Punk With A Nasty Delivery

Radinsky's 94-mph heaters are powered by long legs strengthened by years of mountain biking. Over his first four seasons in the Chicago bullpen, Radinsky averaged 68 appearances. He often biked to home games—a 10-mile round-trip from his house in downtown Chicago. When the Sox ended their 1992 season in Seattle, he pedaled more than 1,000 miles from the Kingdome to his doorstep in Simi Valley.

Biking also kept Radinsky fit and focused during the year he missed. He arrived at spring training in '95 in good enough shape to make the White Sox, though not good enough to make hitters miss. "I wouldn't let myself think the treatments had sapped my strength," he says. But they had, and Radinsky got powdered.

Not until mid-July could he jog in from the pen without feeling winded. Yet despite his late-season success—over 11 innings from Aug. 15 to Sept. 15, he allowed only one run—the Sox gave up on him. "I was crushed when they let me go," says Radinsky, who was granted free agent status on Dec. 21, 1995. "I would have accepted any contract, even a minor league contract." The Dodgers stepped in on Jan. 16, 1996, and signed him to such a contract. Radinsky made the club in spring training but went on the disabled list for two weeks with tendinitis in his left middle finger. As part of rehab, he dropped down to Class A, at San Bernardino, for three games. After rejoining the Dodgers on April 12, he pitched in 58 games during the season and struck out 48 batters in 52⅓ innings, going 5-1 with a 2.41 ERA. This year at the All-Star break his record was 3-1 with a 3.03 ERA. "I still see an oncologist every few months, just to make sure the cancer stays in remission," he says. "Otherwise I don't give it a second thought."

Unlike Dodgers outfielder Brett Butler, another cancer survivor, Radinsky is discomfited by celebrity. And by excess. He regards many big leaguers with the same wary disdain he reserved for the high school jocks who once ridiculed his devotion to punk bands such as Gay Cowboys in Bondage. "A lot of players are caught up in buying a new Mercedes or shooting shampoo commercials or making sure they've got the nicest limo to the airport," Radinsky declares scornfully. "They're insecure and have no idea who they really are."

Radinsky has a pretty good idea who he is. "I'm a punk rocker," he says flatly. "I'm crazy about playing ball, but it's just a sideline." A sideline that sometimes runs counter to his punk credo. "I'm not a fan of the act you have to put on to be a big leaguer. You play for some guy in a skybox. You're like a puppet. You've got to do everything textbook, or you lose your job. You want to warm up, but the umpire stops you because he's waiting for a TV commercial to end. What I like about punk is that it's anticommercial. It's pure."

Radinsky has been a punk purist since seeing the Circle Jerks in ninth grade. The music was urgent, abrasive, threatening. The rowdies in the mosh pit had spiked dog collars around their throats and safety pins punched through their cheeks. "Kids were spitting at the musicians out of respect," Radinsky recalls. "I thought. This is the life for me. These are my kind of people."

So, at 14 he launched his own buzz-and-blast band, Soldier of Fortune, and headlined in the cafeteria at Simi Valley Junior High. By 15 he was writing his own punk fanzine and touring Europe with a band called Scared Straight. Radinsky sang for the group until two years ago, when they handed him his outright release. "No hard feelings there," says Radinsky. "The other guys were just tired of booking gigs around my baseball career." He and four other musical free agents formed Pulley and signed a recording contract with Epitaph, a label whose punk roster includes Voodoo Glow Skulls and Rich Kids on LSD. "My whole attitude in life is about not cashing out," Radinsky says. "And yet I make my money as a pro ballplayer. Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite to punk kids."

Though his salary is just shy of $1 million, Radinsky and his wife, Darlenys, live modestly and unobtrusively in his old neighborhood. They share the digs with their five-month-old daughter, Shylene, and their golden retriever, Punky. "Darlenys keeps me grounded," allows Radinsky.

If his passion for the game faded, Radinsky says he would happily quit. "I'm not going to sell out just for one more paycheck," he says with Sex Pistols righteousness. "If I get tired of all the rules, if those five minutes are not enough, if the phone rings in the bullpen and the coach tells another reliever to warm up and I don't mind, then it's time to walk away. I'll just go and join a men's league in Simi Valley and pay my $150."

For now, the game suits his punk ethos. "The other day a fan with blue hair and four earrings leaned over the wall of our bullpen," says Cresse. "He pointed at Rad and screamed, 'Love your music, man!' Normally, blue-haired people don't like baseball."