Alvarez Just Did What He Was Told to Do

The players’ shadows were growing long in the late-afternoon sunshine when Wilson Alvarez stepped from the Chicago White Sox’s dugout to pitch the ninth inning Sunday at Memorial Stadium. He had thrown 106 pitches without allowing a hit. A crowd of 40,000 stood and cheered, giving up on the Orioles for a chance to see history.

A strong breeze flapped the flags atop the stadium. A spotting of high, white clouds occasionally blocked the sun. A white bird circled slowly above the street beyond the outfield. Alvarez, a 21-year-old left-hander from Venezuela making his second major-league start, tried to appear nonchalant. Ozzie Guillen, the Sox’s shortstop from Venezuela, was not fooled. “Just be smart,” Guillen exhorted in Spanish.

It was the culmination of an improbable day that had started early for Alvarez, in his hotel room downtown, where he had awakened and eaten breakfast with his wife, palpably nervous. His first major-league start, in 1989, had gone terribly: five batters, two home runs, no outs, goodbye. This start needed to go better. He had been in the States four years now, working through the minors. The pressure was on.

He dressed for the park in jeans and a pink Polo shirt. His parents, three brothers and sister were back in Venezuela, where the game would be televised nationally. He took the team bus to the stadium, put on his uniform with No. 40 and met with the coaches and catcher Ron Karkovice to go over the hitters. Not that it would help much. He had spent the season in Double A until being called up last week. He knew nothing about the hitters. Karkovice would call the game.

He warmed up and his fastball was sharp, with its natural movement away from right-handed hitters. Karkovice reported to Sox manager Jeff Torborg: If he throws like that, he should last until the seventh. No one expected more. A kid who had been demoted from Triple A a year ago. Played for the Birmingham Barons this season. Big thighs and a little baby fat left around the middle. Earring hole in the left ear.

The Sox scored two runs in the top of the first, easing his tension. His first pitch was a strike. The Orioles’ leadoff man, Mike Devereaux, swung at a fastball for strike three -- Alvarez’s first major-league out. Juan Bell also struck out. When Cal Ripken swing miserably at a changeup, fooled for strike three, Alvarez had a perfect inning. His stomach settled.

The Sox scored two more runs in the second and the game settled into a familiar pattern. Orioles up, Orioles down. Alvarez worked rapidly, two of every three pitches a fastball, mixing in curves and changeups. He threw two kinds of fastballs, one tailing away from right-handed hitters, the other in on lefties, both around 88 or 90 mph. The Orioles would say later it was a sneaky-tough repertoire, trickier than it looked in the on-deck circle.

The hitters weren’t overmatched -- all but a couple of outs were in the air, some on sharp line drives -- but they didn’t come close to a hit in the first six innings. Just three balls were hit on the ground. The only batter to reach was Dwight Evans, who walked in the second and was erased on a double play.

It occurred to Alvarez after five innings that the Orioles had no hits. He knew the feeling, having thrown a dozen no-hitters in the Venezuelan junior leagues. But this was different. After each inning he came back to the bench and his teammates patted his back, but no one said a word about a no-hitter. The notion was his alone to ponder.

This was his lot: He was a rookie throwing pitches his catcher called, at batters whose names he didn’t know, in front of teammates he’d barely met, not once shaking off a sign. Things began to get hairy in the seventh. Ripken hit a little tapper in front of the plate, and Karkovice fielded it and threw it past the first baseman. The official scorer ruled error. The crowd cheered the call. It was 7-0 and they had turned, now firmly for Alvarez.

The prospect of throwing a no-hitter began to choke him up, though, and he began leaving his fastball over the plate. The last out in the seventh was on a line drive David Segui hit toward right-center. Warren Newsom made a running catch. The first out of the eighth came on another line drive, this one headed up the right-center gap until center fielder Lance Johnson reached the ball with a 30-yard sprint and grabbed it making a headlong dive.

Four-star catch. It was at that point, everyone admitted later, that they began thinking this was destined to happen. The next two hitters also sent long, hard line drives out toward Johnson, but he gathered them up without a hiccup. Eighth inning down. Three outs remaining. The Sox went down quickly in their ninth and Alvarez left the dugout in the slanting sun to pitch the ninth. The crowd gave him a standing ovation.

The first batter was Devereaux. The first two pitches were strikes. A fastball high, wasted, and then Devereaux lifted a high fly to -- yes, again -- Johnson, his fourth consecutive putout. Two outs to go. Next up was Bell. Two outside fastballs ran the count to 2-2. Then a curve, Bell badly fooled, far out in front, strike three. One out to go.

Up to the plate stepped Ripken, for once not the object of the cheers that accompany his introduction. The fans wanted the pitcher to beat him just this once. Alvarez stood on the mound peering at his black glove. Karkovice called timeout and went to the mound. Don’t give this guy anything to hit. Aim for the corners. Don’t be stupid. Guillen approached with the same advice.

Four pitches later, Ripken was walking to first. The crowd booed, thinking Alvarez had taken the easy way out. He wasn’t listening. The game wasn’t on the line. He was just doing what his catcher said. Done that all day. Five pitches later, Dwight Evans also was walking to first. More boos.

Up stepped Randy Milligan. Fastball tailing in. Strike one. Another one. Fouled down the first-base line. Strike two. Boos turned to cheers. Another foul, a wasted fastball high, and Karkovice called for a curve. Alvarez delivered it, his 127th pitch, the ball breaking toward the dirt, and Milligan took a swing and missed and, well, Alvarez came down from the mound toward Karkovice as if it were March and they were talking about dinner reservations. Not too excited. Shocked. Absolutely stunned.

Then the dugout emptied toward him and everyone grabbed him and he bounced around from grip to grip, and finally he smiled, and then the minicams were right on him, right away, a battery of interviews right on the field, then more in the clubhouse, a press conference, more one-on-ones back in the clubhouse, Alvarez trying to answer in English, trying hard, simple answers, very happy, amazed, thanks to Lance Johnson, amazed, looking for his wife, amazed, excited, what in the hell just happened?

A Gatorade bucket with two iced bottles of champagne appeared in front of his locker. “Celebrate with this,” someone said, and Alvarez nodded. Someone handed him a copy of the score card, and he nodded again. He wandered into the trainer’s room. He wandered out. Spoke to a Venezuelan journalist. Wandered back into the trainer’s room. What do you do? What do you say? Happy. Amazed. What in the hell just happened? Birmingham Baron no-nos the O’s. Did that just happen? Honestly: Did it?