Who's Catching?
I
THE coach spat copiously and ejected tobacco juice on the grass behind third base. He was a man who had lived hard and played hard, with a face tanned and reddened by the sun of fifty ball parks, and a nose reddened by something besides nature.
‘If you had a team of perfect players out there on that field and offered me my pick, I’d choose the catcher. Every time.’
Football stars are occasionally beautiful but dumb. Baseball demands intelligence, especially behind the plate — because the catcher is the quarterback of baseball. He runs the team and is the only man who sees every player on the field and every move that takes place. He calls the pitches and sometimes directs much of the defensive play. He is the one person on the team who can never for a moment relax, whether his team is in the field or at bat. He must know wind conditions in every ball park, and his duties vary from studying the opposing batteries, the mental condition of his own pitcher, and the spacing of the outfielders, watching runners on base, keeping track of the tactical situation and seeing that the rest of the team knows it also, to backing up third and first except when a runner is in a scoring position.
All the spectators at a ball game watch the pitcher. Pitchers get the headlines. The Ruffings and Grissoms and Vender Meers attract the publicity, but the Dickeys, Mancusos, and Hartnetts can make them or break them.
Probably there is no such animal as a typical big-league catcher, but J. Luther Sewall of the Cleveland Indians comes fairly close to it, despite the fact that he is a graduate of the University of Alabama and that only one man in four in the National League ever attended college. If you saw Luke sitting in the lobby of the Hotel New Yorker reading the Times, you’d place him as a successful business man. That’s precisely what he is, too. Top salaries for catchers in the big leagues range around $18,000. Dickey of the Yanks, generally considered the best catcher in baseball, receives this, while Gabby Hartnett of Chicago makes $17,835. Sewall is paid over $10,000 this year. But Luke has other than financial distinctions.
He is the oldest active player in the game to-day, with a major-league catching record that is likely to last. Starting with Cleveland in 1921, he has played with Chicago, Washington, and Brooklyn, has averaged ninety games a year, and is now playing his nineteenth season, outdating Hartnett by a year and Lou Gehrig, of the Yanks, by four. Now he’s back where he broke into baseball in 1921. A reserve, but still liable for duty.
II
Let us suppose Luke has had a sleepless night. Cleveland is playing the Yankees, and — well, you know New York in late June. The temperature has been around 95 or 96 all night, and sleep was impossible. He rose at eight-thirty, bathed, shaved, and dressed, and then came downstairs. As a rule ball players eat only two good meals a day, so he must have enough to carry him through until after the game. Orange juice, coffee, toast, eggs and bacon, are his breakfast.
It’s hot in the lobby of the hotel and hotter still in his inside room on the tenth floor. The sweat is dripping from his forehead, but he stays there for several hours talking with Mel Harder, whom he’ll catch that afternoon. They are discussing the batters on the Yankee team. Sewall can tell you the weakness of every hitter in the league, just what sort of ball he will bite on, and what kind of ball he will ‘powder.’ Furthermore he knows just what pitches are effective in certain ball parks and how to pitch to each man in the different grounds. Down South, last spring, Bill Dickey of the Yanks was telling newspaper men one day that at the Yankee Stadium he would never let Jimmy Foxx of the Red Sox, a right-handed hitter, have a low ball. But at Fenway Park in Boston, where the left-field fence is short, he feeds him nothing but low balls. All this is part of the catcher’s job. It’s the result of years of study and observation.
The temperature has gone up, not down, when Sewall and his teammates hop into taxis for the ride to the Yankee Stadium. It’s at least two degrees hotter there. Once at the field, he starts getting dressed. In spite of the heat he puts on about twenty pounds of equipment. He leans over to lace his shoes when Harder, who has also been dressing, comes over and sits on the bench before his locker.
Harder isn’t so sure about that high inside ball to Henrich, the Yankee right fielder. Last year he had better luck pitching low and inside to him. Sewall instantly agrees. He knows it’s better to have the pitcher feel easy in his mind than to start an argument before the game, although he may not agree. One of the reasons for Sewall’s success has been his ability to keep his pitchers contented and relaxed. Some pitchers are bad with men on base because they aren’t relaxed; they tighten up. Feller of Cleveland keeps his mind on the base runner so much that he is apt to turn and throw a pitch that is murdered.
