A Bolt of Blue Lightning
ACCORDING to eyewitnesses, it "pops," "hops," "skips," "jumps," "bams," "burns," "booms," "tails," "sails," "smokes," "swoops," "sinks" or just plain "whooshes." If it sounds like a UFO, that is only because the hitters who have faced the fearsome fastball of Oakland A's Pitcher Vida Blue tend to endow it with out-of-this-world qualities. Roy White, the otherwise stable outfielder for the New York Yankees, claims that the Blue darter "speeds up on you and then seems to disappear." Kansas City Royals Third Baseman Paul Schaal swears that "it jumps right over your bat." After his world champion Baltimore Orioles were beaten by Blue in two straight games, scoring only one run in 18 innings, Manager Earl Weaver had a more logical explanation. "I think I have the answer," he said. "Our guys just didn't see the damn ball."
If so, the Orioles are no less myopic than the other American League teams that have been chasing the phantom fastballs of Vida (as in Ida) Blue (as in lightning). After losing the season opener to the Washington Senators, he won ten games in a row and became a kind of fireballing folk hero. When he posted victory No. 11 against the New York Yankees, the largest crowd to see a night game in Yankee Stadium in three years turned out for what was billed as "Blue Tuesday." Five days later, Blue won No. 12 in Washington before 40,246 fans, the Senators' largest Sunday attendance in seven years. He blazed on, swelling attendance figures by an estimated 15,000 fans wherever he performed. When Oakland opened a series against the Minnesota Twins with Blue on the mound, the gate was 23,334; next night, with Blue on the bench, it was 11,147. Between victories Nos. 17 and 18, Vida took time out to become the second-youngest pitcher in history to win the All-Star Game. Then it was on to Detroit to No. 19 before a crowd of 53,565. Afterward, the fans thronged outside the clubhouse chanting "We want Vida! We want Vida!"
Three days later, on July 28, the hottest pitcher in baseball celebrated his 22nd birthday, then returned to the Oakland Alameda Stadium to win No. 20. As usual, the organist played Rhapsody in Blue, and as usual, Vida got off to a slow start by loading the bases in the first inning. He pitched his way out of that jam, found his groove, and went on to blank the Chicago White Sox 1-0. When he squeaked to No. 21 last week by defeating the Boston Red Sox 5-3 in extra innings, a near capacity crowd of 32,858 showed up in Fenway Park despite tornado alerts and a rainstorm that delayed the start of the game for two hours.
With ten or so more starts remaining, Blue has a chance of becoming the first lefthander to win 30 games in a season since Lefty Grove posted a 31-4 record in 1931. It would take a herculean effort, but considering Blue's record, anything seems possible. As of last week he not only had the best won-lost record in the majors (21-4), but he also led the league in strikeouts (240), completed games (19), shutouts (8) and earned-run average (1.62). For a veteran moundsman, such marks would be merely amazing. For a fledgling in his first full season in the big leagues, it is, as Oakland Pitching Coach Bill Posedel says, downright "scary."
No Herky-Jerky
Speedy southpaws, a notably skittish breed, are traditionally either late bloomers or early dropouts. Lefty Grove was 27 before he hit his stride, Rube Waddell 25 before he found the strike zone, and Warren Spahn 25 before he won his first major-league game.
And the lore of lefthanders is filled with tales of young fireballers like the Dodgers' Karl Spooner or Cleveland's Herb Score who, through injury or accident, ended their careers in one quick flameout. "Vida's one of those kids who come along once in a lifetime," says Posedel. "He throws awful hard, and the only thing you don't know is if his arm is ready for it." Says A's Manager Dick Williams: "I'd like to keep him in a glass case between starts."
Blue seems made of sterner stuff. A muscle-rippling 6 ft., 190 lbs., he has none of the herky-jerky, elbow-popping moves that invariably send fastballers to the showers--or the osteopath. Rather he has a kind of loose, flowing grace that allows him to snap off a high, hard one with seemingly effortless ease. After dipping into a deep windup, he cocks his right knee to his shoulder, rears back until the ball is almost touching the ground behind him and then, in a whipping overhand motion, smokes it across the plate. "Vida has three things going for him," says Oakland Catcher Dave Duncan. "First, he's overpowering. Second, his ball moves. Third, he's sneaky. He has that nice, easy motion, so you think you can hit him. But you can't pick up the ball until it's too late."
