In A Strike Zone Of His Own

But Palmer can be just as contrary if he is winning with bad stuff, the sign of a top pitcher. Once he complained and moaned between innings of a one-hitter. He will disparage his whole art: "You think pitching's all that difficult? Just go stand around the batting cage before a game and see how the best hitters do with some of the easiest pitches. When I'm out there and they're getting hits off my best pitches, lots of times I've thought, 'I bet I could get them out just by lobbing a few up.' "

He is a perfectionist, and while this is responsible for his success, it also is a source of occasional despair. "I don't care who you are, no human being can start off a game pitching to spots," says Bamberger. "You start off too fine and you are sure enough going to get behind." Manager Earl Weaver, the banty rooster who seems to keep his team of free agents together largely by telling them things they do not want to hear, says that Palmer's problem is compounded by the fact that his breaking pitches, which come in high before dipping at the last moment, look too much like balls for spineless umpires to dare call them properly as strikes.

Palmer's and Weaver's conversations about pitching must be fascinating, because neither will listen to the other on the subject. Smoking another Raleigh—and making sure to tuck away the coupon—Weaver says, "His control is off one night. He's walking guys. He's always giving out this stuff about how he's too smart to get into a big inning...he give you that? I thought so. But the trouble is—and he'll call me a damn liar—I think he gets into big innings sometimes by thinking too much about how he's not going to get into a big inning.

"So I said, 'You're starting to take something off them pitches.' And he said—get this—he said, 'No, I'm not. They're perfect pitches.'

"So I said, 'Yeah, you're right. They're too perfect. The hitter won't swing at them, and the umpire won't call them strikes.' "

Palmer shakes his head and says, "Earl means well. He is spontaneous, but he is also not afraid to apologize. The main thing is, you must never forget that playing baseball is an extension of your youth. Instead of having my parents scream at me, now I have Earl Weaver."

If Weaver or Bamberger should visit the Palmers' house, he would understand immediately why it is futile to try to persuade him to throw less than ideal pitches. There is not a thing out of place. Dust has been canceled, wrinkles outlawed. In the two daughters' bedrooms, even the dolls are neatly, symmetrically arranged. Years ago Leonhard dubbed Susan Palmer Susie Spotless, and she is a fair match for her husband. Outside, beyond the tidy garage where every implement cowers in its assigned location around the shiny Mercedes, the flowers stand at parade rest in his garden. Palmer lives in a strike zone, right on the corner, high and tight at the letters.

The house is located in Phoenix, Md., barely 20 minutes from Memorial Stadium, but it would be incorrect to pass it off as suburban. A sloping 17th-century house is nearby; the Palmer land was once part of that manor. It is rolling green Maryland farmland, just over from the hunt country where steeplechases are still run and the hounds and the riders in their hunter's pink are still blessed at the church before they take after foxes on Thanksgiving morning. The ball park, so near, is far away. The smell is of honeysuckle, the sounds are of birds and bees, and the sun shines benignly down on all Palmer's handiwork, which he has placed in the ground precisely and left-handed.

"I've planted just about everything," he says. "Except trees. They take too long to grow." It is the one concession to his profession, to trades and sales and to arms that wither and are gone. Besides, Palmer recognizes that these are unsure times for players.

Unlike him, most athletes settle for being gypsies; a new stereo set that has to be wired is the closest thing to permanence. So what is a new team? A new town? "I'll play anywhere they pay me well," says Oakland Outfielder Joe Rudi. But baseball, like a garden, is a fragile enterprise, and it takes only a slight shift to throw the delicate balance out of whack. Unless the smaller flowers are given some room, the larger plants will overshadow all, and soon only Gotham or Hollywood will bloom.