when I’m scared. Of all the big games I’ve had to pitch in my life—and I’m including high school games that were just as big to me as any major-league game—I always did my best work when I was scared stiff. In fact, if I’m not scared for a game I’ll create some critical situations in my mind. Like, I’ll pretend it’s a World Series game and that it really counts big. I told Fritz Peterson about how I felt about being scared and one day before I was going to start a game he came over and whispered in my ear, “If you want to see your baby again, you’ll win today.”
After the game Bobbie and I were at a party with Gary Bell and his wife and Steve Barber and his. Gary’s wife, Nan, said she’d been anxious to meet me since she’d read in the Pilot spring guidebook that some of my hobbies were water coloring, mimicry and jewelry-making. “Everyone else has hunting and fishing, so I figured you must be a real beauty. I mean, jewelry-making?” said Nan. “Make me some earrings, you sweet thing.”
Then we got to talking about some of the crazy things ballplayers do. Nan told a story of the time she called Gary on the road to check on a flight she was supposed to catch. She called him at 4:30 A.M., his time, and his roommate, Woodie Held, answered the phone and said, without batting an eyelash, that Gary was out playing golf. And Nan shrugged and said, “Maybe he was.”
My wife and I burst out laughing when Gary asked me if I’d ever been on the roof of the Shoreham Hotel in Washington. The Shoreham is the beaver-shooting capital of the world, and I once told Bobbie that you could win a pennant with the guys who’ve been on that roof. “Pennant, hell,” Gary said. “You could stock a whole league.”
I better explain about beaver-shooting. A beaver-shooter is, at bottom, a Peeping Tom. It can be anything from peering over the top of the dugout to look up dresses to hanging from the fire escape on the twentieth floor of some hotel to look into a window. I’ve seen guys chin themselves on transoms, drill holes in doors, even shove a mirror under a door.
One of the all-time legendary beaver-shooters was a pretty good little left-handed pitcher who looked like a pretty good little bald-headed ribbon clerk. He used to carry a beaver-shooting kit with him on the road. In the kit there was a fine steel awl and several needle files. What he would do is drill little holes into connecting doors and see what was going on. Sometimes he was lucky enough to draw a young airline stewardess, or better yet, a young airline stewardess and friend.
One of his roommates, a straight-arrow type—Fellowship of Christian Athletes and all that—told this story: The pitcher drilled a hole through the connecting door and tried to get him to look through it. He wouldn’t. It was against his religion or something. But the pitcher kept nagging him. “You’ve got to see this.
Boyohboyohboy
! Just take one quick look.” Straight-arrow finally succumbed. He put his eye to the hole and was treated to the sight of a man sitting on the bed tying his shoelaces.
One of the great beaver-shooting places in the minor leagues was Tulsa, Oklahoma. While “The Star-Spangled Banner” was played you
I’ve started slowly tossing the real big overhand curve ball that once made me famous. I also threw the knuckleball to Freddy Velazquez and was gratified when McNertney came over with the big knuckleball glove and asked Velazquez if he could catch me for a while. Still can’t believe I’m pitching day after tomorrow, although mentally I’ve started getting ready—I mean I’m getting scared. I love to pitch when I’m scared. Of all the big games I’ve had to pitch in my life—and I’m including high school games that were just as big to me as any major-league game—I always did my best work when I was scared stiff. In fact, if I’m not scared for a game I’ll create some critical situations in my mind. Like, I’ll pretend it’s a World Series game and that it really counts big. I told Fritz Peterson about how I felt about being scared and one day before I was going to start a game he came over and whispered in my ear, “If you want to see your baby again, you’ll win today.”
After the game Bobbie and I were at a party with Gary Bell and his wife and Steve Barber and his. Gary’s wife, Nan, said she’d been anxious to meet me since she’d read in the Pilot spring guidebook that some of my hobbies were water coloring, mimicry and jewelry-making. “Everyone else has hunting and fishing, so I figured you must be a real beauty. I mean, jewelry-making?” said Nan. “Make me some earrings, you sweet thing.”
Then we got to talking about some of the crazy things ballplayers do. Nan told a story of the time she called Gary on the road to check on a flight she was supposed to catch. She called him at 4:30 A.M., his time, and his roommate, Woodie Held, answered the phone and said, without batting an eyelash, that Gary was out playing golf. And Nan shrugged and said, “Maybe he was.”
My wife and I burst out laughing when Gary asked me if I’d ever been on the roof of the Shoreham Hotel in Washington. The Shoreham is the beaver-shooting capital of the world, and I once told Bobbie that you could win a pennant with the guys who’ve been on that roof. “Pennant, hell,” Gary said. “You could stock a whole league.”
I better explain about beaver-shooting. A beaver-shooter is, at bottom, a Peeping Tom. It can be anything from peering over the top of the dugout to look up dresses to hanging from the fire escape on the twentieth floor of some hotel to look into a window. I’ve seen guys chin themselves on transoms, drill holes in doors, even shove a mirror under a door.
One of the all-time legendary beaver-shooters was a pretty good little left-handed pitcher who looked like a pretty good little bald-headed ribbon clerk. He used to carry a beaver-shooting kit with him on the road. In the kit there was a fine steel awl and several needle files. What he would do is drill little holes into connecting doors and see what was going on. Sometimes he was lucky enough to draw a young airline stewardess, or better yet, a young airline stewardess and friend.
One of his roommates, a straight-arrow type—Fellowship of Christian Athletes and all that—told this story: The pitcher drilled a hole through the connecting door and tried to get him to look through it. He wouldn’t. It was against his religion or something. But the pitcher kept nagging him. “You’ve got to see this.
Boyohboyohboy
! Just take one quick look.” Straight-arrow finally succumbed. He put his eye to the hole and was treated to the sight of a man sitting on the bed tying his shoelaces.
One of the great beaver-shooting places in the minor leagues was Tulsa, Oklahoma. While “The Star-Spangled Banner” was played you
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