Strange stuff … in the 2011 postseason

The Cardinals' amazing playoff journey culminated in a memorable World Series win

The team that won the World Series led the league in near-death experiences. The team that lost the World Series picked the wrong night in October to come down with a serious case of Blown Save Fever. And the teams that sat home watching them had to be kicking themselves -- if only because they finally realized that they'd forgotten to trade for their very own Rally Squirrel.
In other words, it was one very crazy October. So let's look back at the Strange But True Feats of 2011 -- the Postseason Edition.

Strange but true team of the year

How strange was the championship journey of your 2011 World Series titleists, the Cardinals? Hoo boy. It's still hard to comprehend.

As late as 102 games into their season, they had a worse record than the Pirates. (OK, so it was by a thousandth of a percentage point. Whatever.)
As late as 89 games into their season, they had the same number of losses as the Mets.
As late as Labor Day, their run differential was 107 runs worse than the Red Sox.
They were 10½ games out of a playoff spot with 31 to play.
They were 8½ out in September.
They were still three games out with five to play.
They lost 25 games in their last at-bat.
They lost 11 games they led in the ninth inning or later.
They blew more saves (26) than 28 other teams.

They lost their best starting pitcher (Adam Wainwright) before they'd even played a spring training game
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Their other stud starter (Chris Carpenter) had as many wins on June 22 (one) as Wilson Valdez. Who plays infield for a living.

Their relief pitchers got more outs in the NLCS (86) than their starters (73).
And, as you might have heard someplace, they were one strike away from losing the World Series in twice as many innings (i.e., two) as all previous 106 World Series champions in history put together.
So if ever there was a formula you wouldn't want to follow to try to win a World Series, here's a nomination for the way those 2011 Cardinals did it. Kids, don't try that at home!

Strange but true postseason game of the year

It was a postseason full of classic, magical and often downright crazy games. But is there any doubt which game towers above the rest? I saw Game 6 of the World Series with my very own eyeballs. I still don't believe stuff like this happened:

• The Cardinals have played 19,387 regular-season games in their history. Not once had they won a game in which they trailed five times. But that's the mess they overcame to win Game 6 -- when all that was riding on it was losing the World Series. That's all.

For that matter, according to the Elias Sports Bureau, only three teams in the last 40 years (2006 Red Sox, 1996 Red Sox, 1995 Cubs) have won a regular-season game in which they trailed at least five times. And no team had ever done that in a World Series game. But the Cardinals trailed in this game by scores of 1-0, 3-2, 4-3, 7-4 and 9-7 -- and won. Unreal.

• There had been 1,329 games in the history of postseason baseball before this one. Not once had a team scored in the eighth, ninth, 10th and 11th innings of the same game. But the Cardinals did it in this game. Of course they did!

• The Rangers blew two saves in their final 41 regular-season games combined. So of course, they then blew three saves in this game in the last six innings.

• Might as well mention that the Rangers had two MONTHS this year (June and September) when they didn't blow three saves. And they were working on a streak of 965 games (regular season and postseason), over six seasons, without ever blowing three save opportunities in one game until this extravaganza came along.

• Never had both teams homered in extra innings at any point during an entire Series. Then, naturally, each team homered in extra innings just in this GAME (Josh Hamilton in the 10th, David Freese in the 11th).

• There wasn't a game played in the big leagues during the entire regular season that featured extra-inning homers in two innings by two teams, according to the Sultan of Swat Stats, SABR home run historian David Vincent. And the Rangers hadn't played a game like that in 15 years. But it happened in this game.

• And, as we'll probably be reminding ourselves for about the next thousand years, only one team in history -- Mookie Wilson's '86 Mets -- had ever won a World Series after finding itself one strike away from The End of the Line. So naturally, these Cardinals got themselves to within one strike of defeat in the ninth and 10th innings -- and still went on to win the World Series. They didn't seem to know any other way. Did they?

Five strange but true October all-timers

• All four teams that advanced to the LCS -- the Cardinals, Brewers, Rangers and Tigers -- got outscored by the teams they played in the Division Series … and won. Hard to do, friendsNelson Cruz had as many homers in October (eight) as he had HITS in September (in 42 at-bats).

• Only one manager in the American League issued fewer intentional walks during the regular season than Ron Washington (21 all year). So he was pretty much the perfect candidate to become the first manager in American League HISTORY to issue nine intentional walks in a World Series. Right?

• Before this October, no player since Kirk Gibson (Game 1, '88) had come off the bench in a World Series game to drive in the go-ahead run with a pinch hit in the sixth inning or later. Then, naturally, Allen Craig did that for the Cardinals two days in a row -- against the same pitcher (Alexi Ogando) no less.

• And Tony La Russa made 75 pitching changes in the postseason. That means all those relievers he waved for spent a combined 3 hours, 45 minutes warming up!

Strange but true World Series nuttiness

• This was the third consecutive World Series to feature a Molina brother. So what's so strange about that? It was three different Molinas (Jose, then Bengie, then Yadier).In back-to-back-to-back at-bats in Games 6 and 7, David Freese hit a game-tying triple, game-winning homer and game-tying double. How incredible was that? Only one other time in World Series history had a player gotten game-tying or go-ahead hits in three consecutive trips to the plate. And naturally, it was Allen Craig, earlier in this same World Series.

• Only once in the last 30 regular seasons have the Cardinals scored at least 16 runs one game and gotten shut out the next. How many runs did they score in Game 4 of this World Series after putting up 16 in Game 3? That would be none -- despite the minor technicality that they were facing a pitcher (Derek Holland) who had just finished compiling an 8.59 ERA in the ALCS.

• Has there ever been a more insane stretch in any World Series than the middle three innings of Game 3? Starting in the top of the fourth inning, the Cardinals scored four times. Then the Rangers scored three times. Then the Cardinals scored three in the fifth -- and so did the Rangers. Whereupon the Cardinals put up yet another three-spot in the top of the sixth. Ever remember seeing five consecutive half-innings of three runs or more in a World Series game? Of course you don't -- because it's never happened.

• Finally, there was Albert Pujols' picturesque little box-score line in that very same Game 3: 6 AB, 4 R, 5 H, 6 RBIs, with three majestic homers and 14 total bases tossed in there just for fun. Feel free to stare at that line for as long as Albert stared at his long home runs, because in the entire live-ball era -- all nine decades of it -- there has been only one regular-season 6-4-5-6 three-homer game, by Dave Winfield against the Twins on April 13, 1991.

Strange but true playoff weirdness

• Delmon Young spent 4½ months with the Twins this year and hit four home runs. He played nine postseason games for the Tigers -- and hit five home runs.

• As my buddy Danny Knobler of CBSSports.com pointed out, the Royals got six home runs out of the No. 7 hole in their lineup all season. The Rangers got seven just in this postseason.

• Your ALCS MVP, Nelson Cruz, had eight extra-base hits in that LCS (six homers, two doubles) -- but never did mix in a single.

In Game 1s of this postseason, the Yankees, Tigers, Rangers, Phillies, Cardinals, Brewers and Diamondbacks started pitchers who had been around long enough to make a combined 1,469 regular-season starts in the big leagues, plus another 30 postseason starts. But the Rays had other plans (as always). They started Matt Moore in Game 1. How many big league games had he started in his life before that game? That would be one.

• So, naturally, Moore went out and threw seven shutout innings (giving up two hits), the first time any rookie starter had done that in a postseason game. So it took 107 years for it to happen once. It then took four days, of course, for it to happen a second time -- thanks to Arizona's Josh Collmenter.

• When Cliff Lee blew a 4-0 lead in the Phillies' 5-4 loss to the Cardinals in Game 2 of the NLDS, he did something he'd done only once before in his entire career. So he's now 94-2 in games in which his team handed him a lead of four runs or more. And, as loyal reader Rob Gottschalk reports, the winning pitcher in both of those losses was -- who else? -- Octavio Dotel.

• That wasn't the only mind-boggling development in Game 2 of that NLDS, however. The guy who started that game for the Cardinals, Chris Carpenter, had made more consecutive regular-season starts (174) without allowing three runs in the first inning than any other pitcher in the entire live-ball era. So what did he do in his first postseason inning that day? Give up three in the first to the Phillies. Naturally.

• No team since 1900 had hit a grand slam in four straight home games, in either the regular season or postseason. Then along came the 2011 Diamondbacks. They launched slams in their last two home games of the regular season, then went slamming again in their first two home games in October. Before that, they'd never even hit a slam at home in four consecutive MONTHS in the history of their franchise.

• The Phillies lost three games in the Division Series, and in two of them, they scored at least twice in the first inning. So guess how many games the Phillies lost all season after April 15 when they scored more than once in the first inning? Not once, of course.

• Tigers set-up man Al Alburquerque faced 189 hitters this season. And what did those 189 hitters have in common? Not one of them hit a home run off him. Want to guess what happened on Alburquerque's second pitch of the postseason? Right you are. He served up a grand slam to Robinson Cano.