Blue himself admits to no tricks. "My repertory consists of three basic pitches: fastball, curve and changeup. I throw them all the same, lefthanded." You couldn't prove it by such heavy-hitting
Orioles as First Baseman Boog Powell ("His fastball starts at the knees, takes off and goes by you chest-high"), Rightfielder Frank Robinson ("It tails away from you and sometimes it doesn't"), Third Baseman Brooks Robinson ("It's in and out, up and down") and Outfielder Merv Rettenmund ("It's straight but hard"). What Blue's victims do agree on is that five feet or so from the plate his fastball picks up speed and "pops" or "explodes" past them.
Blue himself confesses that half the time he uncorks a fast pitch he has only a vague idea of where it is going. Even so, his control is so good that he averages one strikeout per inning and has pitched six entire games this season without giving up a single walk.
Despite the undeniable effectiveness of his fastball, Blue has ambitions to be even better. "The more I pitch," he says, "the more I realize that I'm going to have to change speeds. That's the kind of pitcher I want to be. The 3-2 curve, the 3-2 changeup with the bases loaded. That's guts. But those are things I'm going to have to learn." He has already started. Early in the season, his approach was to "blow them down," meaning that he threw the fastball 90% of the time. Now he goes with the hard one only two out of three pitches, mixing in his snappy and slow curves to keep the batter guessing.
Hustling Ball Club
Possessed of an almost unsettling cool, Blue says that he concentrates so intently during a game that he is deaf to the cheers of the crowd. Before a game, he relaxes so thoroughly that he often falls asleep on the trainer's table. But once the game starts, he is a different man; he may be the only pitcher in the history of baseball who actually runs to and from the mound. "The A's are a hustling ball club," he says, "and I figured I should be there hustling with the rest of them."
As a team, the A's are doing so well that they are leading the American League's Western Division by 14 full games. Backstopping Blue, Oakland has one of the league's strongest trios of starting pitchers: Chuck Dobson (12-2), Catfish Hunter (14-10) and, coming back after an injury, Blue Moon Odom (7-8). Rollie Fingers and Mudcat Grant lend further color to the A's roster of unusual names--and authority to their bullpen. At the plate, Third Baseman
Sal Bando (18 homers, 73 RBIs) and Rightfielder Reggie Jackson (20 homers, 52 RBls) provide the power. After a slow start, Centerfielder Rick Monday hit his stride two weeks ago when he clouted six homers in seven games. And when Monday or some other regular is not carrying the load, there always seems to be someone on the bench ready to take over, most notably Utility Men Tommy Davis (.322) and Gene Tenace (.314). Shut out only six times in 118 games this season, the A's are a well-rounded squad of solid, if not spectacular players who almost always manage to hustle a few runs across the plate. When Blue is pitching, one run is very often enough.
Though comparisons are inevitable, Blue does not welcome them. Invariably, A's Manager Williams will say, "Vida reminds me of Sandy Koufax--with a five-year head start." And just as quickly Blue will add, "Funny, I don't look Jewish." He explains that "it's nice to be compared with Koufax or Lefty Grove, who were great in their time. But this is just my first year. What have I accomplished besides winning so-and-so many games? I'm not trying to imitate anybody. I'm Vida Blue. I just pitch the way Vida Blue does."
Blue has accomplished more than he suspects. He, and a score of other flashy young stars like him, is part of a new zip that is livening up the old ball game. Rube Waddell and the boys in fact would choke on their chaws of tobacco if they could see some of the carryings-on at the ballparks these days. Just 16 years ago, the Cleveland Indians were mocked for shuttling relief pitchers around in a Jeep. Today the Baltimore club not only has a golf cart in the shape of a huge Oriole cap but a pretty, broom-wielding girl to dust off the infielders' spikes. While Cleveland President Veeck was once considered crass for handing out free nylons to lady customers, there is now a Cash Scramble Day in Philadelphia featuring a group of fans battling for bills scattered across the field. "Action! Action! Action! With a little blood mixed in--that's what the fans want," says Oakland Owner Charles O. Finley.
