There is a kick against these tactics from the other bench, but the damage has been done. The pitcher passes the batter, forgets what he ought to throw to the next man, and cannot get the ball where he wants it. A base hit follows. Then he is gone. The following batter triples, and, before another pitcher can be warmed up, three or four runs are across the plate, and the game is won. That explains why so many wise managers keep a pitcher warming up when the man in the box is going strong.
It is in the pinch that the pitcher shows whether or not he is a Big Leaguer. He must have something besides curves then. He needs a head, and he has to use it. It is the acid test. That is the reason so many men, who shine in the minor leagues, fail to make good in the majors. They cannot stand the fire.
A young pitcher came to the Giants a few years ago. I won’t mention his name because he has been pitching good minor-league ball since. He was a wonder with the bases empty, but let a man or two get on the sacks, and he wouldn’t know whether he was in a pitcher’s box or learning aviation in the Wright school, and he acted a lot more like an aviator in the crisis. McGraw looked him over twice.
“He’s got a spine like a charlotte russe,” declared “Mac,” after his second peek, and he passed him back to the bushes.
Several other Big League managers, tempted by this man’s brilliant record in the minors, have tried him out since, but he has always gone back. McGraw’s judgment of the man was correct.
On the other hand, Otis Crandall came to the New York club a few years ago a raw country boy from Indiana. I shall never forget how he looked the first spring I saw him in Texas. The club had a large number of recruits and was short of uniforms. He was among the last of the hopefuls to arrive and there was no suit for him, so, in a pair of regular trousers with his coat off, he began chasing flies in the outfield. His head hung down on his chest, and, when not playing, a cigarette drooped out of the corner of his mouth. But he turned out to be a very good fly chaser, and McGraw admired his persistency.
“What are you?” McGraw asked him one day.
“A pitcher,” replied Crandall. Two words constitute an oration for him.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” said McGraw.
Crandall warmed up, and he didn’t have much of anything besides a sweeping outcurve and a good deal of speed. He looked less like a pitcher than any of the spring crop, but McGraw saw something in him and kept him. The result is he has turned out to be one of the most valuable men on the club, because he is there in a pinch. He couldn’t be disturbed if the McNamaras tied a bomb to him, with a time fuse on it set for “at once.” He is the sort of pitcher who is best when things look darkest. I’ve heard the crowd yelling, when he has been pitching on the enemy’s ground, so that a sixteen-inch gun couldn’t have been heard if it had gone off in the lot.