Oscar Vitt, the manager, comes up and the three men go carefully over the Yankee batting list. They take up each man in turn: Crosetti, Rolfe, Henrich, DiMaggio, Dickey, Selkirk, Gordon, and Dahlgren. This talk between batteries goes on all the time; in hotel rooms, at meals, in trains and buses, they are always thinking about and analyzing the opposing batters. But it’s just before game time that they dissect them most minutely. ‘Now this man Dickey is the best pull hitter in baseball. Keep it away and outside. Rolfe — well, a change of pace sometimes fools him. DiMaggio — we got him out for three games by pitching low when I was with Chicago. Then one day Dietrich was pitching, and suddenly DiMaggio got to a low ball and hit it into the back of the Yankee bullpen, longest hit I ever saw. I’d keep ‘em high and inside to him now — and pray.’ ‘Okay,’ says the pitcher. Should DiMaggio get a couple of hits, they’ll switch to something else. Baseball is a game of guessing, the pitcher trying to throw to the batter’s weakness and the batters trying to outsmart the pitchers.
The Yanks take the field. The heat is terrific, but the whole squad warms up, tossing the ball around and engaging in a ‘pepper game.’ Everyone is out except Sewall, who sits watching the New York team at batting practice. If a new man comes up who bats left-handed with a free swing and hits to left field, he makes a mental note to call for a pitch to his hands. If the player hits to right, he’ll have his pitchers throw high and away from the batter. Suppose it’s a newcomer to the league? Every pitcher immediately starts trying different kinds of balls on him until finally someone discovers his weakness. This soon gets known round the circuit. Then the only trouble is to get the pitcher to put the ball in the slot.
III
At two-thirty the bell rings, and the two Cleveland pitchers likely to start, Drake and Harder, go out to warm up. Sewall catches Harder. At first he comes within fifty feet of the pitcher to ease up on his pitching arm, but as it loosens a little he goes back to sixty-one feet, the regulation distance. The two umpires appear with masks and chest protectors under their arms. The bell rings again, New York takes the field, and the game is on.
While the Indians are batting, take a look at Sewall’s hands. You’d expect them to be knotty and broken, but they are smallish, rather sensitive, and well formed. Sewall never had a serious injury and believes no catcher need expect broken thumbs and fingers if he has the right technique. Most injuries come from not holding the fingers of the throwing hand together and relaxed. When the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand Sewall cups his fingers slightly, then claps them over the ball as it strikes the mitt. The most dangerous pitch for a catcher is the low ball off the right knee that is so often foul-tipped. This ball, on which 90 per cent of hand injuries occur, is often tipped and swings out, hitting one of the first two fingers of the right hand. After studying this pitch Sewall discovered a position which prevents injury. He goes down with the left elbow up, twisting his left wrist and turning the mitt over, placing the right hand underneath it to protect the fingers.
Now the Yanks come in and the Indians take the field. While they’re tossing the ball round, let’s see how Sewall gives his signals. There are signals in baseball for pitching, batting, and fielding, but the pitching signals are always given by the catcher. He uses the fingers of the right, hand, although occasionally he signals by touching his mask or placing his free hand on his leg or hips. Each pitcher on the squad has his own signals, so that a big-league catcher must know six or seven different sets. The important thing is to have the pitcher concentrating upon the batter, so the simplest signals are best — for instance, one finger for a fast ball and two for a curve.
The catcher gives the signals by extending his finger down his leg while crouching, so that the opposing coaches on first and third cannot see. Some players are adept at stealing signals. The greatest signal stealer in the major leagues is Del Baker of Detroit. Charlie Dressen, Brooklyn coach and former manager at Cincinnati, is another. When the National League team played the American League in the All Star game of 1937, Dressen was coaching the National side. There were men from eight National League clubs on the team, and the night before the game some discussion rose as to what signals should be used. Dressen told them to use their own signals and said he would understand each set.
For this reason signals must be changed every few innings. In fact, some catchers have a different set for odd and even innings, or for the first five and the last four of the game. There are catchers who use the ball-and-strike count. If it’s one ball and one strike, the signal is the third one flashed. Whenever he thinks the batters are getting his signals from their own coaches, the catcher calls for a switch. That is, he may call for a fast ball and then, by tapping his knee with his mitt, indicate that he wants a curve. Some pitchers cross up their catchers and aren’t overpopular on that account. I know one sensational star who nearly annihilated several catchers last season by tossing a curve when a fast ball was called, or shooting over a fast one when the catcher expected a change of pace.
Obviously when a player is traded to another team in the league the whole system of signaling must be overhauled. There have been catchers who betrayed the pitch to the batter by their stance. When a catcher stands upright, it is evident a fast ball is coming — hence the necessity for a uniform stance on every pitch. Some pitchers betray the pitch by little movements such as sticking out their tongue or lifting their left leg higher on certain balls. Infielders also betray the pitch by shifting position too soon. One such move cost the Brooklyn team victory in the World’s Series of 1920. Burleigh Grimes, the famous spitball pitcher, won the second game 3-0. But the Cleveland scouts got a tip on his throwing: each time he pitched a spitball Kilduff, the second baseman, would scoop up a little dirt into his glove so that the wet ball wouldn’t slip if a grounder came his way. By watching carefully, Cleveland beat Grimes 8-1 in the fifth game and 3-0 in the last one.