Hot Pants Patrol
In Finley's stadium the action ranges from fireworks to greased-pig chases. In St. Louis it is rock, opera and country-and-western music concerts between doubleheaders. Atlanta boasts what it calls the "world's largest calliope" and Chief Noc-a-Homa, a full-blooded Indian who does a war dance on the mound before each game. There is an endless variety of "Days": Bat Day, Ball Day, Helmet Day, T Shirt Day, Poster Day, Cushion Day, Sunglasses Day, Hot Pants Day, Wild West Day, Honor America Day, Latin America Day, A-Students Day, Plattsburgh Day. The day has also come when the baggy woolen uniforms of old are giving over to the pajama-like stretch-nylon duds worn by the Pittsburgh Pirates. In Oakland, Vida Blue & Co. turn out in uniforms of Kelly green and California gold with kangaroo-leather spikes dyed wedding-gown white.
"We try to make ball games more entertaining," says Philadelphia Phillies Vice President Bill Giles, "so the fans have something else to look forward to besides the game." Last week the Phillies were buried in fifth place in their division; yet the club's attendance has been running 500,000 over last season. The chief reason is the new $45,000,000 Philadelphia Veterans Stadium. The stadium has parking for 12,000, wall-to-wall artificial turf, escalators, theater-type seats, air-conditioned boxes and usherettes called the Hot Pants Patrol. It has not just one but two exploding scoreboards that can do everything but cook the hot dogs. The big spectacular is a routine done by Philadelphia Phil and Phillis, two 25-ft.-high statues in colonial dress mounted at press-box level. When a Philly hits a home run, Phil strokes an animated ball, which strikes an animated Liberty Bell, which lights up along the crack, and the ball then ricochets and conks Phillis on the noggin. Phillis responds by shooting off a cannon while a large colonial flag unfurls from the press box and a fountain of "dancing waters" spouts in centerfield.
Is this the national pastime? Not really. Though the gals and giveaways undoubtedly help to fill some empty seats, any club owner would trade in his erupting Scoreboard tomorrow for one 20-game winner. "Give me a day with Vida Blue," says Senators' Vice President Joe Burke, "and 20,000 people will find their way to the stadium." Finley, the Barnum of baseball, is the first to agree: "You've got to have a good team. You can't ballyhoo a funeral."
Four seasons ago, the old death-of-baseball doomsayers figured that was all there was left to do. The games, they said, were too slow, too long, too many and too out of pace with the revved-up times. The only trouble with 1968 was that it was a "Year of the Pitcher." There was nothing really wrong with baseball that a few booming home runs wouldn't cure. Bowie Kuhn, who was appointed commissioner of baseball after the 1968 season, conspired to "restore the balance between offense and defense." The strike zone was tightened and the mound lowered. In addition, both leagues added two teams and divided into two divisions, thus doubling the number of possible pennant contenders. The results were dramatic. From the 1968 to 1970 seasons, the total number of home runs hit in both leagues jumped from 1,995 to 3,429, and team batting averages rose from .237 to .253. Attendance, meanwhile, grew from 23,102,745 to a record 28,747,333. The bat, and baseball, was booming again.
Pounding and Pirouetting
Coming in the heyday of the hitter, Vida Blue's success is all the more remarkable. It also points out one of the happy paradoxes of the game: while many fans prefer the action of a double rattling off the wall, just as many dote on that subtle little duel between hurler and hitter. Baseball has its troubles--shaky franchises, feuding owners, player dissents--but as long as its basic appeals thrive, so too will the game.
And this season the thrills and techniques are there in flourishing array. It is Cincinnati Catcher Johnny Bench loosing one of his rocket-like throws to second. It is Montreal Rightfielder Rusty Staub making a sliding, onehanded catch. It is Yankee Centerfielder Bobby Murcer bowling over the catcher at home plate. It is Atlanta Leftfielder Ralph Garr running out from under his hat as he steals yet another base. It is New York Mets Shortstop Bud Harrelson pirouetting over second base to begin a double play. It is Pittsburgh Leftfielder Willie Stargell pounding a thunderous drive. It is Kansas City Royals Centerfielder Amos Otis cutting down a runner at the plate with a perfect throw. And it is San Francisco Shortstop Chris Speier backhanding a low liner deep in the hole.