Before this October, Roy Halladay had started 380 games, regular-season and postseason. He'd given up a three-run first-inning homer in precisely one of them (to Mike Lowell in 2006). So what did Doc Halladay do in the first inning of this postseason? What do you think he did? He allowed a three-run homer to Lance Berkman.

• Finally, on the first day of the regular season at Yankee Stadium, your starting pitching matchup was CC Sabathia versus Justin Verlander. Six months later, on the first day of the postseason at Yankee Stadium, your starting pitching matchup was (yep) CC Sabathia versus Justin Verlander. How strange -- but absolutely true -- was that?

The Real Story behind 10 Cent Beer Night

It was a night when fans were admitted to the bleachers at old Cleveland Stadium for 50 cents. It also was a night when a 12-ounce cup of beer was sold for a dime. What could you buy for 60 cents? Try six cups of beer, the purchase limit for one person. How's that for restraint? You are limited to a mere six cups ... 72 ounces ... of beer. Of course, you could get into another line at another concession stand and buy six more beers, assuming you had another 60 cents. So for $1.70, you could buy a bleacher seat to a Tribe-Texas Rangers game ... and drink a dozen beers.

"But it was only 3.2 [percent alcohol] beer," the Indians would later plead, as if it were unsweetened Kool-Aid. It was June 4, 1974. Joe was calling the game on the radio with Herb Score.

Most Tribe fans know what happened. Drunken fans stormed the field in the ninth inning, starting a riot. The game was suspended. But for several innings before that, drunken fans staggered onto the field. This was in the era of streakers, and a few folks shed their clothes and dashed across the outfield. At one point, a gallon jug of Thunderbird -- yes, someone smuggled a gallon jug of cheap wine into Beer Night -- was heaved out of the stands and landed near Texas first baseman Mike Hargrove. Yes, that's the same Mike Hargrove who later played for and managed the Indians. Joe watched it all, and when remembering it 36 years later, he shook his head and said: "I was sick to my stomach. It was the worst thing that I ever saw during a broadcast." This is not to stumble down memory lane of a beer-soaked event that lives in infamy in the memory of many Cleveland fans. It's to tell the story behind the story

"I called Beer Night a riot," said Joe. "I said it was 'a disgrace to the game and to the Indians.' I said the Indians 'have only themselves to blame because it was a STUPID promotion. ... Members of the front office left early.'" Joe paused and shook his head again. "When I first heard about the 10-cent promotion, I knew it was stupid," Joe said. "Whoever is going to show up for 10-cent Beer Night was going to be there to get drunk. If he's not drunk before he gets there, he will be when he leaves. ... We first had two streakers ... then five streakers. ... I think I counted about 20 by the end of the game. ... Never knew why, but running around naked was a big deal back then."

Umpire Nestor Chylak called the game in the ninth inning, awarding a victory to Texas. By then, fans were on the field, trying to steal caps, gloves and anything else they could from the players. Some threw up on the grass, a few passed out.

"Even Herbie [Score] said this was getting totally out of hand," said Joe. "Then we saw some of the Indians hierarchy bailing out in the sixth inning.

It got serious when a fan took [Texas outfielder] Jeff Burroughs' cap. Burroughs ducked and sort of stumbled. ... [Texas manager] Billy Martin was worried about Burroughs, and he came out of the dugout with a fungo bat. A bunch of players went with him.

"Fans stormed the field ..." Joe shook his head yet again. "Fans were swinging chains -- don't ask me where they got to chains from. They broke off pieces of chairs ... [Indians manager] Ken Aspromonte led his players to the field, and you had the picture of the Indians and Texas players fighting together, retreating back into the first base dugout ... [Tribe pitcher] Tom Hilgendorf had his head split open when someone threw a chair out of the upper deck and it hit him."

The national publicity was horrible, a game in Cleveland destroyed by a bunch of beer-soaked fans. The team had a ridiculous promotion and not much extra security. "[Tribe President] Ted Bonda wanted me fired because I called it a riot," said Joe.

"Well, it was a RIOT. The only reason that it wasn't a worse RIOT is because I called it a RIOT on the radio, and a bunch of police heard me, and they came down to the Stadium to see what was going on. Some of them told me that they called the station house and said they better send reinforcements down to the Stadium to check it out."

So when Bonda confronted Joe about calling it a riot, Joe said, "That's because it was a RIOT!" Joe said it's important to remember what life was like for Cleveland in the 1970s. "Every week, the Laugh-In show did Cleveland jokes," he said. "It was when the mayor's hair caught on fire, the Cuyahoga River caught on fire. Cleveland was a butt of national jokes."

And then there was Beer Night. Plain Dealer columnist Hal Lebovitz wrote this: "Joe Tait, who is going to get a National Basketball Association referee killed some night with his highly charged criticisms, didn't help on the Indians play-by-play broadcasts by his repeated huckstering 'Come out to Beer Night and let's stick it in Billy Martin's ear.'"

Reading the story 36 years later, Joe said, "What I said on the air was, 'Let's make a lot of noise and stick it in Billy Martin's ear.' For that, he wanted to blame me for what happened." The Indians had a few near brawls with Martin's Rangers before Beer Night when they played in Texas. Martin had said his team had nothing to worry about when they came to Cleveland "because nobody goes to the games." He didn't know about Beer Night.

Lebovitz wrote: "The impression may not have been one that Joe intended, but that's the inference the listeners got. Thus, Joe, with his high-voltage delivery, conceivably helped create an atmosphere that led to the final scene." Joe countered with a charge about a cartoon in Lebovitz's own sports section of an Indian holding boxing gloves, as if preparing to fight the Texas players.

Lebovitz came back with a second column, admitting the problem was not the cartoon or Joe's remarks. It was "only because the fuel was there ... the alcohol. Without the fuel, it's impossible to have a fire."

The Indians sold 65,000 beers that night. Lebovitz estimated the average adult had about five beers. Bonda wanted to fire Joe to take the heat off what had happened on his watch. He was team president. The team was being ripped by nearly every media outlet across the country.

Comedians used it for an endless series of jokes. "Nick Mileti owned the team back then," said Joe. "He was out of town during the riot. He came back, talked to me on the phone about what happened. He talked to the ushers, the police and the players -- anyone he could who was at the game. He also listened to the tape of the broadcast. He told Bonda something along the lines of 'I can't see anything wrong with what Joe said. It obviously was a riot.' That was it. I kept my job."

Joe said he listened to the game tape "several times. ... I don't regret a thing I said." Then Joe remembered this story, meeting Chylak. They talked about Beer Night, and the umpire mentioned how the Indians were down, 5-0, then came back to tie up the game.

"Joe, I figured as long as they're not shooting or anything like that, we'll get it done," said Chylak. "All of a sudden, I felt some pressure behind the left heel of my shoe. I turned around, looked down and there was a hunting knife sticking in the ground right behind my shoe. That's when I said, 'Game. Set. Match. We're outta here!'"

World Series 2011 - Historic Game 6 and series

ST. LOUIS, Mo. -- Fans climbed the bronze statue outside of Busch Stadium on Friday night to have their picture taken at the feet of Stan "The Man" Musial as the celebration roiled and rocked around them. On the base of the statue are engraved these words, "Here stands baseball's perfect warrior. Here stands baseball's perfect knight."
 
The days of perfect knights in baseball have gone the way of Camelot and King Arthur's round table. But what about a World Series of perfect nights? If not perfect, then seven that range from good to great?

Maybe Friday's Game 7, in which St. Louis clinched its 11th World Series title with a 6-2 victory over Texas, fell flat. But we will always have Game 6, in which Texas dropped five leads, which meant St. Louis rallied five times before finally winning, 10-9, on David Freese's leadoff homer in the 11th to avoid elimination and make Friday night a reality.

The Nineth: 98 mph Neftali Feliz and David Frese HR

It wasn't just Freese's walkoff homer that made the night, it was his game-tying, season-saving, two-run, two-out, two-strike triple off a 98 mph fastball from Neftali Feliz in the ninth inning.

Turns out that was just the appetizer.

The Tenth: God Told Me and the Lance of Destiny

In the top of the 10th, on a mission from God, Josh Hamilton hit a two-run homer off closer Jason Motte to put Texas back in front, 9-7. Hamilton told reporters after the game that God told him he was going to homer in Game 6.

"But he didn't say we'd win," Hamilton conceded. 

In the bottom of the 10th, with Texas still leading, 9-8, the Cardinals were once again down to their final strike. Scott Feldman had a 2-2 count on Lance Berkman, who was not enjoying himself.
"It's not fun to go up there with the season on the line," said Berkman.

He put his feelings aside long enough to bloop a single into center field to tie the score and ensure that Freese would get a chance to bat in the 11th. When it was over, after Freese sent a 3-2 pitch from Mark Lowe over the center field fence, Berkman had a firm hold on the moment
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"The reality is that if we don't win Game 7, then this just becomes a footnote to a nice season," said Berkman. "But if we win, this is the stuff of legends."

