Ryan's Induction Is Just Cause to Strike Out on Long-Awaited Trip

By CHRIS DUFRESNE

July 26, 1999 12 AM PT

TIMES STAFF WRITER

COOPERSTOWN, N.Y. —

This was not an assignment, it was a pilgrimage, as I have been slouching toward Cooperstown for 25 years in rapt anticipation of this day.

I would have hopped a freighter to get here, rode side hatch on a Harley. In fact, it almost came to that Friday after my flight to Albany was canceled.

I thought it the perfect metaphor, this edge-of-my-seat anxiety mirroring all those bases-loaded, 3-and-2 counts Nolan Ryan put me through.

Ryan’s first-ballot induction wasn’t always a safe bet, and I’d like to think the shameless propaganda machine I’ve been running since the eighth grade played a small part.

For us Crusaders for Ryan, the movement was born in the 1970s. The campaign had an enemies list, led by Baltimore pretty boy Jim Palmer, who robbed our man of the 1973 Cy Young Award, Palmer suggesting his outs--a steady stream of grounders to Gold Glove shortstop Mark Belanger--were more important than Ryan’s strikeouts.

To which Ryan quipped, “Aren’t they the same?”

I don’t recall where I was when Neil Armstrong took one small step for man, but I do remember taking one giant leap toward my parents’ television set in 1973 when sports anchor Stu Nahan broke the news that Palmer--if he ain’t Cyin’ he’s cryin’--won the award after a season in which Ryan won 21 games, pitched two no-hitters, recorded nine shutouts and broke Koufax’s single-season strikeout record.

It took 26 years for the payback.

Hall of Fame percentages?

Ryan garnered 98.79% of the vote; Palmer checked into Cooperstown at 92.5%.

We knew in our hearts Palmer was pitcher perfect, yet we were strangely attracted to Ryan because he was not. Ryan was lightning, dangerous but often misdirected. We admired how he held up through the injustices, those 55 homers the Angels mustered in 1975, the “I-have-it, you-get it” popup Rudy Meoli and Sandy Alomar let drop to cost Ryan a no-hitter.

We still don’t understand how Ryan won the earned-run average title in 1987 and went 8-16.

Ryan always seemed to take the game in stride, except for Sunday when he admitted, “I didn’t realize the grip baseball had on me.”

Or, five seasons removed, how much he missed the applause.

“I may be gone,” he told his fans, “but I won’t forget you.”

It was discouraging that his eight seasons in Anaheim were all but blotted from festivities; the lack of spectators donning his #30 Angel jersey sadly conspicuous.

One exhibit in the Hall of Fame baseball museum mentioned Ryan “also played for the Angels.”

Were we not there? Did he not seem real?

Was it really that long ago. . . .

Don’t Look Back in Anger

Monday, July 12, 1999: 10 a.m.:

I’m standing at the corner of State College Boulevard and Gene Autry Way, squinting east into the sun.

In the distance I make out two round mounds that look like those twin nuclear reactors at San Onofre; closer inspection reveals these orbs to be gigantic batting helmets, clownish pillars at the entrance to Edison International Field.

This amusement park bears no resemblance to the Anaheim Stadium I knew, the place Ryan pitched from 1972 through 1979.

The house Ryan owned was concrete and antiseptic, more hospital than hospitable, but not devoid of charm. The Big A scoreboard, demoted to signage duty adjacent the Orange Freeway, once was the best left-field facade west of the “Green Monster.”

Before Ram renovation and Disney detonation, the Big A outfield opened to vistas of the San Gabriel mountains. A railroad track ran beyond the center-field fence and, on nights Ryan pitched and the locomotives passed, a stadium operator would toot the sound of a train whistle.

“The Express” had arrived.

Signing on to Nolan Ryan in the 1970s was like getting stock in IBM at $20 a share. No matter what heights the Ryan hype machine reached later you felt good having been an early investor.

As teenagers on the cheap, we used to park at Charley Brown’s Restaurant on the corner of State College at Katella, then trek across vacant fields to the stadium. You could get a View level ticket for $2 and sit anywhere in the upper deck. We’d arrive early and secure the first row, right behind home base above the press box.

I’m sure the millionaires will dig their $300,000 suites at the new Staples Center, but I can’t imagine a better ticket than watching Ryan pitch a three-hitter for two dollars.

The matter of “The Ed” not being the “Big A” makes it easier to accept Ryan not entering the Hall of Fame as an Angel.

I should be more bitter than this, but business is business, Ryan signing a personal services contract to enter Cooperstown as a Texas Ranger.

Ryan fans reconciled long ago this might happen: too much water under the Angel bridge, too many Bavasis still in the Angel front office.

But it should always be remembered that Ryan became a superstar as an Angel, pitched four no-hitters as an Angel, struck out 19 batters four times as an Angel, won 22 games for the last-place Angels; averaged as many wins per year in eight seasons as an Angel, 17, as Sandy Koufax did in nine years with the L.A. Dodgers.

