Tim Wakefield announced his retirement from professional baseball earlier today.
When I came home from work, I watched the last three innings of Game 5, of the 2004 ALCS. I have the last four games saved on my iPad. Yankees at the Red Sox in Game 5; those were some of Tim's best moments. The Red Sox Manager, Terry Francona, had stayed with the starting catcher, Jason Varitek, into the extra innings. Normally Varitek would not be in there, the job of back-stopping Wakefield's knuckleball, notoriously hard to catch, usually fell to the other Sox catcher, Doug Mirabelli. But this was the League Championship, the Red Sox were down to the Yankees three games to one, and Francona stuck with Varitek.
In the top of the thirteenth inning, Yankees slugger Gary Sheffield took some wild, from-the-heels cuts at the knuckleball, and struck out. But Varitek could not make the put-out, and Sheffield reached on a passed ball. Next, Hideki Matsui, who had been killing the Sox up to that point in the Series, bounced a slow grounder to second, and the Sox could only get the lead runner, Sheffield. Then Bernie Williams flew out to right field for the second out. The next batter was the Yankees catcher Jorge Posada, well known as a patient hitter. On the third pitch, Varitek lost another passed ball, and Matsui advanced to second. With the count two balls and one strike, Francona elected to intentionally walk Posada and face Ruben Sierra - who had three hits in four at-bats that night.
The first pitch to Sierra was a slow knuckler over the inside part of the plate for strike one. Fenway erupted with approval. The second pitch was fouled back for strike two. The third pitch was low and inside, Varitek stabbing at the dirt to catch it. The crowd gasped and grew silent. The fourth pitch was also fouled back, and the count held at one and two. The next pitch danced off the outside of the plate, and Varitek tried to simultaneously scoop and slap the ball, which bounced to the fence; crowd moaned in horror. Matsui took third and Posada second on the third passed ball of the inning.
So it was two and two to Sierra, two outs with runners at second and third. Wakefield's sixth pitch of the at-bat was high and outside, Varitek jumped up and blocked the ball, which popped out of his glove, but dropped down at Sierra's feet. More shouts and gasps, but the runners could not advance. The broadcast cameras flashed to Mirabelli in the Red Sox dugout, his head down, his hands pressed together, his body rocking with tension; he could not watch. On the seventh pitch Sierra swung thru a tight knuckleball on the inside half, inning over. As Varitek snapped his glove shut, he pumped his fist; Wakefield doing the same as he marched off the mound shouting at the dugout, and the crowd roaring.
In my opinion, this was the key Yankee at-bat in the Series; it was the last close moment, and as close as the Yankees would come to winning the pennant that year, after they raced out to a 3-0 Series lead. Wakefield and Varitek gutting it out, disaster one fluttering knuckleball away. But they trusted each other, and made enough outs (four) to finish the inning unscathed.
It's a baseball cliche: pitching is an unnatural act. The motion contorts your arm and requires constant attention and effort to prevent injury. But any kid who throws a snowball, or a rock, or a baseball can tell you it feels pretty natural. You just haul back and throw. But throwing a knuckleball, that really is an unnatural act. Like other physical acts that defy logic - skydiving, car racing, ski jumping - one part of your brain has to convince another part of your brain that this is a good idea, that this is what you want your body to do and it's going to work out. I want you to: push the baseball, using just the fingertips, take the spin off the ball, push it towards home plate where stands Gary Sheffield, or Alex Rodriguez, or Hideki Matsui, and let them try to hit a ball traveling 60 miles per hour when they are accustomed to a ball traveling 95. I want to do this. I think this is a good idea. If the hitter should make good contact, it is likely the ball will travel a long distance, and the hearts of your teammates, coaches, and the millions of fans that make up Red Sox Nation will be crushed. I will throw this pitch.
This is unnatural. Wakefield made a 19-year career of this.