The Eleventh

Enough said. This joins Joe Carter (1993), Kirby Puckett (1991), Carlton Fisk (1975) as one of the best Game 6 of the World Series with memorable walkoff HRs, short of Game 7 Bill Mazeroski (1960) legend.

No burning cars

The Cardinals, who didn't make the postseason until the final day of the regular season, can consider themselves legends. Their fans certainly do. The St. Louis faithful were still packed into Musial Plaza at least two hours after the game. When a Cardinals official walked by carrying the World Series trophy along the second deck of the ballpark, they spotted him and cheered.
 
The crowd snaked along Stadium Drive, up to Mike Shannon's Bar and Grill. The joint wasn't just packed, it was overflowing into an elbow-to-elbow crowd on the street. Music blared, cops and beer cans were everywhere. A guy on a makeshift set of drums pounded away.

Market Street, a main drag through the heart of downtown, was at a standstill going and coming. Cars were bumper-to-bumper blowing their horns. People walking up and down the exchanging high fives with strangers. The police had portions of the street blocked off, but no one seemed to mind.
It was loud and friendly. No cars were burning. The Cardinals have been to 18 World Series. This was their second title in five years. They know how to celebrate.
 
Said Freese, "These fans are the best."
 
Freese not only won the World Series MVP, but the NLCS MVP as well. In the World Series he hit .348 (8-for-24) with three doubles, one triple, one homer and seven RBI. In the postseason, he hit .397 (25-for-63) with eight doubles, one triple, five homers and a record 21 RBI. If he didn't get the World Series MVP, St. Louis was going to give him The Arch.
 
Now for the topper. Freese grew up just outside of St. Louis rooting for the Cardinals. When they acquired him from San Diego for Cardinal icon Jim Edmonds, his buddies kept asking him, "Who else did we get for Edmonds?"

Was Game 6 the greatest World Series game ever played? Maybe, but St. Louis did make three errors in the early going.

Pujols, Reggie and the Babe/ Pujols, Matsui and Bobby Richardson

While that is a debatable matter, there can be no denial that Albert Pujols' performance in Game 3 was the best single offensive game in World Series history. Not only was he just the third man in World Series history to hit three homers in one game, he had five hits, six RBI and 14 total bases.

The homers, hits and RBI tied World Series records. The 14 total bases set a World Series record.
Game 7 could have been Pujols' last as a Cardinal. He's a free agent this winter, which means the soap opera will soon begin. Before Game 7, Commissioner Bud Selig said he hoped that Pujols stayed in St. Louis.

After Friday's game, Pujols was asked about his plans. "I'm just going to enjoy the moment," he said.
Regarding the 107th World Series, he'll have a lot of company.

World Series Game 5 - This kind of thing is supposed to happen to the Tribe, not the stately Cardinals as they try to win their 11th World Series championship.

ST. LOUIS, Mo. -- For the second straight day manager Tony La Russa came bearing answers to explain how his Cardinals lost Game 5 of the World Series Monday night.

No matter how much he talked, or how eloquently he pleaded his case, St. Louis is still facing elimination Wednesday night in Game 6 at Busch Stadium.

All this because of a couple of phone conversations between La Russa and bullpen coach Derek Lilliquist in Arlington went terribly wrong. It's so confusing, and so unexpected of the precise and detailed La Russa, that at any minute a new version of Abbott and Costello's "Who's on First" routine could break out.

Here's what happened.

The 8th: Rzepczynski and Motte

In a game tied at 2-2, Michael Young opened the eighth with a double off Cardinals reliever Octavio Dotel, who struck out Adrian Beltre and intentionally walked Nelson Cruz after a visit by pitching coach Dave Duncan.

While that was going on, La Russa said he called Lilliquist and told him to get lefty Marc Rzepczynski and righty Jason Motte ready. Lilliquist heard Rzepczynski's name, but said he never heard La Russa say Motte.

"The first mention of Motte was probably after he (Lilliquist) hung up," said La Russa. "Maybe I didn't say it quickly enough."

Weird Hop and bounce

Rzepczynski replaced Dotel to face lefty David Murphy. On cue, Murphy sent a potential double-play ball back to the mound, but it took a weird hop and bounced off Rzepczynski's body for a hit, loading the bases. La Russa's next move was to bring in Motte, who can throw close to 100 mph, to face Mike Napoli, the Rangers' right-handed power-hitting catcher.

Lance 'emergency' Lynn, Rzepcynski and Motte
Before heading to the mound, La Russa looked into the Cardinals bullpen and didn't see Motte throwing. He called Lilliquist again to get Motte ready. But Lilliquist thought La Russa requested Lance Lynn, another right-hander. Lynn wasn't supposed to pitch except for an emergency.
La Russa was caught.

"There is no way you can stall long enough to get him ready," said La Russa, even though it was Lynn, not Motte, who was starting to loosen.

So Rzepczynski had to face Napoli, who hit .319 against lefties during the regular season. Napoli doubled into the right-field gap on a 1-1 pitch to score two runs. After Rzepczynski struck out Mitch Moreland, La Russa went to the mound thinking Motte was finally going to enter the game.
Wrong again.

'Emergency' Lynn emerges

As La Russa waited on the mound, Lynn jogged in from the pen.

"When he got to the mound, I said, 'What are you doing here?'" said La Russa.

He then ordered Lynn to intentionally walk Ian Kinsler to reload the bases because he didn't want to risk Lynn injuring his arm. At last, he was able to hand the ball to Motte, who struck out Elvis Andrus. Not only was it too little, but it was far too late.

La Russa took the blame.

"I told Derek, 'Believe me, this is not your problem,'" said La Russa.

But the fact that Lilliquist at one time pitched for the Indians seems to put things into perspective. This kind of thing is supposed to happen to the Tribe, not the stately Cardinals as they try to win their 11th World Series championship.

All in all, this was not a postseason game that covered La Russa in glory.

The Cardinals stranded 12 runners and went 1-for-12 with runners in scoring position. Texas pitchers tied a World Series record by issuing four intentional walks, three to Albert Pujols. Every time Texas manager Ron Washington displayed four fingers, he escaped without a run being scored.

Who should call 'Hit-and-Runs'?

The 7th: The game offered a revealing look at how much freedom Pujols has under La Russa. Allen Craig walked with one out in the seventh against Alexi Ogando. Pujols flashed him the hit-and-run sign. Craig took off on the next pitch and was thrown out by Napoli. Pujols didn't offer at the high fastball from Ogando and was intentionally walked for the third time.

"Albert has had the ability for several years to put the hit-and-run on," said La Russa.
La Russa said Pujols has earned that because of his talent and baseball smarts. It will be interesting to see if Pujols gets the same freedom should he bolt St. Louis through free agency.

The 9th: In the ninth, it was La Russa, not Pujols, who called for a run-and-hit with Craig on first and Pujols batting. Trailing, 4-2, he was trying to create a first-and-third situation with no outs. Instead La Russa ended up with a strike-'em out, throw 'em-out double play.

It was that kind of night.