But most of all, baseball 1971 is Vida Blue. He is the kid they used to call Junior. Vida Rochelle Blue Jr., to be exact. Vida Blue Sr. was a laborer in the local iron foundry. The Blue kids, Junior and his four younger sisters and a brother, lived at the end of Mary Street, an unpaved stretch in the black section of Mansfield, La. The Blue home was a bright, eight-room frame house, but Junior was rarely there. He was always across the street in a vacant lot playing ball. Recalls Blue: "Just being around home in the summertime, being black and not having anything to do, you'd just get up and eat and play ball, then come back and eat and go play ball some more. That's how it was." By the time he entered all-black DeSoto High School, "I was almost a fully developed athlete."
No one was more convinced of that than DeSoto High Principal Lee Jacobs. The school had no baseball team at the time, but when Jacobs first saw Vida smoking them in on the sandlot, he decided to organize one "to exploit the potential of Blue." A diamond was laid out in a corner of the football field. There were no fences to hit the ball over, and the light poles for the football field cut through the outfield. It didn't matter. Once, when Blue was pitching in a game, DeSoto High Baseball Coach Clyde Washington recalls that he caught his Centerfielder leaning against one of the light poles. "I told him to straighten up," says Washington. "He said, 'Why, Coach? The ball's not coming out here.' That's how much confidence they had in Vida's pitching. He was overpowering."
Too overpowering, in fact. In one seven-inning game, he pitched a no-hitter, struck out 21 men--and lost. "Vida's problem was somebody to catch him," explains Washington. "There were a lot of passed balls and dropped third strikes." Blue's old battery mate, Elijah Williams, remembers that he had to "cut off the fingers of a winter glove and wear that inside my mitt, but my hand still swole up after every game." Adds Washington: "We bought the best catcher's mitts and gave him sponges. Still his hand would swell up. He couldn't catch again for three days."
Bullets with Both Hands
Blue's teammates had less trouble catching his missiles on the football field. As a lefthanded quarterback and captain of the team in his senior year, Blue threw a remarkable 35 touchdowns in 14 games. "It was nothing for him to throw 50 or 60 yards," says Football Coach Clarence Baldwin. "And he'd throw bullets, not arching passes. On short passes, he'd knock the receivers right down. I heard boys ask him not to throw so hard. There would be defenders on both sides of a man, and Vida would still put the ball right in the receiver's belly. In a pinch, he would throw with his right hand. When I first saw him do that, I decided to change my whole offense to suit his style."
As if passing with either hand were not enough, Blue was also the team's best runner. "I remember when we played Booker T. Washington in Shreveport," says Baldwin. "We were ahead 13-0 at the half, and it started raining cats and dogs. So Vida ran the ball the whole second half; every play we had the ball he ran. We won 13-0." In his final season, Blue passed for 3,484 yds. Averaging 10.3 yds. a carry, he ran for 1,600 yds. more to pile up a total one-man offense of 5,084 yds.
New Man of the House "How good a football player was I?"
says Blue. "I think I could have made any college team in the country." Scouts from more than two dozen colleges agreed. Notre Dame wanted him. Purdue wanted him. Grambling wanted him.
But Blue, who had spent most of his young life visualizing himself as Johnny Unitas, leaned toward the University of Houston, especially when Houston Coach Bill Yoeman proclaimed: "This young fellow is going to be the first big-name black quarterback. He's going to be the best lefthanded passer since Frankie Albert. That name alone will sell tickets."
As it happened, Mrs. Sallie Blue needed Vida more than Houston did. Vida Blue Sr. died, and Mrs. Blue told her elder son, "Now, Junior, you're the man of the house." Recalls Vida: "We had always had a happy, decent family life, but suddenly there we were with no real means of support. I had to do things that would show my brother and sisters that I could be a leader." He got his chance after Oakland Scout Connie Ryan saw him pitch one night in Mansfield and excitedly reported back to Finley: "He is the best lefthander I have seen in nine years of scouting."
In short order, Finley was on the telephone offering Vida a reported $35,000 bonus to sign with the A's. It was an agonizing decision, but as Coach Washington advised him, a payday in pro football was a long way off. Blue signed with the A's, spent part of his bonus remodeling the house on Mary Street, and then started throwing.