Signals are also intended to help fielders get the jump on a hit ball. To know where the ball is likely to be hit, every infielder has to know what the pitch is and therefore watch the signals carefully. But the third and first basemen cannot see the catcher’s fingers, so the second baseman and shortstop usually relay it with a word. ‘Heads up,’ ‘Look out, Jim,’ or some tip gives them the pitch and an indication which way to start for the ball.
IV
Back at the Yankee Stadium the game has been going on, coming into the eighth with the Indians leading 1-0. As he enters the dugout, wiping the sweat from his face, Sewall glances at a thermometer hung on the wall. It’s 118, and in the shade, too. But the game is nearly over. Finally New York comes to bat for its last chance in the ninth. Dickey, the first batter, works the count to two and two, and then hits a stinging grounder between first and second. Shilling, the second baseman, is over fast, makes a one-handed stop, and steadies himself for the throw. Meanwhile Sewall, flinging aside his mask, has run down behind first in line with the throw. The man on the bag grabs it, — a fine stop, a good throw, — and one man is out.
Sewall comes back wearily to the plate. He’s tired, and so is the pitcher. That’s why Selkirk, the next batter, tries to work him — good strategy toward the end of a game on a hot afternoon. He gets a base on balls. Sewall, taking off his mask, stands before the plate holding up one finger and shouting round the diamond: ‘One out . . . one man down.’ Then he goes back, gets into the crouch, and calls for a pitch-out. The situation is set for a hit-and-run play which he wishes to stop.
Ball one. Quickly he snaps the ball to first in a vain attempt to nail the runner. This is also done to prevent his taking a lead from first, although keeping the runner on the bag is really up to Harder. If pitchers kept every runner flat-footed, there would be no base stealing. That’s why it is usually considered the fault of the pitcher when runners steal bases. Ball two. Then Gordon, the batter, reaches out and smacks a single to right field. The runner has a good lead, and Sewall knows he will reach third, so he shouts to Webb, the shortstop, ‘Cut it off! Cut it off!’ Webb, in line with the throw to third, cuts it off, snaps the ball to second, but Dickey slides safely into third. One out, men on first and third.
Sewall calls for a curve, because curves are low and an infield ball will do less damage than a high fly to the outfield on which Dickey might score from third after the catch. Ball one. Notice how he snaps that throw back to the pitcher as hard as he can. He wants to wake Mel up. Ball two. Now he walks down the path to his pitcher and hands him the ball. What’s he saying?
Just a word or two of confidence and a suggestion to pass the batter. Harder is doing this, because, with a man on first, there’s a better chance for a double play. Watch how slow Sewall is in getting back to position. He scoops up some dirt with his finger, he fumbles round with his mask, he pulls on the straps of his protector before he finally gets down. From the corner of his eye he has noticed John Drake, the relief pitcher, warming up in the bullpen, and he wants to give him as much time as possible. Sometimes when he goes down the path it may be to give a signal, of course. And sometimes the pitcher may be the one to say a word to the catcher in these conferences.
Years ago Eddie Mahan, Harvard’s great halfback, was pitching against Holy Cross and leading two to one in the last of the ninth. Holy Cross got three men on base with two out. The stands at Worcester were in an uproar, and Mahan saw that his catcher was rattled. He called him out. Their heads went together. ‘Hey, Dick, how about going on a party to-night?’ The catcher nodded seriously, returned to the plate. Mahan went into the box and struck out the batter.
Sewall stands for a minute before the plate watching his infielders come on to the grass and waving his outfielders about, for Ruffing, pinch-hitting for Pearson, is at bat. He signals for a high ball to prevent a squeeze play, because it’s harder to bunt a high ball. But Ruffing is content to wait the pitcher out. Ball one. Strike one. Ball two. The next is high and inside. Then strike two. He swings at the fifth pitch and hits it into the air. Instantly Sewall’s mask is off and his head is up. Where is it?
Everyone is calling: ‘Luke! Luke!’ He sees it behind him, dodges Crosetti, the next Yankee batter, jumps over the row of bats before the dugout, swerves to the right, looks down a second, and — holds out his mitt as the ball falls. ‘Home . . . home . . . home!’ the whole diamond is calling, fearing the man from third will try to come home. But Sewall’s reflexes are instantaneous. He turns, whirls, and throws to the plate all in one movement. Harder is waiting there to cut off the runner, who retreats to third without attempting to come home.