On Twitter: @hoynsie

Irabu Got Lost on the Road Back - NY Times

By KEN BELSON Published: October 8, 2011 It was the kind of inquiry that curious pitchers make, even ones with World Series rings. How, Hideki Irabu wanted to know, do you throw a changeup? Jerry Spradlin, his pitching coach on the Long Beach Armada in the spring of 2009, was all too happy to show him. A former journeyman major league reliever, he was a newcomer to coaching and was eager to share some of what he knew, even something as basic as a changeup with a pitcher once called the Nolan Ryan of Japan. The lesson was impromptu and informal, typical of the way things were done on the Armada, an independent league team that served as a halfway house for older players making last-ditch comebacks and younger players still hoping to make it as professionals. With the help of an interpreter, Spradlin showed the grip to Irabu, who threw about 10 warm-up pitches in the bullpen before his start that day. Even though he was 40 and a former Yankee, Irabu was an attentive student. He was also a quick study. He struck out the side in order during the first inning using his new pitch to put away the batters. “He clearly had something left in the tank,” Spradlin said with a chuckle. As per tradition at Armada games, the fans passed the hat to reward players for their feats. Irabu had made millions during his career and did not need the $300 that reached the dugout. Some players wanted to give it back to the fans while others thought they should split it among themselves. Garry Templeton, the team’s manager, felt otherwise. He told Irabu where the money had come from, and without hesitation, Irabu told him it should be spent on food and beer for the team. The clubhouse attendant was dispatched to a store for provisions. “We had a party on him,” Templeton said. Two years later, Irabu, 42, was found hanging in his house in Rancho Palos Verdes, Calif., an upscale Los Angeles suburb. At some level, all suicides are mysteries. Irabu apparently left no note, but he had his troubles. He was known to drink heavily at times. His wife and two children had moved out weeks before. His two noodle restaurants had closed, and he was casting about for something else to do. “When I saw him last summer, he told me he was having a midlife crisis,” said George Rose, who befriended Irabu when he worked for two years as his interpreter on the Yankees. Rose then repeated what had been a kind of conventional wisdom about the Irabu: he had a big heart, but could be his own worst enemy. Irabu, for sure, had seemed to battle demons throughout his meteoric rise and fall. A No. 1 draft pick in Japan, he was best known for his record-setting fastball, and his temper off the field. Even during his best years in the mid-1990s, he had a love-hate relationship with the news media, which needled him by writing about his mixed heritage, a taboo in Japan. He called some Japanese reporters locusts. He was eager to play in the United States, but he bucked the baseball establishment by refusing to be traded to the San Diego Padres, despite their generous contract offer. Instead, he held out until the Yankees could sign him, and he received a hero’s welcome in New York. He twice was named the American League pitcher of the month, but he faded late in seasons. His moodiness, injuries and weight problems led George Steinbrenner to call him a fat toad, a stinging tag that he could not shake. He returned to Japan in 2003 and helped the Hanshin Tigers win the Central League pennant for the first time in nearly two decades, a redemption of sorts. But the next year, the injuries piled up and he retired after pitching in three games. His time with the Armada in 2009, then, turned out to be Irabu’s last attempt to recapture his love of the game and to fulfill some of his unmet expectations. But like many things Irabu did, his time on the Armada came with conditions. He was with the team only on days when he pitched, and he went to those games with a personal assistant and an interpreter. Because of his limited English, his teammates had little sense of Irabu as a person. Some of the players, chiefly those who had never had a whiff of the major leagues, were in awe of Irabu nonetheless. But they could also be irked that Irabu kept his distance. “To get to know him as a teammate or friend was nearly impossible,” said Scott Lonergan, a starting pitcher that year who now works as a scout with the Padres. “He didn’t come off as a prima donna. There was no sense that he was better than anyone. It was a strict business transaction. He would show up, pitch and leave.” A Toss Leads to a Quest Irabu’s road back to baseball began with a bit of serendipity. In 2007, a Japanese television crew visited Irabu in California to see how he was faring nearly three years into his retirement. They visited his restaurants, followed him as he rode his three-wheel motorbike and filmed him on a sandlot field in Torrance, obligingly tossing a ball in jeans and flip flops. Irabu had not pitched in several years, but he seemed genuinely pleased that his knee did not hurt and that his arm felt good. The pitching session was brief, but it planted a seed in Irabu’s mind that he might just have a shot at returning to baseball, according to Don Nomura, his longtime agent. “He just picked up a ball and fired the hell out of it,” Nomura said by phone from Japan. Nomura did not give it much thought, but a year or so later, Irabu started working out with two other players. Takateru Iyono, who was Irabu’s teammate in Japan, traveled to Los Angeles to seek guidance from his sempai, or elder, on how to revive his career. They recruited Hajime Nishimura, who had played on a Japanese industrial league team and moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career, to be a personal catcher. He now is a youth baseball coach. While training with Iyono at the M.L.B. Urban Youth Academy in Compton, a gritty part of Los Angeles, Irabu began to take his conditioning more seriously. Tentative at first, he gained confidence when his knee showed no signs of faltering. So in early 2009, with Iyono having left, Irabu picked up the pace. Each weekday, he took two half-hour whirlpool baths in the morning. Nishimura would arrive at 10 a.m. to work on fielding and pitching for two hours. Then they would go for a vegetable-heavy lunch before Irabu returned to the academy to take another bath. The regimen helped Irabu shed more than 40 pounds, buoying his spirits. “At first, I wondered if he could do it,” Nishimura said. “But he was very serious about baseball. He loved the game and didn’t think about how old he was. As long as he could play, he wanted to play.” With the season approaching, Nomura discussed the options with Irabu. It would be hard to find a major league club in the United States that would sign an aging pitcher who had not played in years. But with his mix of pitches, big-league savvy and brand name, Nomura thought that Irabu could become a useful reliever in Japan. The easiest shot at reaching that goal would be for Irabu to showcase his talents in an independent league, where the barriers for entry were lower and teams and fans were used to seeing aging stars give it one last go. The Golden Baseball League was the best fit. Each team had a handful of former major leaguers. The league also had links to Japan, including the Samurai Bears, a traveling team that had been stocked with Japanese players and managed by Warren Cromartie, a former major leaguer who played for the Yomiuri Giants. Always on the lookout for budding talent regardless of the potential guffaws, the league recruited Eri Yoshida, a Japanese teenager known as the Knuckle Princess for her signature pitch. She pitched last season in Maui, Hawaii. The league also had teams in Orange County and Long Beach, which would allow Irabu to live at home during his comeback. So in April, Nomura’s Los Angeles-based assistant, Toshi Hoshino, set up a tryout with Templeton. The session went well. “He wasn’t throwing 98 anymore, but he had the experience and the other pitches,” said Kevin Outcalt, the commissioner of the league, which also owned the Armada. “You don’t often get a player of his caliber.” A Pop-In Pitcher Outcalt was so impressed that he agreed to a contract that allowed Irabu to show up only on days when he pitched at home games. It would force Templeton to find an extra starter when the team was on the road, and knock other pitchers one game back in the rotation when they returned home. Still, Outcalt thought that the concessions were worth it because Irabu, he hoped, would be a big draw, especially with Japanese fans in the Los Angeles area. That could help the struggling club. It was a standard formula: mix hungry young players with a sprinkling of recognizable former major leaguers, add theatrics and keep prices affordable. In fact, Rickey Henderson spent a season in the league and Jose Canseco had played on the Armada, which used Blair Field, an aging stadium in Long Beach. Irabu’s teammates were paid depending on their experience, with some of the highest salaries hitting about $1,500 a month. Many players had not been drafted out of college and needed a place to play until they could be noticed by a major league organization. That meant playing in front of small crowds in places like Chico, Calif., and Yuma, Ariz. Despite their grumbling, no players were openly hostile to Irabu. His teammates recall that Irabu would show up an hour or so before his scheduled starts and disappear from the clubhouse before the last out. Some players spotted him between innings smoking cigarettes in the shower. When he was on the bench, few players had more than passing conversations with him, even though Nishimura was there to interpret. Sean Buller, a pitcher on the team who became the pitching coach halfway through the season, said no one on the team directly challenged Irabu and his seeming diffidence. Everyone, he said, had their own hopes, and did not want them damaged by possibly causing dissension. Despite the enigmatic attitude, Buller said of Irabu, “I feel bad because we never got close.” Good-Natured Needling The only teammate who felt compelled to communicate with Irabu was Jose Lima, a former all-star pitcher on the Los Angeles Dodgers who was also attempting a comeback. In many ways, he was Irabu’s polar opposite: funny, lively, involved and generous. He would sing the national anthem before his starts, take teammates to Dodgers games, serenade them with his guitar and chart their pitches on his days off. He was perhaps the only person with enough stature to needle Irabu, and he did not miss the chance. About an hour before the Armada were to play the Scorpions in Yuma, Irabu had still not shown up. (Irabu pitched twice on the road because the parks were within driving distance of his home.) Typically, the manager or coach would give that night’s starting pitcher the ball to be used to start the game. It was a bit of ceremony, but Irabu was nowhere to be seen that night. So Lima took the ball, put it in a clear plastic baggie, taped it to the clubhouse wall and wrote, Irabu #?, on the tape. Irabu chuckled when he showed up, then he threw five innings, gave up four runs and struck out six to earn the win. Another time, someone left a sign at Irabu’s locker that had a picture of two Japanese businessmen laughing with the words, ROR: Raugh out Roud. Some said Irabu got the joke. The club tried to make the most of Irabu’s occasional, mercurial presence. Josh Feldman, who organized on-field entertainment at home games, invited some Japanese drummers to perform as part of an Irabu Mania night. At another game, performers from a local martial arts academy broke boards, including some that they had set on fire. In Japan, One Last Chance By early August, Irabu had compiled a respectable but not overwhelming record given the competition. In 10 starts, he was 5-3 with a 3.58 earned run average and 66 strikeouts in 65 1/3 innings. Like his time in the major leagues, Irabu had some games in which he was unhittable, and other games when his control eluded him. Still, after several years away from organized baseball, he was happy to be back in uniform and on the field. “He was having a good time and enjoyed playing baseball again,” said Hoshino, who videotaped his starts from behind home plate. “He was really excited to take the next step.” That next step came partly as a result of Japanese reporters who had come to see Irabu pitch in Long Beach. He received an offer to pitch for the Fighting Dogs in Kochi, on the island of Shikoku, a backwater by Japanese baseball standards. Independent leagues are relatively new in Japan, where high schools, colleges and industrial leagues provide most of the young talent for the top teams. Even so, Irabu’s reputation in Japan was still strong, so he stood a better chance of catching the attention of a Japanese big-league club by playing in Kochi than if he remained in California. It was a brief stay. His first start went as well as could be expected. In seven innings, he gave up three runs, walking five and striking out three. About three times the usual crowd showed up for the game, and replica Irabu jerseys and shirts were on sale. His second start was a step back. Irabu lasted five innings and gave up five runs. Afterward, an inflamed right thumb effectively ended his season and, it turned out, his professional baseball career and his time in the public’s eye. With baseball now a fading memory, Irabu returned to Los Angeles, where he looked for things to do. Coaching was one option, but without a strong command of English, he had a hard time finding work. He appeared occasionally at clinics and talked of getting into movies someday. But none of it amounted to much. Earlier this year, his wife and two children moved out of their home. They had become acculturated to American life, leaving him more isolated, friends said. And he never picked up a baseball for the Armada again. “He was kind of searching for what to do next,” said George Rose, his old interpreter, “and he never did.”

