The Sound of Shutout Shattering

Some years ago, standing with his back to a batting cage at a practice field in Tampa, Fla., the late Fred Hutchinson was talking to a reporter when suddenly, behind him, came the crack of the bat on a ball.

Hutchinson winced perceptibly. “That’s a home run,” he announced. The scribe was astounded. “How did you know that? You had your back to it!” he exclaimed. “Son,” said ex-pitcher Hutchinson. “No pitcher ever mistakes that sound.”

I bring this up because, the other afternoon in Dodger Stadium, the left-hander, Jerry Reuss, was unraveling a masterpiece when, all of a sudden, he heard that sound.

Reuss had the Atlanta Braves eating out of his hand at the time.

An overeager bunch of fence-busters, the Braves were geared up for a progression of pitches they had long expected from Reuss--a steady stream of low outside fast balls. They were getting instead an assortment of pitches that came up to the plate like guys going to the electric chair.

They were lunging, hitting off the wrong foot, swinging off balance, too soon, too hard, too high.

The Braves, of course, were furious. They considered what Reuss was doing a kind of breach of the code. Baseball, you see, is ceremonial, kind of like Kabuki theater. Reuss was not playing his part. He was a power pitcher, not a junk dealer.

“He’s supposed to be Jerry Reuss out there,” one of them complained in the locker room later, “not Phil Niekro.”

They hit some balls hard. As Reuss intended they should--right at somebody. Reuss had a three-hit shutout going with two out and nobody on in the ninth inning when he got the sound-no-pitcher-ever-mistakes.

For Jerry, it would have been shutout No. 35 and win No. 179 of his 15-year career.

But, then, Bob Horner came up with Dale Murphy on first and drove the ball deep into the bullpen palm trees in left. Reuss didn’t even bother to look up. Like Hutch, he knew where the ball was going.

Tom Niedenfuer came in and saved the win and the game, 3-2, but Horner had splattered a beautiful canvas, had spoiled a great recital.

In the locker room afterward, Reuss was philosophical. “What is The Sound like?” he was asked. “Loud,” said Reuss.

Reuss has heard it before. It was the 172nd homer he has given up in his career, the sixth of 1985. But most of those were hit when Reuss was with Pittsburgh and his “out” pitch was a high fastball.

The Dodgers were unsympathetic. “Hey, Q-Tip!” someone shouted. (The Dodgers call Reuss that in honor of the fact his swatch of snow white hair atop a pencil-thin, 6-5 frame makes him look like something you’d clean your ear with.) “Hey, Q-Tip, tell ‘em how you throw a line drive to center field! That was your big pitch today. KT (Center fielder Ken Landreaux) says the next time you pitch he’s going to get roller skates. Who’d you think was gonna catch Horner’s hit--TWA?”

Reuss, strapping a bag of ice to his left shoulder, ignored the banter. Was he disappointed to lose a shutout after 8 innings and 29 batters? “I’m disappointed every time I go out there and don’t pitch a no-hitter,” he said, surprisingly.

“You see, every time I go out there, I go out with the intention to pitch a no-hitter, first. When they get a hit, then I’m trying to pitch a shutout. When they get a run, then I’m trying to pitch a complete game. Then, I’m trying to get a win.

“You see, I never go out there saying ‘Let me pitch seven innings today and hope we get the win.’ My first intention is to get all 27 batters out.

“So, you see, I don’t look at it as if I missed a shutout today. I missed a no-hitter.”

Not all pitchers are as demanding on themselves every time out. On Sept. 21, 1934, in the first game of a doubleheader, Dizzy Dean shut out the Brooklyn Dodgers, 13-0, with a three-hitter. In the second game, his brother, Paul, threw a no-hitter.

Dizzy was insulted. “Why’nt you tell me you was going to pitch a no-hitter?” he demanded. “If I’d a knowed, I’d a throwed one myself.”

Dizzy had more compassion for hitters anyway. Once, he walked over to the (Boston) Braves’ dugout before a game and announced he was only going to throw fastballs that day. He did. And won.

Another time, he stared in, fascinated, as a young kid came to bat with his front foot stuck deep in the bucket. Dizzy was sad. “Son,” he said, “if you’re going to keep your foot there all the time I pitch, you ain’t gonna need that bat.”

The modern Braves don’t care if Jerry Reuss makes full disclosure. They would just like him to be himself out there.