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MOMENTS, MEMORIES and MADNESS with STEVE CAMERON: Seeing a major league pitch on TV is one thing; but hitting it live ...

| April 18, 2021 1:20 AM

Could you hit a major league fastball?

No, I don’t mean squaring up Shohei Ohtani’s heater at 101 miles per hour.

Think more like Marco Gonzales, if he takes a little off his fastball and leaves it in the middle on a 3-and-0 pitch to a light-hitting shortstop with two outs and nobody on base.

Say, something like 88 miles per hour.

If you’re at home watching on TV — you know, that camera angle from center field where you actually see where the pitch starts and where it crosses home plate — you very well might think you could put the barrel on that pitch.

That mindset is especially likely if you played some ball in your life.

Never mind how long ago that might have been.

You know your reflexes aren’t what they used to be, so you don’t have time to distinguish between a good fastball and an even better slider.

Seriously, you DO know that.

But what if you know it’s a fastball coming, that it’s going to be quite a bit softer than usual, and — best of all — that it’s likely to be right across the middle of the plate?

Shouldn’t you be able to put that pitch in play?

SURE, I can hit a nothing pitch.

Why not, with some spare time at those public batting cages in town?

That’s what I thought, back in the day.

I was willing to bet on it.

In fact, I DID make that bet.
 I wasn’t just a casual fan. I was a reporter and columnist covering major league baseball — even traveling with the Kansas City Royals.

Since I lived the game every day, I had a huge advantage.

I could watch pitcher-batter duels in proper perspective, knowing what both men were attempting to do during each at-bat, and why.

Even how.

Despite understanding the unique challenges involved with putting bat on ball against a major league pitcher, I truly believed I could do it.

What made me think so?

Well, the pitcher involved here was the late Paul Splittorff, a close personal friend who won 166 games — still the most in Royals club history — with pinpoint control.

The big lefty, whom everyone called “Split,” basically had just two pitches, a fastball with very little velocity but movement that carried it slightly away and down from right-handed hitters — or down and in to left-handers.

I KNEW that Split wouldn’t ever throw inside to me, so if I batted against him, I could look for something out over plate and just poke a slow ground ball somewhere.

In fact, that was my goal since we were betting for real — with the loser buying dinner for four at any restaurant of the winner’s choice.

We were goaded into the bet by a gang of Royals players, all enthused about this duel between their staff ace and a nearsighted reporter.

All that hoo-hah stuff occurred aboard an airplane, a Royals charter flight home from Detroit.

The club had just dispatched the Tigers to complete a 7-2 road trip, so everyone was in a great mood.

And, uh…

I should mention that there were adult beverages being served, since the team was heading home — rather than being on an outbound flight.



BECAUSE he never threw that “high heat” that you supposedly must possess to succeed in the big leagues, my pal Split only struck out 1,057 batters during a 15-year career in Kansas City — less than three per game.

Split preferred soft contact for efficiency, though, and the natural movement of his pitches created an almost endless string of easy ground balls.

Anyhow…

The bet.

With several players crowding the aisle of the plane, and hooting through the entire conversation, Split and I agreed that I could stand in the batter’s box almost forever — taking as many pitchers as I wanted.

To win the bet, I had to hit just one fair ball before he got 10 strikes.

TEN!!

Oh, and Split agreed that he would throw no breaking balls. I could look at one fastball after another, and all I had to do was put something into play.

Even a weak roller back to the mound would do it.

I WAS absolutely certain that, as a decent athlete (still just 30 years old), I could get the barrel of a bat to a Paul Splittorff fastball.

We didn’t set a date or time for our showdown, however. It’s hard for any pitcher in a regular rotation to change his schedule, even a little bit.

But…

On the Royals’ next road trip, we happened to be in Baltimore.

I was sitting in the visitors’ dugout, long before game time, when Split walked over to me.

“Hey,” he said. “I thought I’d give you a little advantage for our bet.

“This is my day to throw between starts. About 30 pitches, and the last 10 or so will be close to top velocity.

“If you want to grab a bat and helmet, you can stand in the box and watch the pitches — see what it would feel like to time them up.”

Great idea, yes?

So off we went, to the bullpen down the right-field line: Split and me, along with backup catcher Gail Hopkins.

Hoppy clearly wanted me to be comfortable, so he said, “Stand really deep in the box and away from the plate until you’ve seen a few pitches.”

OK, so…

Split threw his bullpen session.

I don’t know how it all went, since I saw exactly two pitches — or at least I heard them buzzing past me.

Oh, my God!

“Just decide where you and (wife) Lynn want to eat,” I hollered out to the mound.

I set the bat and helmet down on the grass, and walked away.

There’s a song that’s repeated several times over in the movie “Serendipity.”

The lyrics start this way: “When you know…you know…”

Well…

I knew.

Split had started the session with easy stuff — maybe 85 miles per hour.

Here’s what I knew…

One: I have no idea whatsoever how anyone ever hits the ball in a big-league game.

Ever.

Two: I’ve never again made a bet with alcohol on the premises.

It still scares me.

What if he’d thrown a breaking ball?

Email: scameron@cdapress.com

Steve Cameron’s “Cheap Seats” columns appear in The Press on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. “Moments, Memories and Madness,” his reminiscences from several decades as a sports journalist, runs each Sunday.

Steve also writes Zags Tracker, a commentary on Gonzaga basketball which is published monthly during the offseason.