Ohio Baseball

CLEVELAND, Ohio -- Cleveland, the lake town, is a football town. Fans here love their Browns, an inept franchise for a generation. They treated the team's absence for three seasons in the 1990s as a civic identity crisis.

Clevelanders care about the Indians, complain bitterly about the team's owners, the Dolan family, and overload the bandwagon when the team is good.

Cincinnati, the river town, is a baseball town. Fans there love their Reds, although much of the attendance comes from across the Ohio River in Kentucky and from the hamlets of Indiana and West Virginia.

Cincinnatians care about the Bengals, an inept franchise for a generation, complain bitterly about the team's owner, Mike Brown, and overload the bandwagon when the team is good.

The Reds began the only interleague series that really matters in Ohio when they met the Indians on Friday night in Progressive Field.

Only Ohio, Illinois (White Sox and Cubs) and Pennsylvania (Phillies and Pirates) can stage an interleague series featuring teams that date back to the gaslight and horseless carriage era. In the Reds' case, the city's baseball history dates back to the very beginning of the professional game in 1869.

Both cities have had difficulties with names and mascots.

Cleveland dropped the first "a" in founder Moses Cleaveland's name and uses a mascot for the Indians that many find offensive and term "Little Red Sambo."

Cincinnati's original name was Losantiville.

Bad as that is, it would have been much worse had the Red Stockings' name been changed -- as it almost was because of the city's nickname of "Porkopolis," for the 19th century pig-slaughtering trade there -- to "Porkopolitans."

Cincinnati is staunchly Republican. When the Red Scare dominated politics in this country in the 1950s, lest anybody get the wrong idea about Soviet spies in the lineup, the team's name was changed to "Redlegs."

Cleveland is corruption-ridden and Democratic.

Both cities are historically blue collar, although Cleveland is more so now than Cincinnati. Both cities are predominately Catholic, with Notre Dame enjoying a strong following in each. The wife of former Cleveland Mayor Ralph Perk turned down a White House invitation because it was on her bowling night. Former Cincinnatian and star of the silver screen Tyrone Power offered to fund a gymnasium at Purcell High School, Roger Staubach's alma mater. The school said no because Power was divorced.

The Reds lost a great icon, albeit one shared with Detroit, when former manager Sparky Anderson died late last year.

The Indians lost a great icon who was all our own when former pitcher Bob Feller died late last year.

Pete Rose, a native Cincinnatian, is still considered a wronged man in his hometown, despite his own admission that he bet on his team as Reds manager. Reds fans also loved national embarrassment Marge Schott (maiden name: Unnewehr, pronounced "unaware"), when she owned the Reds because she was a local girl.

Indians fans defended Albert Belle to the last ditch -- until he left. The most popular Browns player of the last quarter-century was Bernie Kosar, from Boardman, Ohio, near Youngstown, for the simple reason that he wanted to be here.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow called Cincinnati "the Queen City of the West" and Winston Churchill called it "the most beautiful inland city in America." Cleveland was not called either.

Cleveland has a world-class orchestra and art museum. The Creation Museum, archenemy of evolution, is near the Cincinnati airport, which is located in Kentucky.

Cincinnati college fans look to the Southeastern Conference and the University of Kentucky, more than to the Big Ten and Ohio State.

Cincinnati and Toledo, which is at least split between Ohio State and Michigan, are the only cities in Ohio in which the Buckeyes do not dominate the college sports conversation.

Cleveland is Columbus North in some ways, sending more students and players to Ohio State than any city but Columbus. Important OSU games draw higher television ratings here than in any city but Columbus.

The Indians are more popular statewide with younger fans, who remember the great teams of the 1990s. Older fans skew to the Reds because of their memories of the dynastic Big Red Machine in the '70s.

Both cities appreciate players who play hard and are not afraid to get dirty. Rose was loved by Reds fans, Johnny Bench and Ken Griffey Jr. less so. Browns fans love the smash-mouth style of Peyton Hillis because he's a younger Rose with bigger muscles.

People work hard in both cities. Slackers on teams are reviled. If asked "What do George S. Patton, the Exxon Valdez and LeBron James have in common?" many Clevelanders would say, "All three were tankers."

Somebody has been ferreting out some serious talent lately for both teams. The Indians and Reds are good now, and young besides that. They are at or near the top of their divisions to boot, with the Indians having the best record in baseball. The rivals will play again in Cincinnati at the start of July.

It is not inconceivable that they could meet yet again in October.

Follow Bill Livingston on Facebook and on Twitter @LivyPD

A toast to Tom Wilhelmsen

A toast to Tom Wilhelmsen - Seven years after walking away, ex-bartender makes big league debut with Mariners By Jim Caple
ESPN.com

Seattle Mariners reliever Tom Wilhelmsen

Ex-bartender Tom Wilhelmsen on Opening Day, how to make a "Fat Man."
Tags: Tom WilhelmsenSeattle Mariners reliever Tom Wilhelmsen
The Hut is a popular live music/tiki bar in Tucson near the University of Arizona campus. You enter the bar by walking under a 45-foot-high tiki head that formerly reigned over a local miniature golf course. The bar's interior is a former metal fabrication plant where workers made bomb casings in World War II, a heritage The Hut honors with its signature cocktail. Named after the first atomic bomb, the Fat Man is a 60-ounce drink served in a fishbowl and swimming in the maximum alcohol amount allowed by Arizona law.

There was a three-day music festival at The Hut this past weekend, but as soon as one band finished its set Friday night, the bar turned down the music and turned up the Mariners' home opener from Seattle. Bar regulars and employees turned their focus from their Fat Men and beers to focus on the TV screens as Seattle reliever Tom Wilhelmsen took the mound to face the Cleveland Indians lineup. The season is one week old, Seattle is about 1,600 miles away, the Mariners are trailing 6-0 and Wilhelmsen is in the process of making it 11-0, but the bar crowd is going crazy, spirits rising and falling with his every pitch.

As recently as December, Tom Wilhelmsen was mixing drinks and pouring beer at a bar in Tucson, Ariz.

"It was like we were watching a University of Arizona basketball game," says Scott Mencke, a co-partner of The Hut. "The people here were overreacting to everything. If Tom threw a strike, people cheered like crazy. When he gave up the home run, people were bent over double." And when Wilhelmsen ended the 10-run inning by striking out Austin Kearns? "It was like Miles Simon just hit the game winner in the NCAA championship [in 1997]. We were all giving high-fives.

"We had people from out of town who came for the music, and they're probably wondering, 'What are these Tucsonians doing, going nuts over this Mariners game?'"

Well, that's easy to explain. These people were simply excited to see a friend and fellow bartender who had mixed Fat Men and poured beer at The Hut as recently as December take another step in baseball's most delightfully unlikely comeback story that doesn't include Dennis Quaid as a high school science teacher/baseball coach.

One month after bicycling to daily spring training workouts, one year after pitching in Class A, two years after playing center field in a co-rec softball league, five years after backpacking around Europe and seven years after leaving organized baseball for a career mixing Fat Men, Wilhelmsen was pitching in the major leagues.


"It's a little different from the beer league we were playing softball in," says Wilhelmsen, who grew up in Tucson. "I ultimately knew this day would come, but I didn't realize it would come this quick. But it's a great feeling."

A great feeling? This story leaves you feeling better than a free round of Fat Men.

"You can just say it's a miracle," Seattle third baseman Chone Figgins says. "It's one of those miracle situations."




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Wilhelmsen, 27, is a tall, broad-shouldered young man who is quick to flash a smile bright enough to power U2's entire 360° tour. He is animated and engaging and said to have a very impressive collection of tie-dyed shirts. "Holy [Fill in the blank]" is a favorite expression, with the "Holy" drawn out and stressed. Hole-Ley.

“
I was very disappointed for years. People would say, 'He'll be back, he'll be back.' I would be like, 'I don't know. You have to want it.' After about three years I would tell people, 'No, he's never coming back.'


