Nolan's frightening fastball
Posted: Wednesday January 27, 1999 11:48 AM
I once watched Nolan Ryan throw baseballs in a pasture in Alvin, Texas. The pasture was next to his house and he had built a regulation diamond for his sons when they played in the Little League. The sons had grown and now played their games in bigger fields. The land had been pretty much returned to its natural state. This was a place where cows often grazed.
"Watch your step," Nolan said.
I was the only spectator. Harry Spilman, a former major-leaguer who lived in the neighborhood, was the catcher. Nolan's three dogs, Buster and Suzy and fat old Bea, wandered around what would have been the outfield.
Nolan threw from the old mound. Harry squatted behind the plate, which was obscured by the tall grass. The time was late in the day, twilight. Nolan was in one of his last workouts before reporting for Spring training for the 1991 season. He was 44 years old, but at the top of his game.
I watched as he got loose, as the pitches arrived faster and faster. Each made a large Whomp in Harry's glove. I was maybe 20 feet away when the workout began, trying to be anonymous, but slowly I moved closer and closer, drawn by the activity, trying to listen to the conversation. I was about five feet from Harry when he invited me to stand at the plate.
"Why don't you get up here?" he said. "See what it's like."
Whomp.
"Nooooo, thank you," I said. I'm OK where I am."
I regret the decision now, regret it a lot. I mean, what's the worst that could have happened? Even if I'd been hit in the head, struck dead, I would have been killed by a Hall of Fame pitcher.
Sports Illustrated senior writer Leigh Montville appears regularly on CNN/Sports Illustrated.
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