Two men out. Sewall again comes before the plate and holds up two fingers. Crosetti, the next man, must hit. He swings at the first ball. Strike one. Harder is putting everything he has into this one. Strike two. Ball one. Then Crosetti swings at the next pitch, tops it, and the ball rolls weakly toward third. This is one of the most difficult plays in the game, because the ball might roll foul. Sewall is looking down the line and is in the best position to judge, so he calls, ‘First, first!’ Harder, running over, must stop, recover balance, turn, and throw to first. He does it — and the man is out by a nose. The game is over.
The crowds pour out of the stands, disappointed that the rally was nipped, but feeling that they’ve seen a good game and had their money’s worth. The two teams run or walk to the lockers, the day’s work over — an hour and fifty minutes of concentrated strain in a temperature over 100 all afternoon. Sewall is exhausted as he staggers into the dressing room and removes his steaming clothes. So too is the rest of the team. There is no hilarity, horseplay, or singing, as there usually is when they have won a close game. They dry off, dress slowly, and taxi back to the hotel. Dinner will be their first meal since breakfast, and they’ll need it.
V
The one important thing in a pitcher is control. All catchers agree that the easiest man to handle is the pitcher who has control. That’s what veteran receivers like Sewall always try to make rookie pitchers realize. Without control you cannot ‘build up the hitter,’ as the catchers say. You can’t keep him in a hole. Therefore anything that increases the pitcher’s control helps, and this is why not the least part of the catcher’s work is keeping the pitcher relaxed and contented. In this way much can be done to add to his effectiveness. Teams always do better with pitchers who have control. They call a man who doesn’t throw many balls and get the team in trouble ‘a ball player’s ball player.’ The good catcher makes him one.
Some pitchers prefer certain catchers and insist on having that man catch them and no one else. Bob Feller of Cleveland always wants to be caught by Ral Hemsley. When Dizzy Dean joined the Cubs he refused to let anyone but Hartnett catch him. It was this confidence he had in Gabby which enabled him to pitch winning ball, once beating the Giants with Hartnett behind the plate by throwing only 88 balls in nine innings.
The catcher gives all the signals to the pitcher, but offensive signals are usually given by the coach behind third, who is seldom an active player. Jack Coombs, the old Athletic pitcher now coaching at Duke, explains why someone not in the game should direct offensive strategy. Once he decided to let a boy on his squad act as coach at third. This lad was to hold his cap in his left hand as the signal for a hit-and-run, and take his cap off his head as a signal for a steal. When three men had all hit safely and all stolen second, third, and home, Coombs rushed to the players’ bench. He discovered the boy at third had taken off his cap and forgotten to put it back on again.
Catchers have many tricks to influence umpires, none of which, needless to say, are oversuccessful. They try to block an umpire’s vision on bad balls, but the umpire who knows his business sees each ball as it comes across the plate. One favorite trick is to swing the ball over the centre of the plate as it strikes the mitt to make it appear a strike. Often when there are two strikes on the batter and the next pitch is close the catcher will hurl the ball to third as if it were a strike and the man were out. These gestures influence the fans more than the umpire.
Everyone, including the manager of the Cubs, admits that Gabby Hartnett is one of the best catchers in the big leagues to-day. One player even goes so far as to call him the greatest catcher baseball has ever seen. That man should know. He was once Gabby’s manager on the Cubs, and has had pretty fair success since. His name is Joe McCarthy. Hartnett, who has also worked for Bill Killefer, George Gibson, Rogers Hornsby, Rabbit Maranville, and Charlie Grimm, reciprocates by nominating McCarthy as the greatest all-round manager in the game. Statistics seem to bear him out.
There’s eternally something different in baseball, which is one reason it has lasted one hundred years from the time when Abner Doubleday laid out the first diamond at Cooperstown, New York. Sewall, a catcher with twentyfive years’ experience in college and bigleague baseball, puts it this way: ’I try to learn something different every afternoon. That’s what makes baseball so interesting. There’s a different problem coming up in every game.’
Speaking of Sewall, what was he doing that steaming evening after Cleveland’s 1-0 defeat of the Yanks in New York? The majority of the boys had gone to an air-conditioned movie, the only place in town to keep cool. Not Sewall. He was in his room with Manager Vitt, going over the hitters on the St. Louis Browns. The following night the team was to entrain for a three-game series in St. Louis, and there were new batters coming up to the plate.
‘Now this fella Don Heffner — if I were you I’d feed him . . .'