”
-- Tom Wilhelmsen's father, John



"I'm not exaggerating at all: He is the nicest guy you'll meet in your life," Mencke says. "He's beyond nice. He cares about people; he's empathetic to people. He's fair, he's honest, but he's also a personality."

"He is the salt of the earth," says Douglas "Fini" Finical, The Hut's other operating partner. "What you see is what you get. He's a gregarious guy, very open. … There's sort of a displaced hippie in him. He loves the Grateful Dead. I see him as a guy who would be just as happy living in 1968. One of those people who is completely genuine. Just completely original and genuine."

And once upon a time, Wilhelmsen also was a promising, hard-throwing right-hander in the Milwaukee Brewers system. A seventh-round pick in the 2003 draft, he went 5-5 with a 2.76 ERA at Class A Beloit in 2003. But he also was a free spirit who twice tested positive for marijuana. The Brewers responded to the second test by suspending him for the 2004 season.

The next year Wilhelmsen effectively suspended himself by giving up his baseball career to travel and hike our national parks. He says he was burned out on baseball and no longer had the passion for the game he once did.

"My first immediate thought was to pull a Mutt Mantle and go wring this kid by his neck and go take him home. That lasted about 30 minutes," says his father and former coach, John Wilhelmsen. "Then it was: 'You know, it's his life.' No matter what your kids do, you're going to love them no matter what. What does the other stuff mean? I knew he wasn't into it anymore because he didn't do anything in the offseason. He would usually work out or ask me to throw with him.

"I was very disappointed for years. People would say, 'He'll be back, he'll be back.' I would be like, 'I don't know. You have to want it.' After about three years I would tell people, 'No, he's never coming back."'

Wilhelmsen's agent, Steve Canter, says Tom needed some distance. "Some people go to college to grow up; Tom went and worked and traveled and started to get his life together. He got his own education."

He certainly did.

After hiking numerous parks, Wilhelmsen returned to Tucson, where he applied for a bartending job at The Hut. "We were looking at the application and looking at his job history, and there was only one entry," Mencke says. "For the company, he put down: 'Milwaukee Brewers.' Position: 'Pitcher.'" Mencke laughs. "We were looking for good-looking females to hire, but Tom walked into the bar and filled out an application, and after talking to him, I decided right then, this is a good guy to have around. I just had a gut feeling about him."

[+] EnlargeCourtesy of Seattle Mariners
Under the bright lights at Safeco Field, Tom Wilhelmsen was a Seattle Mariner on Opening Day.

Wilhelmsen also reconnected with his old high school girlfriend Cassie, and they hiked extensively through the Southwest and the West. They backpacked through Europe in 2006, running the hostel gamut from Amsterdam through Bavaria into Italy and then back up through France and England.

While some of his former teammates were just reaching baseball's major league green cathedrals, Wilhelmsen was touring Notre Dame. When he could have been pitching in Milwaukee while beer-drinking fans sang the "Beer Barrel Polka," he was listening to Germans sing at Munich's Oktoberfest. ("We heard 'Country Roads' every 15 minutes. And that song, 'Heyyyy, baby. … Oooh! Aahhh!' every 15 minutes.") And rather than studying video of Albert Pujols, he was gazing in awe at Michelangelo's David. ("It's a statue of a guy, and you think, Oh. Great. But you stand in that line and then you walk in and see it, and you say, 'Hole-ley cow!'")

Back in Tucson, he and Cassie played on a co-rec softball team. Cassie played second; Tom played in the outfield. "I was too afraid to pitch -- it was so close to home plate. So I told my brother who is blind in one eye to do it," Wilhelmsen says and laughs. "He's still in a league, and he still pitches. He calls me up when he strikes out three or gives up 12 runs."

They were fun times, of which Wilhelmsen says, "There was a lot going on," before reconsidering for a moment and adding with a smile, "Really not a lot going on."

Which was pretty much the problem. His was not a bad life when you're in your 20s, but not so much when you grow older and staying up until 4 a.m. isn't quite so much fun as it was and guys you played with in the minors are set for life after earning millions in the majors, then you look down at your arm and wonder what might have been if only you had given baseball your all.

"Cassie was a huge part of it. I started thinking about the future because I wanted to ask her to be my wife," Wilhelmsen says. "That was the big part. What am I going to do? I don't want to come home at four in the morning to her, especially if we're going to have kids. I don't want to smell like beer all the time."

He also was smoking a pack or so of cigarettes a day, but one June day in 2008, he says, "I went outside, lit a cigarette, smoked it about three-quarters down and said, 'What the hell am I doing?' Then I threw the cigarette out, and that was it."

Just like that, Wilhelmsen quit smoking. Then he celebrated Father's Day by calling up his father and repeating a question from "Field of Dreams" that has accounted for an estimated 43 percent of all American male tears shed since 1989. "Hey Dad, you want to play catch?"




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When Wilhelmsen's story is turned into a movie, this is where the music will swell and you will see a montage of Wilhelmsen (John Krasinski from "The Office"?) running laps and sprints and agility drills to work himself back into shape. There will be lots of shots of his pitches popping into his father's catcher's glove. Tom mixing Fat Men behind the bar and curveballs on the mound. The montage will make it look easier than it probably was, but the return was quick. By 2009, Wilhelmsen was ready to pitch again. Shortly after marrying Cassie, he tried out and signed a contract with the Tucson Toros of the Golden Baseball League, an independent league so minor that its salaries were about $900 a month, the per diem was $10 and a player with one club once had to drive the team van from Arizona to British Columbia for the next game.

Wilhelmsen was just rounding back into form with the Toros when he suffered a biceps injury that ended his season. He received some workers' compensation and returned to The Hut.

While the arm healed, his agent called up Mariners general manager Jack Zduriencik, who had been Milwaukee's scouting director when Wilhelmsen was with the Brewers. Canter told Zduriencik that Wilhelmsen was pitching again and asked whether the Mariners would take a look at him. When Zduriencik did, he was impressed enough to offer Wilhelmsen a minor league contract in February 2010.


"He's a little more mature now," Zduriencik says. "He has a better focus of what he wants to do. Now he wants to play baseball, and I think he'll tell you he lost that desire somewhere along the way. And now he's a grown man with a wife, and he has responsibilities. He's experienced some things in life. He's fortunate that he still has a live arm. That doesn't happen every day where a guy moves on with his life and is able to come back five years later and pitch at this level."

Says Wilhelmsen, "I'm just older now, and I have more responsibility and understand what it is to have responsibilities. Maybe not to the fullest extent, but a hell of a lot more than I did when I was younger. I just have more life experience in general and understand how to go about your life."

[+] EnlargeCourtesy of Seattle Mariners
Wilhelmsen was a seventh-round draft pick by the Brewers in 2002.

Wilhelmsen pitched well enough last year for the Mariners' Arizona League team and their Class A teams in Everett, Wash., and Clinton, Iowa, to earn a spot on the 40-man roster and an invitation to spring training this year. He was so thrilled by it all that he occasionally was seen asking teammates and coaches for autographs this spring. Given little chance to make the team out of Arizona, he just kept pitching and getting better. And when the Mariners announced their final roster, he was on the team. He quickly called his father.

"I could hear that he was crying; he was very emotional about it," his father says. "He kept saying, 'Thank you, Dad.' He just made me all warm and fuzzy."

Wilhelmsen made his major league debut in Oakland, striking out one batter in a scoreless inning. His next appearance was Friday's home opener after he added to the dreamlike nature of his comeback by running onto the field with his teammates through a fog machine while 48,000 fans cheered.

With his wife and his father watching from the stands and dozens of friends watching on TV at The Hut, Wilhelmsen entered that night's game in the fourth inning with Seattle trailing 6-0, one out and one runner on. He gave up a single, struck out a batter, walked a batter, gave up a two-run single and then gave up a towering home run to Travis Hafner that banged off the window of the seldom-reached Hit It Here Café in the right-field upper deck.

"That was in his butter," Wilhelmsen says of the gopher ball. "If it was any other place, he probably would have hit it within this zip code. But right there? It was gone. I looked at it and I was just like, 'Hole-ley, bomb!' And I watched it the whole way, and I usually never, ever do that. But I watched that one the whole way. But now I know where his sweet spot is. He won't see another one there if I face him again."

Wilhelmsen's fastball approaches 95 mph, and in four appearances through Thursday, he has struck out six batters in 4 2/3 innings (good). But he also has walked five batters, given up eight hits and allowed six runs (not so good). After missing so many years and returning in so swift and breathtaking a leap, he needs experience in addition to the lively arm.

Mariners pitching coach Carl Willis likens Wilhelmsen's path to the majors to the way a lot of athletes wind up getting their college degree after they leave school for a pro career.

"I went to college to play baseball, and all I was concerned about was to maintain a C average to stay eligible," Willis says. "Then I signed to play pro ball and went off and started my baseball career. And then years later I said, 'I want to go back and finish college.' So when I went back, I made all A's. If there was a 10-page paper assigned, I wrote 15. Because I wanted to do it. And I think when he started as a young man, maybe he wasn't 100 percent sure baseball is what he wanted to do. Now, he's experienced different facets of life and says, 'This is what I want to do.' And he's able to be all in, 100 percent. And because he's experienced the other side of life, he appreciates this opportunity so much more to be able to go out and play the game."

