In his 21 years with the Washington Senators, Walter Johnson won 417 games
– second only to Cy Young – and hit 205 batters. Roger Clemens
recently became the 21st member of the 300-win club. He ranks 22nd on
the all-time list of hit batsmen with 140 – including the much ballyhooed
beaning of Mike Piazza a couple of years ago.
History, it seems,
dictates that in order to be a successful pitcher, you have to be willing
to throw a little "chin music" every now and then. It's necessary
to let the batter know who's in charge. Don Drysdale (209 wins, 154 hit
batsmen) once said "if the hitter is timid, he has to remind the
hitter he is timid."
Some say occasionally
hitting the batter is part of the game. Others say it has no place in
baseball. Nowadays, anytime a player is hit by a pitch, it's customary
to charge the mound and start a bench-clearing brawl.
What's beyond me is
how any of these players summon the courage to get into the batter's box
in the first place. Standing sixty-feet-six-inches from someone about
to wind up and sling a rock-hard ball ninety-five-miles-an-hour into an
area the size of a shoebox.
It's no wonder these
guys step up to the plate wearing helmets, batting gloves, elbow pads
and shin protectors. Throw in a chest protector, face mask, knee pads
and a cup and maybe, just maybe, I'd stand in there against Randy Johnson;
hoping that I didn't do or say anything to tick him off.
Praying that he didn't
get stuck in traffic on the way to the ball park, receive word from the
IRS that he's being audited or find out that he's part of a blockbuster
trade involving the Devil Rays. It'd be just my luck that I would be the
spitting image of the buffoon he caught hitting on his wife at last night's
fund raiser.
It makes sense that
nasty people make great pitchers. By all accounts, Carl Mays was a moody,
surly, mean spirited man. In 1920, Mays was the ace on the New York Yankees
pitching staff and a notorious "head hunter."
Ray Chapman was a
good natured, well liked, affable shortstop with the Cleveland Indians.
On August 16, 1920, the Yankees and Indians, battling for the American
League pennant, met at the Polo Grounds in New York. In the fifth inning,
Chapman stepped to the plate to face Mays.
Mays' first pitch
hit Chapman on the side of the head. He collapsed and was carried off
the field. The next day, Ray Chapman became the first and only Major League
player to die from injuries sustained from a pitched baseball.
Mays – seemingly
unfazed by the tragedy - finished the 1920 season with 26 wins. The following
year, he would lead the league with 27 wins. It's not surprising that
hitters facing Mays may have felt somewhat intimidated under the circumstances.
What is surprising
is that it took another twenty years before the Brooklyn Dodgers became
the first team to wear plastic batting helmets. I would have been wearing
a World War I Army helmet the day after Chapman's death – especially
with Mays on the mound. FYI: though he certainly had the credentials,
Mays never made it to the baseball Hall of Fame.
Modern day ballplayers
are constantly criticized. They're over paid, spoiled, pampered and self-absorbed.
Their success is often attributed to juiced balls, corked bats and rampant
steroid use. They've lost touch with the fans, cop an attitude with the
media and are ruining America's pastime.
In recent years, they've
given fans plenty of reasons to become indifferent about the game. Well,
here is one fan who is impressed simply because they have the nerve to
step up to the plate.
Resources for this week's Hogan's
Alley include historicbaseball.com, baseball-almanac.com and mlb.com.
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