Sax’s Throws Are Considered Second to No One

Stephen Louis Sax, the ballplayer, has handled 2,528 moving baseballs for the Los Angeles Dodgers in his lifetime. Some he picked up, some he caught, some he threw, some he fumbled and some he did things with you wouldn’t believe.

The point is, with 2,454 of those 2,528, he did exactly what he was supposed to do. He threw them through the air to the fellow he was aiming at. But for the lousy 74 he didn’t, he may be remembered the rest of his life.

It’s like Lincoln being remembered for spitting on the sidewalk. Saxie had this one teeny-tiny fault: he tended to dribble the ball to first base when he caught it. He just couldn’t seem to get it there except on a hop. Maybe two. He bowled it there, like a guy trying to make a spare out of a railroad. Andy Varipapa never rolled any better.

Now, a lot of guys have trouble adjusting to the major leagues. Some find the curveball unsolvable. Others have trouble with the outfield carom, getting the jump. Infielders sometimes can’t make the pivot.

But nobody--nobody--ever had trouble with the 20-foot throw before Steve Sax. He turned it into high adventure. No Hitchcock movie ever had more suspense in it than a Steve Sax throw. Charlie Chaplin would have paid a fortune for the routine. Sax hit tarpaulins, customers, dugouts, everything but passing planes--but he couldn’t seem to target the first baseman.

These were not tough chances he was manhandling. These were schoolgirl lobs, the kind of nothing-on-them tosses politicians make on opening days.

The manager, Tom Lasorda, in his book, “The Artful Dodger,” relives the frustration. “I had coaches Monty Basgall and Joey Amalfitano hitting him 50 grounders a day in practice. But he made no errors before the game began. But as soon as the game began, he’d start throwing it to a customer sitting behind first base.

“Finally, I told Sax, ‘Stevie, how many people do you think are walking the streets of the United States who can hit .280 in the big leagues?’

“ ‘Not many,’ he said.

“ ‘That’s right,’ I agreed. ‘Now, how many people are there walking the streets of the United States who could steal 50 bases in one year in the National League?’

“He shook his head. ‘Very few,’ he said.

“ ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘But let me ask you one more thing: How many people are there walking the streets of the United States who can throw the ball from second to first on the fly?’

“I didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Millions!’ I screamed. ‘There are millions of them! There are 10 million women who can do it, and you’re a big-league ballplayer and you can’t do it, and I don’t understand!’ ”

It was a sizable mystery. Worse than that, it became part of the warp and woof of baseball. An equation: Sax equals comic error. To Sax , it meant to throw an easy lob anywhere but where it was intended, a symbol for the ultimate ineptitude.

Steve Sax scored 267 runs for the Dodgers in three years. He hit .270, stole 144 bases, disposed of about 97% of the balls hit or thrown to him flawlessly.

But that didn’t matter. It was what he did with the other 3% that solidified his reputation.

It was almost as if the fans paid to come and see him throw it in the seats. They brought their gloves. They didn’t want him to succeed. They didn’t want Chaplin doing Hamlet. They wanted Laurel and Hardy. They wanted to laugh.

“Hey, Saxie! Throw the next one up here!” they yelled from the upper deck.

“Hey, Sax, how do you get food to your mouth?!” they asked him. “Through your ears?” And they guffawed.

“Hey, Sax, why don’t you autograph them balls before you throw them up here? Just address them to whom it may concern.”

When Sax went on the road, interviewers didn’t want to know about his Rookie of the Year award, his 180 hits or 20 game-winning hits, they wanted to talk about the ones that got away. The wittier ones wanted to know how he gripped his knuckleball and wondered whether, since he couldn’t get runners out with it, if he could get batters out with it.

Baseball had never seen anything like it. Fans sent in suggestions, everything from rabbit’s feet to suggestions that he rub his arm with garlic. Some suggested that second-to-first just wasn’t his distance, that they move him to third, where he could take a full windup.

Others suggested that he run over and hand it to the first baseman and, that way, save one base. Still others proposed that the pregame disclaimer by the public-address announcer--”The Dodgers are happy to have you keep any ball hit into the stands”--be expanded to include: “Or thrown into the stands by Sax.” The Sax legend was on its way.

Sax, of course, hates it. He wishes it would go away. “It’s all anyone wants to talk about,” he complains. He has cut his errors from a league-leading 30 in 1983 to a respectable 21 last year. Players in the visiting dugout have stopped wearing masks.

It’s not likely to help. The rap is secure.

The manager also tells a story of querying Pedro Guerrero, his transformed third baseman, as to what Pedro would be thinking in the ninth inning of a World Series game with an enemy batter up and the bases loaded and two out.

“I’d be thinking, ‘Don’t let him hit it to me,’ ” admitted Guerrero.

“Anything else?” persisted Lasorda.

“Yeah,” said Guerrero, “I’d be thinking, ‘Don’t let him hit it to Saxie, neither.’ ”