Full Count

IT WAS EVERYTHING I WANTED and, really, everything I didn't want. I always longed to be on the mound so I could perform and be the center of attention, with thousands of fans screaming and waiting for me to throw a pitch. But I wanted to experience that type of atmosphere when I was dominating a game, not when I was sputtering. In this memorable moment, I wasn't dazzling. I was barely breathing.

Huffing and puffing my way through Game 5 of the 1995 American League Division Series between my Yankees and the Seattle Mariners, I was a weary pitcher with an aching arm and a deteriorating plan. The Yankees had acquired me from the Toronto Blue Jays in July, and I was supposed to help lead them to the postseason and maybe even to the World Series. This sort of high-leverage game was exactly why the Yankees pursued me as a hired gun. But, pitch after suspect pitch, my situation grew more and more distressing.

We started the eighth inning with a 4–2 lead, but that shrunk by a run when Ken Griffey Jr. blasted a one-out homer. After I retired Edgar Martinez on a groundout, I exhaled because he had been so lethal against us and because I was one elusive out from pushing the game into the ninth. But I couldn't get it. I became too careful, too defensive, and too nervous. I walked a batter, allowed a single, and walked another Mariner to fill the bases. After not throwing four balls to anyone in the entire game, I had walked two of the last three Mariners, a glaring sign that I was squeezing the ball too tight or aiming it or just being passive. My pitches were eroding, and I wasn't close to being the same effective pitcher I had been in the earlier innings.

Still, I had blind faith as Doug Strange, a left-handed batter, was announced as a pinch-hitter. I stood behind the mound while Strange took some swings in the on-deck circle, idle time in which I tried to convince myself I could still get this last out. Buck Showalter, my manager, later said he didn't want to remove me from the game because he trusted me and because I deserved "the chance there to finish it." I appreciate Showalter's trust in me, but I wasn't glancing into the dugout for any reassurance. And I didn't want Showalter analyzing me, either, and I didn't want him to see how lifeless I was and, honestly, how scared I was. I was so spent that it felt like I was lifting a hundred-pound dumbbell every time I raised my right arm to throw a pitch.

In that defining duel against Strange, I felt like a bystander in my own final scene. Throwing strikes was supposed to be my focus, but I couldn't do it. It was a circle-of-life moment, and I was morphing into a tense nine-year-old kid again. I threw a decent slider that Strange swung over for the first strike, but then I unleashed three straight balls, my location worsening with each pitch and my body clearly sagging. After securing a second strike on a fastball that was right down the middle, Mike Stanley signaled for a splitter, which I had missed badly with earlier in the at bat, and I never hesitated. I thought that was the right pitch to throw on 3-2. I still think it was, but I threw it way inside and also bounced it. It was my 147th pitch. No man has thrown more pitches in a postgame game since then.

"And they gambled with the split-finger," said Jim Kaat, the former major league pitcher who was calling the game. "Three-two. Two out. Wow."

Once I walked Strange to force in pinch-runner Alex Rodriguez with the tying run, I almost collapsed, immediately slumping over, putting my hands on my knees and remaining in that bent position for several seconds. I trudged off the mound, my head bowed and my senses in disarray as I was replaced by Mariano Rivera, a converted starter in his rookie season who was not yet viewed as a dominant reliever. We lost to the Mariners in eleven innings and our season ended. I always believed I could have done something different, something ingenious, to get one more out, and the splitter was designed to be that get-me-out-of-trouble pitch.

But, on that fateful night, everything was a blur. I didn't want to come out of the game, but I didn't have the strength, physically or mentally, to get through that last batter. Everything I understood about executing pitches, the vast knowledge and endless experience, was in tatters because, at that moment, the five-ounce ball felt like a bowling ball. There was nothing I could do to revive myself because, for those pitches, I wasn't the same confident pitcher. I was a frightened nine-year-old.

From the time I was nine, being on a mound was where I needed to be and where I had to be. I wanted to be the most important player on the field, I wanted every pair of eyes staring at me, and I wanted to be in control. Maybe it's an ego issue, but it takes a certain type of controlling personality to climb atop a mound, a place that can be as lonely as it is exciting, and decide that's where you belong. It's the responsibility, the intensity, and the desire for the spotlight that appeals to pitchers. It's what you do. It's who you are.