Wilhelmsen says his odd path to the majors has affected him in ways he probably doesn't realize yet.

"It has helped me be a little more grounded. It helps me understand there are other things in this world than baseball," he says. "You're playing baseball and this is your dream as a kid and you play it nonstop. You live it, breathe it, you eat it. There are other things, but that's your focus if you want to get to the highest level. But there's a bigger picture. I'm very glad I was able to live a normal life away from baseball and then come back to it. If I had made it when I was playing ball, I definitely wouldn't be the same guy."

Perhaps. But in many ways, Wilhelmsen still is the same bright, optimistic, genuine personality whom people say he always has been. Consider the rookie backpack.

As is the veteran relievers' custom for embarrassing a rookie, Wilhelmsen received a child's backpack to carry to the bullpen. This is very fitting for a man who backpacked his way through Europe and back into baseball. Plus, it has the bonus of not being one of those pink My Little Pony backpacks past rookies have carried. This one is of R2D2, which Wilhelmsen finds very cool.


"I feel pretty honored by it," he says, flashing that engaging grin. "R2 is the most famous Droid in the world. And he's got my back."

The legend of Bob Feller began on an Iowa farm: Bill Livingston

CLEVELAND, Ohio -- The Greatest Indian of Them All, Bob Feller, grew up in Van Meter on the Iowa prairie, among legends both real and make-believe.

Winterset, Iowa, was the hometown of John Wayne, although his name was Marion Morrison then. Nile Kinnick, who won the Heisman Trophy at the University of Iowa, was Feller's catcher in American Legion ball and grew up in Adel, Iowa. A sportscaster called "Dutch" Reagan was working in DesMoines.

Feller's life was a tale as tall as any of theirs.

Ted Williams, the consensus choice as baseball's all-time greatest hitter, closely studied pitchers, but he never obsessed about them -- except for one.

Feller captivated Williams. While Williams would focus on someone like Allie Reynolds of the Yankees, a terrific pitcher, for two hours before a game, he started psyching up three days before facing Feller. The difference between Feller's stuff and "good" stuff was always exponential.

Feller had a "field of dreams," in Iowa, just like in the movie. After clearing the land with his own hands, his father planted more wheat than corn on the rest of the farm. Wheat was easier to harvest, which left more time for baseball.

That's a synthesis of fathers, sons, baseball, and amber waves of grain. Feller, who passed away Wednesday at age 92 of complications from leukemia, was born, bred and whole grain-fed to be an American icon.
To protect his amateur eligibility, he signed with the Indians for $1 and a baseball autographed by the members of the team. Feller struck out 17 Philadelphia A's, breaking the American League record, when he was only 17 years old. Then, he went home to finish high school. He would have been a global sensation in today's world of 24/7 news cycles on cable TV and the Internet. It is not overstating it to say that Feller might have been the greatest prodigy in any field since Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

He was self-assured enough to throw a strike, at nearly 79 years of age -- and from the pitching rubber yet -- while making the ceremonial first pitch during the 1997 World Series.

Blunt and outspoken, he was also one of the most admirable men of an admirable generation. In the prime of his career, he gave up 31/2 years to serve in the Navy. He enlisted two days after Pearl Harbor, although he could have gotten a deferment since he was the sole support of his family, and his father was dying. In contrast to how teams schemed to arrange reserve-unit berths for players during the Vietnam war, Feller told told Cy Slapnicka, the scout who had signed him: "I'm going to enlist."

Slapnicka replied: "I think you should." As chief of an anti-aircraft battery on the battleship USS Alabama, Feller steamed 175,000 miles, crossed the Arctic Circle six times and the Equator 24 times, won eight battle stars, and, for his pains, saw a bunch of know-littles exclude him from the list of the 20th century's greatest players because he didn't win 300 games. Why, without World War II, he'd have won close to 400!

Although he played catch on the Alabama every day, Feller could not have known that he would come back to the big leagues as good as ever, not after missing most of four seasons when he was his early to mid-20s. In a way, it figured. .Legends are for all time, literally.

Before the color barrier fell after World War II in big-league baseball, Feller barnstormed in the off-season against the best of his era, including the great Negro League stars. He was an equal-opportunity strikeout artist.

He said only Walter "Big Train" Johnson was faster than he was. That riled Nolan Ryan's fans, but Feller had a strong sense of what it meant to be "Rapid Robert." Still, his self-gratification was slight, compared to his self-sacrifice. "Freedom's not free," he said.

On 9/11, one of the darkest days since Pearl Harbor, a reporter seeking reaction from a player who was a veteran of military service called Feller. It was an easy choice. He was the greatest American I ever knew.

Baseball in Cleveland will never be the same without Bob Feller: Paul Hoynes commentary

CLEVELAND, Ohio -- Hi Corbett Field was nearly empty on a long ago spring morning.

Bob Feller was the only occupant on the Indians' spring training grounds. He was in right field, in full uniform, going through his pitching delivery. He'd come to a set position, whirl and throw the ball into the right field wall.

Feller was practicing his pickoff move to second. Why not? He was only in his 70s.

Bob Feller, the greatest Indian of them all, is gone. He died Wednesday night and baseball in Cleveland will never be the same.

The birth of the new season didn't mean a thing until Feller walked into the spring-training press room, cracking jokes and passing out a new set of his autographed baseball cards to anyone within arm's reach. It didn't matter if it was Tucson, Ariz., Winter Haven, Fla., or Goodyear, Ariz., the sun couldn't shine and Indians players couldn't start pulling their hamstrings until No.19 reported.

He was sharp of mind, a red state unto himself and had an opinion on everything. He moved easily among the rich and famous. He danced with Marilyn Monroe, pitched to Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams, mingled with admirals and generals. Everyone knew Rapid Robert, the Heater from Van Meter.

In Winter Haven one morning, reporters were talking about what Indians players might open the season on the disabled list. The war in Iraq was raging on and Feller quickly tied the two together.

"I was just in Washington, D.C., talking to some generals," Feller said. "I'll tell you who's going on the disabled list ... Saddam Hussein."
Feller won 266 games with the Indians, throwing three no-hitters and 12 one-hitters. At his peak, he joined the U.S. Navy right after Pearl Harbor in 1941 and lost nearly 3 1/2 years of his career in World War II.

Feller told me it probably cost him about 60 victories, but he had no regrets about going to war.

"We were getting the hell kicked out of us," he said. "I thought we needed some help."

My favorite memory of Feller was listening to him talk about the barnstorming tour he organized with Satchel Paige and other Negro League stars. It was a blue-sky day at Chain of Lakes Park in Winter Haven as Feller talked to a group or reporters, but he made it sound as if the tour between big-league stars and Negro League greats happened yesterday.

Feller organized the tour, booked the hotels and travel. I don't know if he sold tickets, but he may have. He and Paige pitched two to three innings every day of the tour. He remembered dates, towns and crowd sizes.

He ranked Paige as one of the top 20 pitchers of all time. He gave scouting reports on other Negro League players, turning the mist of legend into muscle and flesh. It was an oral history of baseball and I'm still kicking myself for not taping it.

In last season's World Series between San Francisco and Texas, the Giants had Hall of Famers Juan Marichal, Willie McCovey, Orlando Cepeda and Gaylord Perry throw out the first pitch from Game 1. Willie Mays would have been there, but he wasn't feeling well.
In Cleveland, the Indians only had Feller at that pristine level of baseball greatness. The good thing was he was he never left.

• Playing catch in front of the Indians' dugout with Omar Vizquel in Winter Haven just before game time as the PA announcer reeled off his statistics that the crowd knew by heart.

• Sitting in the press box for the opening of Jacobs Field in 1994 as Seattle's Randy Johnson threatened, but eventually failed to match his record for throwing the only opening day no-hitter in history.

• Telling you his itinerary for his next round of card shows, "I'm in Dubuque on Tuesday, Nashville on Friday, Chicago on Sunday. Then I'm going to Iowa and we're going to walk out of a corn field just like in the movie."

He made his living by being Bob Feller. Herb Score used to call him "Inc." He was Bob Feller, Incorporated.

Several years ago he was asked how much he would be worth at free agent prices. He said without hesitation $15 million to $17 million a year. It was clear he'd thought about it. Today he'd be short-changing himself.

I wonder what Feller would have done if he pitched in the free-agent era? Would he have played his whole career in Cleveland? His talent certainly made him a one-team player such as Cal Ripken Jr. or Tony Gwynn. Or would he have left for more money and better opportunities like so many others?

Such thoughts are not for the moment. Today is for being grateful that we had Bob Feller among us for so long. That he was always there and in no hurry to leave.