Sitting in the stands and watching Wakefield pitch was other-worldly. I last got to see Wake pitch in 2009, his All-Star year, when he beat the As in Oakland 8-2, with a complete-game 4-hitter. Lobbing pitch after pitch, when he should be throwing peas, shooting bullets, firing BBs, whatever. It sure looked unnatural. How could the As hitters not crush every one of those meatballs, even if they weren't spinning? The infielders were making pegs to first faster than Wakefield threw to the plate. He was 42 years old in 2009, very close to my own age. He was 11-5 that year, and helped the Sox make another playoff appearance.
In his farewell today, Wakefield spoke about his youthful dreams of playing in the majors. Unlike so many who make it to the majors, Wakefield made it there and stayed for so long because he could do this one thing that very-very few can do. He was not a good hitter. A converted infielder, he was a pretty good fielder, though, as a pitcher, got few opportunities. His fastball, when the hitter knew it was coming, was a gopher-ball; and he threw a curveball only occasionally - those pitches would not have existed but for the knuckler.
My friend Rob and I used to take lunch breaks and play catch in front of the Federal Reserve Bank in Boston, and he could throw a knuckleball. I tried, but never could quite get the ball to float the right way - I could never completely remove the spin. But when Rob threw one you could tell he had to force himself to do it. He had to concentrate, think really hard about how to coordinate his arm and his fingers. Rob was a coordinated guy, a good athlete, and had run the Boston Marathon a few times, but only one knuckleball in a dozen was really any good. And he could not really throw it hard enough to use it, say, in a beer-league game. But when he got it to work, it was really strange to try to catch it.
I've racked my brain trying to find an equivalent to Wakefield specifically, and knuckleball pitchers in general, in other sports. It's really difficult - to execute some basic move in a sport in a way that is so wrong that it's right. Jim Furyk in golf? I don't know.
Thank you Tim Wakefield and congratulations on a unique and unforgettable career.
Bonus: Joe Posnanski wrote a nice piece on 'poetry and knuckleball pitchers' on his blog at SI.
When I came home from work, I watched the last three innings of Game 5, of the 2004 ALCS. I have the last four games saved on my iPad. Yankees at the Red Sox in Game 5; those were some of Tim's best moments. The Red Sox Manager, Terry Francona, had stayed with the starting catcher, Jason Varitek, into the extra innings. Normally Varitek would not be in there, the job of back-stopping Wakefield's knuckleball, notoriously hard to catch, usually fell to the other Sox catcher, Doug Mirabelli. But this was the League Championship, the Red Sox were down to the Yankees three games to one, and Francona stuck with Varitek.
In the top of the thirteenth inning, Yankees slugger Gary Sheffield took some wild, from-the-heels cuts at the knuckleball, and struck out. But Varitek could not make the put-out, and Sheffield reached on a passed ball. Next, Hideki Matsui, who had been killing the Sox up to that point in the Series, bounced a slow grounder to second, and the Sox could only get the lead runner, Sheffield. Then Bernie Williams flew out to right field for the second out. The next batter was the Yankees catcher Jorge Posada, well known as a patient hitter. On the third pitch, Varitek lost another passed ball, and Matsui advanced to second. With the count two balls and one strike, Francona elected to intentionally walk Posada and face Ruben Sierra - who had three hits in four at-bats that night.
The first pitch to Sierra was a slow knuckler over the inside part of the plate for strike one. Fenway erupted with approval. The second pitch was fouled back for strike two. The third pitch was low and inside, Varitek stabbing at the dirt to catch it. The crowd gasped and grew silent. The fourth pitch was also fouled back, and the count held at one and two. The next pitch danced off the outside of the plate, and Varitek tried to simultaneously scoop and slap the ball, which bounced to the fence; crowd moaned in horror. Matsui took third and Posada second on the third passed ball of the inning.