All of these years later, I can still hear my mother yelling, "Throw strikes! Throw strikes!" at Little League games, and I can still feel the stress that would smother me when I couldn't do it. No matter how talented a pitcher is, there is incredible stress involved in harnessing all the power in your body to try and throw a pitch to a specific location, a location as tiny as a cocktail napkin. And failing. And then trying to do it again and failing again.

Every pitcher knows those feelings of being uncomfortable and flustered, feelings that can be exposed after one shabby sequence of pitches. I would chastise myself in a blitz of expletives and ask myself what was wrong. Should I use more finger pressure on the ball? Is my front shoulder flying away from my body and causing my pitches to sail? Is my front leg landing directly in line with the catcher's target? Stress follows pitchers and clings to them like a sweaty Dri-FIT shirt—and still I loved every aspect of that demanding position, even the unnerving moments.

Anytime I ascended the mound and stared in for a sign, I was a little jumpy and a little hyperactive because I wanted to succeed so desperately. The mound was a heavenly spot for me, a hill of hope that I first discovered as a boy: a get-out-of-my-way kind of kid. There has never been a place where I've felt more powerful—and, of course, on some days there has never been a place where I've felt more depressed.

Even when I wasn't close to the mound, I still imagined myself there. When I was lumbering through my living room, I would stop, close my eyes, and envision myself pitching. I was always ready, always aggressive. I'd do the same thing as I stood on a subway platform or as I waited in line for a cup of coffee. Stop. Close my eyes. Transport myself to the mound. No matter where I was or how awkward I might look, that feeling always rejuvenated me, always made me feel as if I was back in the right place.

It's been more than fifteen years since I've thrown a baseball in a major league game, but I can still see myself pitching. My eyes are darting from the catcher to the batter to the umpire, my face is bathed in perspiration, and my mind, my ever-frenetic mind, is hunting for solutions. I hope I always see myself like that. I need that adrenaline rush, as counterfeit as it might be, and I need to know that it could still be me out there, even if it isn't. In my mind, I trick myself into believing that it is. I am still pitching.

There is no experience like it, really. Not for me or for thousands like me. The pitcher has a weighty responsibility that is like no other in sports. In baseball, there's no running back or wide receiver who can take the ball from you. It's our ball and our game, a game that is like no other because the defense actually has control of the ball, and that control starts with the pitcher. Like other pitchers, I chose this difficult position, knowing the requirements, the expectations, and the emotional swings. When you watch a game, you watch the pitcher. You watched me and the pitcher after me and the pitcher after him. I loved that attention, craved that attention. I still do.

Being a pitcher means being a creator, an orchestrator, an improviser, and a magician, a person willing to devise some way to throw the ball so that the hitter is deceived and defeated. Curve it, sink it, cut it, bend it, explode it, and then do it again. But just make sure that the next pitch is even better. Make the ball dance. Make it do whatever you need it to do. Pitchers are required to test themselves and trust themselves, notions that don't always mesh on the mound. As a pitcher tries to throw the perfect slider, a pitch that is designed to break late and confuse a hitter, does he believe he will succeed? He had better believe it.

Through all of the long, lazy days or the quick, hectic nights at the ballpark, I was intent on being a smart student and a clever thief, roles that every pitcher should emulate. As a maturing pitcher who was learning how to be a professional, and even as a veteran pitcher who had won a Cy Young Award, I studied and I stole. I analyzed other pitchers and tried to determine the reasons they were successful and if there was anything they did that I should be doing. If a pitcher isn't trying to swipe something valuable from other pitchers, whether it's a grip on a pitch, a positioning on the rubber, or a strategy against a particular hitter, he's being careless.

During the Wiffle ball games in my backyard in Kansas City, I typically mimicked Luis Tiant, my pied piper, and called our field Coneway Park after Boston's Fenway Park. If I was imitating Juan Marichal and his high leg kick, the venue was dubbed Conedlestick Park after San Francisco's Candlestick Park. My father even installed floodlights so we could play night games.

