me ask you something. When you were young, when you were hitting everything, how big did that baseball look coming up there? I mean, it must have looked like a grapefruit.”
“It looked as big as the moon, Buck,” Tony Oliva said. “As big as the moon.”
B UCK AND T ONY talked about the split-fingered fastball. They did not believe in it. That’s not to say they did not believe it was a good pitch. They did not believe it existed. It was the Loch Ness Monster. It was the Easter Bunny. The split-fingered fastball became popular in the 1970s, mostly because of a relief pitcher named Bruce Sutter. He would throw his splitter by shoving the baseball between his index and middle fingers and then throwing it as hard as he could. The effect made the pitch look like a fastball until the very last instant. And then it would dive down suddenly, violently, like a man walking into a manhole. Hitters would swing right over it. For a long while, nobody could hit Bruce Sutter’s pitches. Others started to throw the splitter then. And it became popular.
“The splitter,” Oliva said with a smirk on his face. “I guess that’s what they call it now.”
“It’s a nicer name for it,” Buck said.
Tony laughed. Buck laughed. Others sitting at the table did not get the joke because they were not old ballplayers. Buck and Tony believed that the split-fingered fastball was, in reality, nothing but an old-fashioned spitball. They even sounded alike. The spitter, unlike the splitter, had been around since the earliest days of baseball. Pitchers back in the nineteenth century had figured out that by spitting on the ball (or cutting the ball, or rubbing the ball with some other foreign substance like Vaseline), they could make it drop at the last instant. The spitball was officially outlawed in 1920, though pitchers often found a way around the rules.
Oliva: “There is no way—I’m telling you, there’s no way —that you can make a ball drop that much [he held his hands about a foot apart] by putting your fingers on either side. What, do they think I am some kind of fool? There’s no way.”
Buck: “That’s what I been trying to say. The other day, I was sitting behind home plate, and I saw a pitcher throw that big sink. All these young scouts started talking about how that was a great split-fingered fastball. I said, ‘Well, that was the wettest split-fingered fastball I ever saw.’”
They each remembered how the pitchers used to get around the rules and throw spitballs back in their day. Buck remembered that on his team, the third baseman was the one responsible for soaking the ball. Oliva remembered facing a pitcher once—even now he was too much of a gentleman to say his name—who loaded up the ball with so much spit that Oliva would get drenched every time he connected with the ball.
“Split-fingered fastball,” Oliva said, shaking his head. “People are so gullible now.”
T IME FOR B UCK to go down to the field. He hugged Oliva and said, “I love you, Tony.” Oliva said, “Buck, you know what I regret? I’ve forgotten. I wish I could remember like you remember. If I could do it all over again, I would write down every little story. There were so many funny stories, but now that I’m old, I’ve forgotten.”
Buck shook his head.
You haven’t forgotten.
You just think you have.
Memory is like baseball.
You might oh-for-four today.
But you’ll get three hits tomorrow.
Right? Good days and bad days.
You’ll remember.
Those stories aren’t gone.
They’re just behind a few cobwebs.
Buck winked and walked to the field. Tony Oliva nodded, asked for a pad, and wrote something.
K IDS IN THE stands tossed baseballs to Buck O’Neil for him to sign, and he caught them one-handed. For an instant you could see the athlete he was sixty years before. Buck could always catch the ball. When he was a child at his father’s semipro baseball games in Sarasota, he
“It looked as big as the moon, Buck,” Tony Oliva said. “As big as the moon.”
B UCK AND T ONY talked about the split-fingered fastball. They did not believe in it. That’s not to say they did not believe it was a good pitch. They did not believe it existed. It was the Loch Ness Monster. It was the Easter Bunny. The split-fingered fastball became popular in the 1970s, mostly because of a relief pitcher named Bruce Sutter. He would throw his splitter by shoving the baseball between his index and middle fingers and then throwing it as hard as he could. The effect made the pitch look like a fastball until the very last instant. And then it would dive down suddenly, violently, like a man walking into a manhole. Hitters would swing right over it. For a long while, nobody could hit Bruce Sutter’s pitches. Others started to throw the splitter then. And it became popular.
“The splitter,” Oliva said with a smirk on his face. “I guess that’s what they call it now.”
“It’s a nicer name for it,” Buck said.
Tony laughed. Buck laughed. Others sitting at the table did not get the joke because they were not old ballplayers. Buck and Tony believed that the split-fingered fastball was, in reality, nothing but an old-fashioned spitball. They even sounded alike. The spitter, unlike the splitter, had been around since the earliest days of baseball. Pitchers back in the nineteenth century had figured out that by spitting on the ball (or cutting the ball, or rubbing the ball with some other foreign substance like Vaseline), they could make it drop at the last instant. The spitball was officially outlawed in 1920, though pitchers often found a way around the rules.
Oliva: “There is no way—I’m telling you, there’s no way —that you can make a ball drop that much [he held his hands about a foot apart] by putting your fingers on either side. What, do they think I am some kind of fool? There’s no way.”
Buck: “That’s what I been trying to say. The other day, I was sitting behind home plate, and I saw a pitcher throw that big sink. All these young scouts started talking about how that was a great split-fingered fastball. I said, ‘Well, that was the wettest split-fingered fastball I ever saw.’”
They each remembered how the pitchers used to get around the rules and throw spitballs back in their day. Buck remembered that on his team, the third baseman was the one responsible for soaking the ball. Oliva remembered facing a pitcher once—even now he was too much of a gentleman to say his name—who loaded up the ball with so much spit that Oliva would get drenched every time he connected with the ball.
“Split-fingered fastball,” Oliva said, shaking his head. “People are so gullible now.”
T IME FOR B UCK to go down to the field. He hugged Oliva and said, “I love you, Tony.” Oliva said, “Buck, you know what I regret? I’ve forgotten. I wish I could remember like you remember. If I could do it all over again, I would write down every little story. There were so many funny stories, but now that I’m old, I’ve forgotten.”
Buck shook his head.
You haven’t forgotten.
You just think you have.
Memory is like baseball.
You might oh-for-four today.
But you’ll get three hits tomorrow.
Right? Good days and bad days.
You’ll remember.
Those stories aren’t gone.
They’re just behind a few cobwebs.
Buck winked and walked to the field. Tony Oliva nodded, asked for a pad, and wrote something.
K IDS IN THE stands tossed baseballs to Buck O’Neil for him to sign, and he caught them one-handed. For an instant you could see the athlete he was sixty years before. Buck could always catch the ball. When he was a child at his father’s semipro baseball games in Sarasota, he
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