Farmed out to the Burlington, Iowa, Bees, he led the Midwest League in strikeouts with 231 and pitched a no-hitter. Moving on to Birmingham in 1969, he was briefly called up to the A's where as a spot starter he pitched 42 innings and, failing to effectively mix up his pitches, compiled a horrendous earned-run average of 6.21. After leading the American Association in strikeouts, he was brought up again last September.
Blue recalls: "The first time I came up, it was like going into enemy grounds with out knowing where the minefields were.
But when I came back I knew where to put my feet down with sufficient caution." The first thing to explode was, of all things, his bat. In his first start, Blue, one of the few switch-hitting pitchers in baseball, cracked a three-run homer to help the A's to a 7-4 win. In his second outing, he hurled a one-hitter against Kansas City. His fourth time out he stunned the hard-hitting Minnesota Twins with a no-hitter. The Blue Blazer was on his way.
$13,000-a-Year Hireling
The way has not been easy. First of all, there was Charley O. Finley. When Blue turned red-hot this season, the A's flamboyant owner came to him with a proposition: "I'll give you $2,000 if you go over and have your name legally changed to Vida True Blue. We'll take the name Blue off your uniform and have them use True. I'll tell the broadcast boys to call you True Blue. How's that?" That, said Blue, sounded like ole massa was bestowing a pet name on one of his slaves. He refused.
"Vida was my father's name," he says.
"It means 'life' in Spanish. I loved my father. Now that he's dead, I honor him every time the name Vida Blue appears in the headlines. If Mr. Finley thinks it's such a great name, why doesn't he call himself True O. Finley?"
Finley just harrumphed, but later he presented his prize pitcher with a new powder blue Cadillac with license plates reading V BLUE. "The car cost $10,000," says Finley, "and Vida came to me and said, 'Mr. Finley, that nice big car is fine. But that thing is going to take more than I make in a year to drive, what with upkeep and gas.' So I told Vida, 'O.K., I agree,' and the next day he had a credit card from me. A couple of weeks later, he came to me again and said, 'Mr. Finley, that nice car is great. But I don't dress like a man who drives a Cadillac.' So I gave him a check for $1,000 for a new wardrobe." Blue and Finley are both aware of the game they are playing. As a $13,000-a-year hireling, Vida is clearly the biggest bargain in baseball. And come contract-negotiating time next year, the bidding could possibly start at $100,000.
Is success spoiling Vida Blue? Not according to his teammates. Though it would be easy enough to resent him (when Finley gave Blue the Cadillac, one pitcher cracked: "If I win four games do you think Charley will give me a Honda?"), Oakland First Baseman Mike Epstein reflects the sentiments of all: "He's got it. He's a nice, likable kid. Nonassuming. It's hard for a kid getting the press like he's getting, but he comes and does his job." Mrs. Sallie Blue agrees. "He's a wonderful boy. He never changes. They make this fuss over him, but he's the same Vida. The only difference is now he paces the floor when I talk to him. He just keeps walking back and forth, kind of nervous and fidgety."
The symptoms are familiar. What's bothering Blue of late is the mounting crunch of success. Says he: "You go to a town and the newspapers say 'sensational this' and 'sensational that,' and there may be 30,000 or 40,000 people out there at the ballpark. They're all staring and wondering whether I'm for real, whether I'm a robot, whether I'm human. There's a guy on third and nobody out, and they expect you to strike out the side. Not maybe two ground balls and a strikeout. No, three straight strikeouts they want. Nine straight strikes to be exact. But I'm no miracle man. I can be hit nine miles just like anybody else. If you throw a strike, you're gonna get hit and I don't care who you are. Somebody is going to hit you, man. You're gonna pay the dues."
Two weeks ago, when the Kansas City Royals scored five runs and shelled him out of a game that the A's eventually won 7-5, Blue could only sit in front of his locker, shaking his head and muttering, "Mercy, mercy, mercy me. I'm almost crazy from the pressure." When, as always, the newsmen crowded around him, he pointed to his teammates and said, "Why don't you go talk to them? They won the game. 1 didn't do anything." Though accommodating to the press, Blue objects to being hounded constantly for interviews. "It's a weird scene. You win a few baseball games, and all of a sudden you're surrounded by reporters and TV men with cameras, asking things about Viet Nam and race relations and stuff about yourself. Man, I'm only a kid. I don't know exactly who I am. I don't have a whole philosophy of life set down."
