Streakin'

The Twins took Erickson in the fourth round of the 1989 draft. "I thought I should have gone in the second round," Erickson says. "I took it as a challenge."

A month after joining the Class A Visalia (Calif.) Oaks, he stopped lifting weights and his velocity jumped to 92 mph. He went 8-3 in 1990 in the Double A Southern League before earning a promotion to Minnesota on June 21. "I was shocked," he says. He has since proceeded to shock a few others. This season, Erickson's darting, diving, 90-plus mph fastball has eaten up hitters. "They have no idea where his ball is going," says one scout. "But he knows."

"He's the Big E," says Minnesota outfielder Kirby Puckett, who has also dubbed Erickson "Superman" because of his resemblance to actor Christopher Reeve. "He's a throwback," says Puckett. "Nothing fancy. He just goes out there and does it." Hrbek says he has even more confidence in Erickson than he had in Frank Viola, who won the Cy Young Award as a Twin in 1988.

Says Morris, "I've seen a lot of talented players who don't do anything in baseball because they don't have heart. Scott has heart. You can teach fundamentals and you can teach mechanics, but you can't teach heart. He's intense."

Intense? "On days he pitches," says Puckett, "no one goes near the guy." Indeed, Erickson sits alone at the end of the bench between innings, deep in concentration. "I've got four other days to look in the stands during games," he says.

Ortiz, Erickson's personal catcher, says, "I'm the only one who can talk to him between innings."

Erickson's silent routine isn't his only ritual. On the days he pitches at home, he always eats spaghetti at a restaurant near the Metrodome called Grandma's. "My mom used to make spaghetti before every game I pitched," he says.

In uniform, Erickson always pulls the stirrups of his outer socks down into his spikes, leaving no visible trace of his white sanitary socks. He looks as if he's wearing dress socks and shoes. "The socks are a sore subject," says Puckett. "He'll kill you if you make fun of his socks."

Ericksonian fashion is best described as basic black. "I feel more comfortable in black," he says. "I've always felt that way." His glove is black. His baseball shoes must be totally black. He used to wear Nike spikes, but they came with white stripes, which he would polish black. Now he wears Mizunos because they're specially made for him without the usual white stripes. The word MIZUNO is printed in white on the shoe tongue, but he covers the name with black polish. On the days he pitches—but only on those days—he wears black street clothes to the park. Minnesota pitcher Kevin Tapani calls Erickson's turn in the rotation "the Day of Death."

The man best acquainted with Erickson's idiosyncrasies is designated hitter Chili Davis. "He's one of a kind," says Davis. "Just like me."