So it was two and two to Sierra, two outs with runners at second and third. Wakefield's sixth pitch of the at-bat was high and outside, Varitek jumped up and blocked the ball, which popped out of his glove, but dropped down at Sierra's feet. More shouts and gasps, but the runners could not advance. The broadcast cameras flashed to Mirabelli in the Red Sox dugout, his head down, his hands pressed together, his body rocking with tension; he could not watch. On the seventh pitch Sierra swung thru a tight knuckleball on the inside half, inning over. As Varitek snapped his glove shut, he pumped his fist; Wakefield doing the same as he marched off the mound shouting at the dugout, and the crowd roaring.
In my opinion, this was the key Yankee at-bat in the Series; it was the last close moment, and as close as the Yankees would come to winning the pennant that year, after they raced out to a 3-0 Series lead. Wakefield and Varitek gutting it out, disaster one fluttering knuckleball away. But they trusted each other, and made enough outs (four) to finish the inning unscathed.
It's a baseball cliche: pitching is an unnatural act. The motion contorts your arm and requires constant attention and effort to prevent injury. But any kid who throws a snowball, or a rock, or a baseball can tell you it feels pretty natural. You just haul back and throw. But throwing a knuckleball, that really is an unnatural act. Like other physical acts that defy logic - skydiving, car racing, ski jumping - one part of your brain has to convince another part of your brain that this is a good idea, that this is what you want your body to do and it's going to work out. I want you to: push the baseball, using just the fingertips, take the spin off the ball, push it towards home plate where stands Gary Sheffield, or Alex Rodriguez, or Hideki Matsui, and let them try to hit a ball traveling 60 miles per hour when they are accustomed to a ball traveling 95. I want to do this. I think this is a good idea. If the hitter should make good contact, it is likely the ball will travel a long distance, and the hearts of your teammates, coaches, and the millions of fans that make up Red Sox Nation will be crushed. I will throw this pitch.
This is unnatural. Wakefield made a 19-year career of this.
Sitting in the stands and watching Wakefield pitch was other-worldly. I last got to see Wake pitch in 2009, his All-Star year, when he beat the As in Oakland 8-2, with a complete-game 4-hitter. Lobbing pitch after pitch, when he should be throwing peas, shooting bullets, firing BBs, whatever. It sure looked unnatural. How could the As hitters not crush every one of those meatballs, even if they weren't spinning? The infielders were making pegs to first faster than Wakefield threw to the plate. He was 42 years old in 2009, very close to my own age. He was 11-5 that year, and helped the Sox make another playoff appearance.
In his farewell today, Wakefield spoke about his youthful dreams of playing in the majors. Unlike so many who make it to the majors, Wakefield made it there and stayed for so long because he could do this one thing that very-very few can do. He was not a good hitter. A converted infielder, he was a pretty good fielder, though, as a pitcher, got few opportunities. His fastball, when the hitter knew it was coming, was a gopher-ball; and he threw a curveball only occasionally - those pitches would not have existed but for the knuckler.
My friend Rob and I used to take lunch breaks and play catch in front of the Federal Reserve Bank in Boston, and he could throw a knuckleball. I tried, but never could quite get the ball to float the right way - I could never completely remove the spin. But when Rob threw one you could tell he had to force himself to do it. He had to concentrate, think really hard about how to coordinate his arm and his fingers. Rob was a coordinated guy, a good athlete, and had run the Boston Marathon a few times, but only one knuckleball in a dozen was really any good. And he could not really throw it hard enough to use it, say, in a beer-league game. But when he got it to work, it was really strange to try to catch it.
I've racked my brain trying to find an equivalent to Wakefield specifically, and knuckleball pitchers in general, in other sports. It's really difficult - to execute some basic move in a sport in a way that is so wrong that it's right. Jim Furyk in golf? I don't know.
Thank you Tim Wakefield and congratulations on a unique and unforgettable career.
Bonus: Joe Posnanski wrote a nice piece on 'poetry and knuckleball pitchers' on his blog at SI.