Tiant had immense talent while winning 229 games for teams like the Indians, the Red Sox, and the Yankees, but he had style and deception, too. When Tiant threw a pitch, he didn't simply step back with his left leg, raise it in front of him, swing his arms over his head, rotate his hips, and power his body forward to throw the ball, as coaches teach. There were no lessons for what Tiant did. He was a pitching contortionist. Tiant turned away from the plate, twisted his body so that he was looking toward center field, tilted his head toward the sky, pirouetted back to home, and then threw a pitch. He made the unnatural look so natural. I wanted to do that or something like that, too.

Sitting on the floor so I could closely analyze Tiant's movements on television, I was convinced that Tiant's unusual delivery confused batters. The batters saw more of the number on Tiant's back than they saw of Tiant's eyes or the ball. Hitters never knew when Tiant would release the ball or from what angle. That's deceiving the hitter. That's pitching. Tiant's funky motion was telling batters that he was so sneaky and so confident that he didn't even need to look at the plate as he prepared to throw the pitch.

Trying to fully replicate Tiant's distinctive style would be disastrous because pitching styles need to develop naturally. But Tiant's unorthodox approach was a reminder to study every pitcher, from your teammates to your opponents to the pitchers you see on TV. Pitchers need to be students, forever students, because there's always a chance to learn something or poach something that will make you better.

With a baseball in their hands and control of what happens next in the game, pitchers feel invigorated and energized. I loved to slide my fingers over the cowhide surface, my index and middle fingers combing the red seams until I had touched all 108 of them. I wanted to locate the thickest seams, the place on the ball where the seams felt larger, even if they weren't. If I felt seams that seemed the slightest bit thicker to me, I'd be more content because that gave me a better grip and a better way to create spin and velocity on my pitches. Pitchers chase edges, whether they are real or imagined.

In this world, this fascinating and complicated world of pitching, I challenged myself to be better, be nastier, and be the last man standing, gladiator style. Give me the ball and I would devise something, no matter how sore my arm felt. I had a relentless attitude as a pitcher, a feeling of responsibility that caused me, honestly, to behave maniacally on the mound. I wanted to sweat, stew, and scream until we had notched the twenty-seventh out. Even if it meant throwing 160 pitches. Even if I was putting my arm in danger. Even if I wasn't the best choice to pitch anymore because I was fatigued or just ineffective. The hell with those fears and concerns. I would worry about them tomorrow. In my scouting reports on pitchers, a little craziness is a positive trait.

That dose of craziness can be helpful because it can cause a pitcher to be daring and take some chances, choices that might be unexpected and might unnerve the batters. A first-pitch curveball or a 3-1 changeup aren't pitches a batter is likely to anticipate. By shrewdly and selectively taking chances and throwing them, a pitcher can get strikes and give the batter something extra to ponder. Or a pitcher can take a chance with a 3-2 splitter and the bases loaded in the postseason, as I did on my 147th pitch of the game to Strange, and it backfires.

As much as I wanted to stay in games and as much as I knew pitchers who were just as stubborn as me, I eventually learned, a little too late, that pitchers need protectors. I never thought about the repercussions of throwing 160 pitches in a game because I had been taught, lectured, and counseled to believe that every start was my responsibility and I needed to exert myself to pitch for as long as I could. Actually, I still believe in that philosophy, with the caveat being that pitchers need to be durable and smart, not durable and foolish. My mentality was "go until you blow," and that was detrimental, at times, in my career. As Exhibit A, I required surgery to remove an aneurysm from under my right armpit in 1996. The aneurysm, which is the swelling of an artery that results when the lining of the blood vessel is compromised, came from the stress I put on my arm while throwing thousands and thousands of pitches in my life.

What are you doing in the trainer's room again, rookie? That question reverberated off the walls of the clubhouse when I began my career with the Royals and the Mets. I watched, warily, as young pitchers who frequented the trainer's room were belittled and called soft and unreliable. Some of the veterans would scoldingly tell the pitchers they were too young to be hurt, a hazing of sorts that doesn't exist today. That bullying I witnessed stayed with me and molded me, motivating me to want to pitch deep into games to earn the respect of my peers.

