Ocie Stibbs had been throwing like this for as long as he could remember; 50 pitches a day to keep his arm strong. Unfortunately, this throwing session was mostly serving as the Whales’ backup catcher Noah Forbes’ calisthenics. Every third pitch seemed to whiz by Forbes to the backstop. For some reason, throwing wasn’t coming as easy to Stibbs as it always had.
Since coming to Brooklyn—his third major league team in as many years—Stibbs was starting to question everything that he knew about pitching. It was plain to everyone that he had ever played ball with that he was dripping with arm talent—it was obvious. But, the art of pitching, however, had recently become far more enigmatic to the lefty. A sinister voice had begun to whisper in his head. What if he wasn’t good enough?
As always when the young pitcher threw these sessions, the Whale’s pitching coach, Nate Ford, stood off to the side. The old spitballer never seemed to say much. He mostly just chewed his tobacco and watched.
Out of character, though, Ford interjected himself into the lefty’s routine. “Kid,” he muttered, tobacco juice escaping from the corner of his mouth and staining his shirt, “you’re pitching this week. Bakers and Clippers. Skip wants to take another look at you.”
“Are you sure, Coach? He always seems awfully mad when I throw.”
“Sure, I’m sure. Heard it straight from Skip. That’s just the way he is, Kid. Don’t worry about it.
But, one thing you oughta know. We’re going to give Forbesy over there a break from now on. You’re wearing him out and it’s not doing neither of you any good. We’re bringing in a partner for you. Should be here tomorrow. He’s going to work with you exclusive. See if we can’t fix that arm of yours. Think you’ll like him, too. Some do. Think you might be one of ‘em. But, either way, I want you to listen to him, Kid. He’s one of them self-styled intellectuals. Can’t hit a lick, but he knows pitching. Calls one heck of a game behind the plate. Do whatever he says, Kid. Think he can help you out.”
————
The next day, Stibbs was getting ready for his daily throwing regimen in the home locker room of the Field of the Whales when he heard bounding footsteps that announced an unfamiliar presence long before anyone else entered the room. When the door opened, and the owner of the exuberant footsteps announced himself, Stibbs was struck by the unusual, portly man before him. He was dressed in an exceptionally tailored tuxedo with well coifed hair. Stibbs thought that the man carried himself like an aristocrat. That is, of course, until Stibbs noticed that the man was not wearing shoes.
“You must be Ocie,” the shoeless, would-be-lord greeted the young pitcher as he closed the distance between them with unexpected speed and grace given his round frame. “An absolute pleasure, my boy. Name’s Jimmy. Jimmy Talmadge. Some jokers around here call me ‘Doc.’ Anyways, second go-round here in Brooklyn. Worked with Mr. Williams before. Absolutely loathesome man. But, he apologized and said that you needed me. So, here I am, old boy. Reporting for duty. Glad to be here and pleased to make your acquaintance. I love the smell of a locker room. Don’t you? A truly splendid atmosphere. No better place to be, if you ask me.”
“Uh, hello, Jimmy. It’s, uh, nice to meet you.” Ocie, never a big talker, had no idea what to say. He knew that it was his turn to speak by the expectant stare of the stranger, but was not quite sure what was expected of him in this instance, and was still trying to process the man’s strange entrance.
“Now, my good lad, I hope that you do not find me too forward when I say that I spoke with Mr. Ford about your troubles. We will get to those in good time. Trust me on that. You’re in good hands. But, first things first. He told that we will be working together against the fiendish Bakers and those most contemptible Clippers. Both blue teams. And, so, it is absolutely imperative, and you must trust me on this, that you eat 3 pounds of fresh blueberries in each of the 3 days before you pitch. 3 and 3. 3 strikes and 3 outs. Understand? I will write it down for you, so that you remember, and I will get you the name of my grocer. Fine fellow. If you tell him I sent you, he will take care of you straight away. But, and you must trust me on this, it is absolutely vital–truly, truly vital–that you consume your enemy’s color. Coat your innards and steal their power. Critical. Absolutely critical. Very important. Trust me. You must do this. Promise me that you will? “
After a long pause and a bewildered stare from the young pitcher, the newest Whale continued.
“Right, then. Now that we have checked off the important subject of nutrition, we must dance.”
“Huh?”
“Mr. Ford tells me that you have a magnificent arm, but no rhythm. So, we are going to work on that while we get to know each other. No better way than to dance together, you and me. Up. Up with you now. Come here. Yes, yes. That’s good.”
The confused young pitcher stood up from the bench where he sat–not really having time to process the nature of the request–and, in an instant, the debonair catcher had him by the hips. Before he could process what was happening, or even begin to raise an objection, Talmadge began to move him around the lockerroom.
“Now, as you see, I will lead. Just trust me, old chap, and we will do great things. Great things. Follow my steps. By the end of the season, I suspect, you will be ready to lead, too. But, all in due time, my boy. Now, this dance. This dance is called the waltz. It’s easy. Yes, yes. Like that. Good, good. See? You’re a natural. But, please, keep following my lead. We are going to go 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3. Just like pitching, really. Easy choreography. 3 strikes and 3 outs. Not so different, you see. That’s good. Yes, yes. Follow my lead. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3.”
And, so, the new battery mates, at the beginning of their strange partnership, danced together in the home locker room of the Field of the Whales. One man, well dressed, barefoot and freshly employed. The other, young and full of equal parts talent and self-doubt.
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3. Just like pitching, really. 3 strikes and 3 outs.