FOX Sports presents "The Boys in the Hall," a series featuring
interviews with legendary members of the National Baseball Hall of Fame.
Check your local listings on April 8 for showings of "The Boys In The
Hall" featuring the Indians' Bob Feller.
They called him Rapid Robert and there was more than alliteration to Bob Feller's nickname.
When
it came to fastballs, Feller's No. 1 could be best described by
something Pete Rose once said, "He could throw a fastball through a car
wash and not get it wet."
Ted Williams, who could hit a
black-eyed pea with a paper straw, said of Feller, "He was the fastest
and best pitcher I ever saw during my career.... He had the best
fastball and curve I've ever seen." And Williams passed out praise to
pitchers about once a decade.
They didn't have speed guns when I
was a kid, so my dad could drive his 1951 Packard at excessive speeds
and regale me with tales of how hard Feller could throw a fastball.
"This guy throws every fastball over 100 miles an hour, and some hit 107 and 108," my dad told me.
I
believed him. Father knows best, and my father loved Bob Feller, the
hay-slinger from Van Meter, Iowa, who threw so hard he singed arm hair
as the ball sped past on the inside corner.
Although I was a
devout Cleveland Indians fan, I never had the pleasure of watching
Feller manipulate hitters with his fastball and mind-bending curve.
"As hard as he threw, his curve was even better," Dad said. "Hitters had no chance."
I envisioned a guy who never lost, a guy who struck out every batter he faced. And I wasn't far from the truth.
Feller
and my father both were born in 1918, both served in World War II
(costing Feller three years of prime playing time), and my father was a
semi-pro pitcher who threw very hard. And my father was born on a farm
in West Virginia and knew the values of heavy barnyard work, just like
Feller.
The best thing about my induction into baseball's Hall of
Fame in 2003 was the fact my father was in Cooperstown to see it. He
met Feller in person and Feller was gracious to him, spending nearly a
half an hour answering questions from my starry-eyed dad. It was one of
the highlights of his life.
Despite losing those three years in
the service, Feller pitched for 18 years for mostly bad teams, going
266-162 with a 3.25 ERA, 279 complete games, 44 shutouts, 2,581
strikeouts and three no-hitters. He pitched in one World Series in 1948
and was 0-2 during the six-game victory over the Boston Braves.
But the numbers don't do him justice. He was mythical.
One
of those no-hitters was on Opening Day in 1940, and Dad was there, and
one of the things he left me was the scorecard from that game. Feller
autographed it for him in Cooperstown.
When Feller was in his
late 80s he still was attending most Indians home games, and when the
Cincinnati Reds played interleague games in Cleveland, I always made
certain I sat and talked with him. He made me feel young again, and not
just because he always called me "young fella."
He loved to
rhapsodize about the good old days and his stories were fascinating.
Even at that age, other than a full head of gray hair, Feller remained
youthful and trim.
And he went to spring training every year,
donned uniform No. 19 and played catch with a batboy in front of the
home dugout before every game, still throwing very hard.
Some of
the younger writers made fun of that, thinking of him as an old man
still seeking attention. To me, it always brought back memories of my
father and his stories about Feller, the guy who threw harder than
anybody in the history of the game -- harder than Walter Johnson, harder
than Nolan Ryan."
Fortunately, not all media members are that
crusty -- many regarded him with awe and deference. There is one media
member who touches Feller's statue at Progressive Field every time he
enters the stadium.
Dad would have nodded slowly when
Cincinnati's Aroldis Chapman was clocked several times above 105 mph
last year and would have said, "Yeah, but he doesn't throw as hard as
Bob Feller. Nobody did, or probably ever will."
And I still believe my dad.