When he is annoyed by being asked the same questions ("Who is your hero?" "What's your biggest thrill?" "Will you win 30 games?"), Blue tends to go into his shufflin', put-on routine: "It sholy is nice to have you fellas come an' talk to a po' boy lak me. Now some of you may not be aware of what sholy means. That's something we say down home. It's almost the same as surely." Hounded as he is, Blue is still very conscious of what he calls "Bogartin'." The way he tells it, "Bogartin' is when a guy walks around like he owns the world, or acts superior or pushes other people around. I keep telling myself, 'Don't get bigheaded. Be good to the writers. Talk to the kids. Sign autographs. Don't brag. Throw a ball into the stands once in a while.' " Blue is especially careful not to appear "hot-doggish" to his teammates. When a group of airline executives asked him to appear at their banquet, he said, "Invite the rest of the team and I 'll be happy to come." On another occasion, when a TV interviewer complimented him on his poise, he drawled: "Well, I'm not Sidney Poitier yet."
Then there are "all these friends I didn't know I had. They're from my home town, my home state, people I meet in the meat market. Yeah, there are a lot of girls, too. They might be impressed with me, but I'm not impressed with them. I guess you could call me a square. I usually don't go out more than three or four times during a road trip. I do okay with women. But most of the time I'd just rather get me a bottle of soda and a paper, watch some TV and go to bed."
Bachelor Blue lives with Teammate Tommy Davis in a modest apartment in a middle-class black section of Oakland. Davis, 32, a two-time National League batting champion, screens Vida's telephone calls and advises him on everything from hitters' weaknesses to handling the press. "I try to guide Vida," says Davis, "but I don't have to do that much. He's a 22-year-old who acts like a man of 30. The only thing I don't like about him is that he starts cussing and runs out of the apartment when I play my flute."
Cutting Up and Cringing
On days off, Blue will shoot a game of pool or hit some golf balls at a near by driving range (he does both right-handed). Other times, he sits around his apartment listening to records (the Temptations, Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder) or talking baseball with the neighborhood kids, who are always stopping by. On occasion, he will accompany the kids to the playground -- not to play but to umpire their games. "They haven't asked me to warm up yet," he says.
At the stadium, Blue doesn't merely toss the ball around in the outfield to warm up like the other players. He runs football pass patterns, zigzagging this way and that to haul in the "passes" of his teammates. In the clubhouse, he likes to don his Joe Namath jersey and run off a few plays with the club house boys. "Do I miss football? Sure.
There are times when I can see myself standing behind the Baltimore Colts' offensive line, calling audibles to pick up a blitz. But that doesn't mean that I don't love baseball. What the heck, I'm here."
He is indeed. But Vida is in fact a sport for all seasons. When he returns to Mansfield in the winter to stoke up on Mrs. Blue's collards and pork chops, the first thing he does is check out the high school football team. "I just go out to give them some hints," he says, "and before I know it, I find myself diagramming plays, giving a little chalk talk here and there." When the high schoolers are not practicing, Blue fills in at quarterback for a team of neighborhood kids, diligently running them through their paces, even in the rain and mud. When the football season ends, he can be found most afternoons in jeans, sneakers and sweatshirt working out with the DeSoto High basketball team. "It's just great," says Vida. "It makes me feel happy, and older too."
What would make him happiest of all would be for people to stop bugging him about game No. 30. Popping bubblegum or chewing on a toothpick ("They're part of my equipment," he says), Blue eases the pressure by cutting up with his teammates. But he cringes as soon as someone quizzes him about those other pieces of equipment: the two dimes that he always carries in his back pocket when he pitches. Rumor has it that they represent the 20 wins he expected to get this season. Blue is noncommittal. "Just say they are a little superstition of mine." Anything special about them? "Yeah. They have 'In God We Trust' on them."
Now he has a third dime, one that American League President Joe Cronin gave him at the All-Star Game. When someone asks if the 300 might signify 30 wins, Vida cringes some more. "Thirty wins!" he exclaims, slamming his fist down on a table. "There's that pressure again." Pleads Blue: "I'm not trying to break any records or strike out a lot of people. I just want to win. I'm not a real pitcher, not yet. I haven't really mastered my craft. I just want to do the best I can. I want to be a good professional. I want to be good at what I'm doing. I want to be the best." There are those who would say he already is.
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