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Authors: Dallas Green
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on a roll in Buffalo, pitching one complete game after another. For the first time in my professional career, I had control of the strike zone. By dramatically cutting down on walks, I didn’t have to constantly pitch with runners on base. As a result, my ERA dropped significantly.
With the Phillies stumbling toward a last-place finish in the National League, it served to reason that they’d again look to the minors for pitching help. I had no doubt that Buffalo manager Kerby Farrell was keeping them apprised of my performance.
*
After going the distance for a fifth consecutive start, I experienced extreme pain in my right arm. I didn’t think too much of it, because I figured even strong arms like mine get sore from time to time, especially after so many complete games. All of those starts took place while Lake Erie was still frozen over, and pitching in the bitter cold couldn’t have helped the situation. During the third complete game, I felt tightness in my arm around the seventh inning. I rubbed hot ointment on it in the dugout and went out and finished the game. I was on a roll and didn’t want to admit I was hurting. I stayed sore throughout the next two outings. I hoped a few days of rest would cure the problem. But by my next start, on Mother’s Day, the pain was so acute that I had to take myself out of the game in the third inning. By that point, I could barely reach home plate with my pitches.
Sylvia was in the midst of a six-week summer course at the University of Buffalo when I returned to Philly to get my arm checked out. She was a good sport about staying in upstate New York without me.
In Philadelphia, I met with Phillies trainer Frank Wiechec to talk over the situation. I was relieved to hear Frank say he thought I had nothing more than a strain. All I needed was additional rest, he said.
Those starts for Buffalo convinced me I was a big-league-caliber pitcher. As I missed games waiting for my arm to heal, I couldn’t help but worry. I saw the way shoulder and elbow injuries had turned Robin Roberts of the Phillies from a consistent 20-game winner into a sub-.500 pitcher. Robbie’s natural ability and knowledge of how to pitch allowed him to remain a productive major leaguer. I, meanwhile, had yet to pitch an inning in the big leagues. If my arm didn’t get better, I wouldn’t have the same savvy and experience to fall back on.
On Frank’s orders, I abstained from all physical activity during the winter of 1959. When I reported to spring training the following February, my condition hadn’t improved. My arm still hurt and my fastball still lacked pop.
As long as I played, I never found out the exact nature of the injury. The only surgery I ever underwent came at the ripe old age of 77, when I could no longer lift my right arm.
In Buffalo, I simply tried to cope with the pain and adapt to pitching with it. In 11 starts in 1960, I pitched four complete games. With less velocity on my pitches, I relied on hitting my spots. To my coaches, it appeared I had successfully adapted to my new set of circumstances.
Those months in Buffalo included one last visit to Havana, the final trip of any International League team. As we departed Cuba after the three-game series, we saw plumes of smoke rising from American-owned oil tanks. Not long after that, the Havana Sugar Kings became the Jersey City Jerseys.
And bad arm and all, I became a member of the Philadelphia Phillies.
5
The 1960 Phillies were never going to be confused with the 1927 Yankees—or even the 1959 Phillies. Nobody understood that better than manager Eddie Sawyer. Fired two years after leading the Phillies to a National League pennant in 1950 and then rehired in 1958, only to see his team lose and lose some more, he had evidently given up hope. Following an Opening Day loss to the Reds in 1960, he announced his resignation. Before walking out the door, he muttered something about being 49 years old and wanting to live to see 50. His
With the Phillies stumbling toward a last-place finish in the National League, it served to reason that they’d again look to the minors for pitching help. I had no doubt that Buffalo manager Kerby Farrell was keeping them apprised of my performance.
*
After going the distance for a fifth consecutive start, I experienced extreme pain in my right arm. I didn’t think too much of it, because I figured even strong arms like mine get sore from time to time, especially after so many complete games. All of those starts took place while Lake Erie was still frozen over, and pitching in the bitter cold couldn’t have helped the situation. During the third complete game, I felt tightness in my arm around the seventh inning. I rubbed hot ointment on it in the dugout and went out and finished the game. I was on a roll and didn’t want to admit I was hurting. I stayed sore throughout the next two outings. I hoped a few days of rest would cure the problem. But by my next start, on Mother’s Day, the pain was so acute that I had to take myself out of the game in the third inning. By that point, I could barely reach home plate with my pitches.
Sylvia was in the midst of a six-week summer course at the University of Buffalo when I returned to Philly to get my arm checked out. She was a good sport about staying in upstate New York without me.
In Philadelphia, I met with Phillies trainer Frank Wiechec to talk over the situation. I was relieved to hear Frank say he thought I had nothing more than a strain. All I needed was additional rest, he said.
Those starts for Buffalo convinced me I was a big-league-caliber pitcher. As I missed games waiting for my arm to heal, I couldn’t help but worry. I saw the way shoulder and elbow injuries had turned Robin Roberts of the Phillies from a consistent 20-game winner into a sub-.500 pitcher. Robbie’s natural ability and knowledge of how to pitch allowed him to remain a productive major leaguer. I, meanwhile, had yet to pitch an inning in the big leagues. If my arm didn’t get better, I wouldn’t have the same savvy and experience to fall back on.
On Frank’s orders, I abstained from all physical activity during the winter of 1959. When I reported to spring training the following February, my condition hadn’t improved. My arm still hurt and my fastball still lacked pop.
As long as I played, I never found out the exact nature of the injury. The only surgery I ever underwent came at the ripe old age of 77, when I could no longer lift my right arm.
In Buffalo, I simply tried to cope with the pain and adapt to pitching with it. In 11 starts in 1960, I pitched four complete games. With less velocity on my pitches, I relied on hitting my spots. To my coaches, it appeared I had successfully adapted to my new set of circumstances.
Those months in Buffalo included one last visit to Havana, the final trip of any International League team. As we departed Cuba after the three-game series, we saw plumes of smoke rising from American-owned oil tanks. Not long after that, the Havana Sugar Kings became the Jersey City Jerseys.
And bad arm and all, I became a member of the Philadelphia Phillies.
5
The 1960 Phillies were never going to be confused with the 1927 Yankees—or even the 1959 Phillies. Nobody understood that better than manager Eddie Sawyer. Fired two years after leading the Phillies to a National League pennant in 1950 and then rehired in 1958, only to see his team lose and lose some more, he had evidently given up hope. Following an Opening Day loss to the Reds in 1960, he announced his resignation. Before walking out the door, he muttered something about being 49 years old and wanting to live to see 50. His
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