Most underrated RH starter: Bob Feller

Editor's Note: The following is an excerpt from "The Stark Truth: The Most Overrated and Underrated Players in Baseball History" by Jayson Stark. Copyright (c) 2007 by the author. This excerpt has been printed with the permission of Triumph Books. For information on how to purchase the book, click here.

I'm still convinced that Bob Feller is the most underrated righthander who ever lived. But only because he is.


Imagine this kid, at 17 years old, pitching an exhibition game in 1936 against a Cardinals team still rolling out most of the lineup that had won the World Series in 1934 -- and striking out EIGHT of the nine hitters he faced. Imagine this kid, a few weeks later, making the first start of his big-league career, and whiffing 15 St. Louis Browns. Imagine him, three weeks after that, ripping off 17 K's against the Athletics -- the biggest strikeout game in American League history at the time. Now imagine him, just a couple of weeks later, heading back home to Iowa -- so he could ride the SCHOOL BUS with his sister and finish high school. All true. It all happened. In real life. He was the LeBron James of his era -- except with a 12-to-6 curve instead of a learning curve.

How many American teenagers have had the impact on their country that Bob Feller once did? His high school graduation was broadcast live -- to the whole U.S.A. (on NBC radio). His face was on the COVER of Time Magazine before he'd even started 10 big-league games. So it's pretty clear Bob Feller wasn't overrated back then.


But that was then. This is now, all these decades later. And Feller no longer gets his due. When ESPN asked its in-house stable of baseball "experts" (full disclosure: myself included) to rank baseball's greatest living pitchers in May of 2006, Feller finished sixth. But in an accompanying ESPN Sports Nation poll of ESPN.com surfers, Feller didn't even make the top 10. (The only other Sports Nation omission from the experts' top 10: Juan Marichal.) Seven years earlier, in the fan voting for the All-Century team, Feller wasn't even close, finishing 13th (with nearly 740,000 fewer votes than Ryan).

So what's up with that?

We'd better remind you -- assuming you ever knew -- just how enormous a figure Feller was in his time. Over the first 95 seasons in the existence of Major League Baseball, only one pitcher cranked out four straight seasons of 240 strikeouts or more -- Bob Feller. In that same period, he and Walter Johnson were the only pitchers who ever led their league in strikeouts 10 or more seasons apart. Through the first nine seasons of Feller's career, he was the most unhittable pitcher in history (allowing just 7.01 hits per 9 innings). And the real proof was all those games in which nobody -- or just about nobody -- got a hit. This man threw three no-hitters and TWELVE one-hitters. Until Nolan Ryan came along, the only pitcher in the 20th century with even half as many combined no-hitters and one-hitters was Walter Johnson (one no-hitter, seven one-hitters). And Feller was the only 20th-century pitcher with three no-hitters until Sandy Koufax showed up.


Feller also just might be (ahem) The Hardest Thrower Who Ever Lived. We'll never know for sure, of course. In his day, there were no radar guns attached to every scoreboard in America -- possibly because radar had only been invented about 20 minutes earlier. But there's one expert who KNOWS (totally for sure) that Feller was The Hardest Thrower Who Ever Lived. And that would be the ever-modest Feller himself.

I'll never forget, back in the 1997 Indians-Marlins World Series, the radar board in Florida threw a "102 mph" up there after one fateful fastball by Marlins closer Robb Nen. Yep, 102. Never saw one of THOSE before. Before the game the next day, the New York Post's Tom Keegan and I spotted Feller on the field. So we decided to ask for ourselves whether he thought he'd ever thrown a pitch that traveled 102 miles an hour. "Hell," he said, "that was my CHANGE-UP."


Feller then proceeded to tell a story about some gizmo, or military invention, called the Electric Cell Device. This was some kind of chamber -- no longer available at a Wal Mart near you -- that was used back in 1946 to clock his fastball. Feller claimed he whooshed a pitch through the old ECD that was measured at 107.9 miles per hour. Must have been that point-9 that made him so hard to hit.



Virtually from the minute he threw his first pitch, there was so much national fascination with Feller and his heater that folks were constantly looking for ways to figure out whether his 100-mph flameball was reality or myth. So in 1940, Feller was lined up for his most legendary pitcher's duel -- with a speeding motorcycle. Just as the motorcycle varoomed by him at 86 mph, Feller launched his fastball at a target 60 feet, 6 inches away. The baseball won that race so easily, it was calculated that his Harley-ball was traveling at 104 mph. Oh by the way, a small hole had been cut out of the target so a camera could record this fabled pitch -- and Feller launched his fastball right through the target, wiping out the camera. So don't try to buy that historic photo on eBay any time soon.

Now no doubt you Nolan Ryan fans out there are saying: "What's the big whoop?" There are all kinds of stories about Ryan -- who was elected (by me) as the most overrated righthanded starter of all time in this book -- that sound just like these, right? Well, there is one significant difference between Ryan and Feller: Feller consistently found ways to convert his smokeball and all his whiffs into wins.


Feller had seven seasons of at least 15 wins and a .

Feller got through war, then got hurt

At the conclusion of the 1941 season, Bob Feller was 22 years old and he'd won 107 games in the major leagues. At that pace ... well, if Feller had continued pitching that well until he was 42, he would have challenged Cy Young's more impressive records.

A war got in the way.

The way Feller told the story, on the 7th of December he was driving his new Buick from his home in Iowa to Chicago, for a meeting with Cy Slapnicka, Cleveland's general manager, and manager Roger Peckinpaugh. Feller expected to sign a new contract for 1942.

Car radios were still uncommon in 1941, and expensive. But when you win 107 games before your 23rd birthday, you can afford the radio and a tinny-sounding speaker. Crossing the Mississippi River into Illinois, Feller heard the bulletin: Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor.

"I knew that the purpose of our meeting had just changed," Feller would write, nearly 50 years later. He would tell Slapnicka and Peckinpaugh that instead of signing a new contract, he would be signing enlistment papers for the U.S. Navy. Immediately.

He could have waited to be drafted, and almost certainly would have been able to continue playing baseball through 1942, at least; with his father terminally ill, Feller was his family's sole financial support. Some players weren't drafted until after the 1943 season. But Feller went right in, voluntarily. A few months into his enlistment, tired of a cushy stateside posting, he pressed for combat duty and spent much of 1943 and '44 commanding a gunnery crew on a battleship, the U.S.S. Alabama.

By the time Feller returned to baseball in 1945, he'd missed more than three-and-a-half seasons. Among the first stars to come back, Feller would be a sort of guinea pig, as nobody knew what such a long layoff would mean for professional baseball players (many of whom would miss two or three full seasons).

In the event, most (though not all) of them picked up right where they'd left off.*

* Most of the stars, anyway. Many dozens of lesser players lost their prime seasons because of the war -- not to mention all the younger men who lost their lives or their health -- and never played in the majors, or even professional baseball, at all.

Of course, eventually another question would come up. From Feller's 1990 autobiography, "Now Pitching: Bob Feller":
Then people began to wonder how we would have done if the war hadn't come along. Baseball fans filled many an hour in those days with that "what-if" question. Eventually, an analyst in Seattle, Ralph Winnie, sat down at his computer and figured out the answers.

He took our individual stats for the last three years before our military services and our first three years after the war, then averaged them out on a per-season basis and projected them across the war years...

In my case, Winnie projected that I would have 107 more games, finishing with 373 career wins instead of 266, with another 1,070 strikeouts, five no-hitters instead of three and 19 one-hitters instead of 12. He calculated that I would have finished with the sixth most wins in history instead of 28th and the seventh most shutouts instead of 29th.

In his book, Feller tempered those numbers a bit, writing, "It may not prove anything ... We could have been injured and missed a full season or slipped on a banana peel, who knows?"

In the years after Feller's book was published, he became more outspoken in his political views -- somewhat famously in these parts, during an ESPN.com chat he went off on "Hanoi Jane" Fonda -- and more willing to take credit for the statistics that might have been his, absent the war.

Realistically, I think such exercises are more instructive for hitters than pitchers, simply because hitters don't run the same injury risk that pitchers do. Feller might have been injured if he'd kept on pitching during the war years. From his Age 19 through Age 22 seasons, Feller averaged 309 innings per season ... though whether that means he was primed for an injury or was invulnerable to fatigue, I really can't hazard a guess.

Upon Feller's discharge from the Navy in August 1945, he returned to the Indians and pitched well in nine late-season starts. In 1946, he enjoyed one of his best seasons, leading the American League in wins (26), games pitched (48), games started (42), complete games (36), shutouts (10), innings (371) and strikeouts (348).

Feller got off to a fine start in 1947, but hurt his knee in June and was never really the same. From that point through the end of his career, nine mostly humdrum years later, he struck out just slightly more than four batters per nine innings.

People wonder how Bob Feller would have done if the war hadn't come along. I wonder how Bob Feller would have done if he hadn't lost his All-World fastball before he turned 29 - Rob Neyer