Free October 1964 by David Halberstam Page B

during the last two weeks in Florida, he realized that it had come down to himself and Metcalf. Mikkelsen later said, “Metcalf was a prospect, and I was a suspect.” But Berra had liked sinker-ball pitchers in the past, and now that he was about to manage, he liked them even more, because they could come in during tense situations and get the batter to hit the ball on the ground. Walker kept telling Mikkelsen that he was doing well, that all he had to do was to keep throwing the sinker, which he did, even in batting practice, much to the annoyance of the veteran hitters. “All those hitters, they have this belief—thou shalt not pass,” Walker said. “It’s like a sin for them to get a walk. So they’re going to swing and if you throw them the sinker, they’ll beat it into the ground. And then you’ll make the club.”
    Metcalf, in the meantime, thought he was throwing well, and not giving up very much in the way of hits or earned runs. He had not been pleased earlier in his career when the Yankees had turned him into a relief pitcher. He thought they had done it because he was tall (six feet two and a half inches) and slim (about 165 pounds), and they had decided that a player that skinny might lack the stamina necessary for a starter. His best pitch was a big roundhouse curve. Metcalf could throw it for a strike when he was behind in the count. “The Hammer,” Ernie White, his manager in Augusta in the Sally League in 1962, liked to call it. There had been a clash of coaching wills that season when the Yankees sent the old Phillies reliever Jim Konstanty down for a few days as a pitching coach. Konstanty taught what the players called the Jim Konstanty Curve, which was a smaller curve that did not break as wide, but more sharply. Konstanty told Metcalf that his curve was too big, and that he needed to work on one that was smaller and sharper. “Your curve may break out of the strike zone,” Konstanty said, “and maybe you won’t get the call.” So Metcalf had worked on the Konstanty Curve and started throwing it. As soon as he tried it in a game, Ernie White called time and ran out to the mound. “Where the hell is the Hammer, kid?” he asked. Metcalf said he was not throwing it anymore on Jim Konstantys advice. “Listen, you dumb son of a bitch. You’ll be riding the first train back to Whiskey Rapids or wherever the hell you’re from if you don’t go to the Hammer on the next pitch, and as for Konstanty, he’ll be gone in two days, but I’ll still be here managing this goddamn team, even if you’re not on it.” With that Metcalf went back to his big curve, winning 14 games and losing only 6. He reached Richmond in 1963, his third year in organized baseball, gaining a record of 9-5 there with an earned run average of 2.69 before being called up to New York. In New York he had one bad outing and appeared in seven other games. But with Hal Reniff, Marshall Bridges, and Steve Hamilton pitching well, the Yankees used Metcalf less and less. That bothered him, and late in the season he asked Ralph Houk to send him back to Richmond where he would be able to play regularly, but Houk said it was too risky, because the World Series rosters were set and if Metcalf were sent back, Houk might lose an eligible player. He said he was sorry the way things had turned out, but that Metcalf would get a good shot to make the roster and do some serious pitching next season. Gradually that spring it dawned on Metcalf that he and Mikkelsen were competing for the last spot on the roster, that they were pitching on the same day against the same teams, to see how they did against the same hitters. That did not strike him as fair, since Mikkelsen had not yet pitched above Class A. What do I have to prove? Metcalf thought. I’ve been in Triple A and I’ve done well, and he’s never been above Class A. There were stairs to climb, and in his mind he had climbed them and Mikkelsen had not. The other Yankee pitchers watched