In those days, the finish line wasn't a starter's pitch count. It was the number of innings he could complete. But, nowadays, it's rare for a starter to even throw 120 pitches. Managers become antsy if a pitcher nears 100 pitches or if he has to face a batting order for the third time. I didn't worry much about pitch counts as a pitcher, but I understand why teams are obsessed with protecting arms that are worth millions to an organization. It's a sensible way to treat such a valuable commodity, especially with teams trying to comprehend why an inordinate number of pitchers have ended up tearing a ligament in their elbow and needing Tommy John surgery.

Still, there needs to be a better balance between haphazardly throwing 160 pitches and worrying as someone nears 100 pitches. Pitchers need to push themselves to discover what their limitations are and learn if they can still be as effective on their 115th pitch as they are on their 75th pitch. If a pitcher's splitter isn't diving, he needs to use his fastball or his slider and survive until the splitter returns. Or maybe it won't return at all. Those experiences, which multiply as a pitcher goes deeper into a game, are the building blocks to becoming a more confident performer.

Unless pitchers are given the opportunities to rumble through some of those pitch count limits, they probably won't ever know how strong or successful they can be later in games. A minor league prospect who is accustomed to being removed from starts after five innings isn't going to be prepared to pitch in the seventh or the eighth and is going to encounter new obstacles when he finally gets that opportunity. In many ways, today's pitchers are too coddled and aren't allowed to test themselves to determine how much they can endure. Except for a handful of durable pitchers, that's never going to change, because teams are very protective of their pitchers and managers are conditioned to bring in fresh relievers who throw fastballs in the upper 90s and accumulate lots of strikeouts.

If my shoulder felt as if someone had jabbed a plastic knife in my labrum, I pushed through the pain. If my fingers were throbbing and influencing the way I held the ball, I'd flex them and try a different grip. If I was sapped for energy, I'd take a deep breath, curse at myself, and create something different to try. A different arm angle, a new grip, a change in velocity. Anything.

Lift your front leg a little higher and you can stride closer to the plate, giving your fastball more velocity because you are releasing the ball later. As a right-hander, target off-speed pitches inside to righty hitters because they won't expect them and they might be off balance. With two strikes, throw your curveball as low as a batter's cleats because he could be jumpy and he might swing. These are just a few tweaks that pitchers can make, changes that could help them maneuver through a precarious situation.

I know a few pitchers who were crazier than me, and I know a lot more pitchers who were saner than me, but we all shared the same vision and the same goal: Deceive the hitter any way possible. One of my reliable approaches against left-handed batters was to get a first-pitch strike with a four-seam fastball or a curveball, then throw a cut fastball inside to get them to foul it off for a second strike, then throw my splitter in the dirt or a backdoor slider as the strikeout pitch.

But that was different from what Greg Maddux, Jack McDowell, or Andy Pettitte did, and I wanted to understand why. I wanted to know how Maddux could throw two-seam fastballs that looked like they were about to hit a left-handed batter's hip and then dived right and clipped the inside corner. I wanted to know how McDowell's slider maintained its sharpness deep into the game and made batters buckle. I wanted to know how Pettitte's cutters had such late and sharp left-to-right action. Even if I didn't imitate these pitchers, I wanted to analyze them, quiz them, and have that knowledge in my database. Maybe it would help me get an important out someday.

Some pitchers have a Plan A and, if that doesn't work, a Plan B or C. I wanted to have a Plan A through Z. If what I was doing wasn't working, I'd throw sidearm or I'd twist my body completely around or I'd invent a pitch. I wasn't afraid to try different things, which helped make me difficult to dissect and made some batters uncomfortable against me. But that experimental side of me also infuriated some coaches. They would insist that I couldn't throw certain pitches from different arm angles or to certain locations, and I would tell them, "It's my career. I'm going to do it the way I want to do it."

That refusal to acquiesce to the standard operating procedure was my way of following what had been working or what I thought would flourish. I believed throwing a specific pitch to a specific location was going to be effective because that's what I felt at that moment. It might change thirty seconds later, but when I threw a pitch, any pitch, I believed it was the proper pitch to throw. Every pitcher should feel that way, or the pitch isn't worth throwing. That faith, which was faulty at times, helps explain a part of my philosophy and how desperate I was to get outs. There was a maniacal quality to being on the mound, an urgency to excel and to avoid repeating my mistakes. If my slider was flat or my fastball lacked its usual life, changes were always possible and even probable.