I should be more bitter but, really, how long must Buzzie Bavasi suffer?

It has been 20 years since the former Angel general manager let Ryan wiggle off the free-agent hook. Bavasi has apologized profusely since, yet as Ryan’s induction neared, I felt it necessary to hear it again.

“It was a mistake we made,” Bavasi, 84, said in a phone interview from his La Jolla home.

Ryan finished 16-14 in 1979 and then signed with Houston for a record $1 million per season.

Whoops.

Bavasi said then all he had to do was find two 8-7 pitchers.

“Ah, that was just said in jest, but the writers ran with it,” Bavasi says now.

Bavasi now admits Ryan’s won-loss record was woefully misleading.

“He was a dominant factor for 15 years,” Bavasi said. “He was never on a great club. Even the clubs he won with weren’t great. If he would have played for the Dodgers in the ‘70s, he would have a record like Koufax’s.”

Well, well.

Keep talking, Buz.

As I depart the corner of State College and Gene Autry Way, I don’t hate Bavasi anymore.

I take one last gaze at those bulbous nuclear helmets and feel a strange ambivalence toward Ryan tipping a Texas cap.

It isn’t the same stadium.

It isn’t the same Bavasi.

It isn’t the same me.

It isn’t the same.

Boarding All Rows

Friday, July 23, 10 a.m.:

I’m set to depart United flight 114 out of Los Angeles International Airport, via Chicago, to Albany, N.Y., base camp to Cooperstown, and I’m thinking about. . . .

My dad.

He never has been a baseball fan, and I can’t honestly recall sharing many “Field of Dreams” moments, but I did need to share Ryan with him.

On June 9, 1979, five days after my father’s 46th birthday, I took him to see Ryan pitch against the Detroit Tigers.

The mental picture remains emblazoned. I still see the light refracting on the grass that day and can still summon the knot I felt in my stomach, praying Ryan would not disappoint after all I had invested in his buildup.

Looking back, it was a load to ask of a man from whom I have never sought an autograph, that Ryan should be responsible for consolidating a father-son relationship.

But it was worth the risk because--win, lose or draw--Ryan rarely cheated his customers. Fans felt he sensed the stomachs churning on his behalf.

I could not have been more redeemed, as Ryan fired a complete-game, four-hitter to beat Detroit, 9-1.

Ryan struck out 16 Tigers in defeating Dave Rozema, walking only two.

It was Ryan’s 158th win.

We thought we’d have him forever. Truth is, he won nine more games as an Angel.

My dad was impressed.

Some memories stand out.

Last Mango

A window seat, a few bites of airline chicken, a thunderstorm rumbling the plane on descent into Chicago, and I’m thinking about . . .

Bora Bora.

Bora Bora and Nolan Ryan?

Backdrop: The one thing lacking on Ryan’s resume was a breakout year. Bob Gibson had 1968, Steve Carlton had 1972, Sandy Koufax had 1963, ’65 and ’66.

Our man Ryan was never more than six games above .500 in any season.

Well, 1981 SHOULD have been his year.

Ryan won the earned-run average title at 1.69, the lowest since Gibson’s unfathomable 1.12 mark in 1968 (pitched on a higher mound).

Not even the great Koufax posted a lower ERA for one season than Ryan’s 1.69.

But Noooooooo. Ryan’s career-year was hijacked by a 52-day baseball strike, a wretched work stoppage that is the reason I still have never seen “Norma Rae.”

OK, Bora Bora.

In June, 1981, as a gift to ourselves for graduating college, a friend and I went to Tahiti, figuring that was as far away as you could get.

As the plane lifted wheels at LAX, I had not a care in the world.

Right?

Wrong.

We were making a bee-line to Gilligan’s Island in the throes of a baseball strike. Bora Bora, a speck in the South Pacific, had no telephones, newspapers or ESPN.

Which meant: I would be deprived news of a possible settlement, which I desperately needed for Ryan’s sake.

Bora Bora was paradise: Mangos, snorkeling, single women. The deck posts of our Club Med hut were stanchioned in warm, tranquil, turquoise waters.

That said, I must confess: Each day, cut off from the world, I rushed to meet the boat of incoming Club Med vacationers.

“Is the baseball strike over?” I’d ask.

Typical response: “Huh?”

Ryan finished 11-5 in the strike-shortened campaign. Yep, six games over .500. He lost the Cy Young to an overhyped phenom who peered to the heavens before unleashing his screwball pitches.

Fernando somebody-or-other.

Box Scores

The storm forces cancellation of my flight to Albany, I’m told I MAY be able to get out Saturday, I’m thinking being a Ryan fan has never been a straight shot. And I’m thinking about . . .

Crayon markings.

Brian Shea, my first roommate after college, was a riot. You know how funny accountants can be.

On mornings after less-than-stellar Ryan pitching performances, I’d saunter out to the kitchen and find the sports section defiled.

Cryptic messages would be scribbled in the margins of the box score: “You call this guy a pitcher!!” Or “Six walks in six innings. Ha!”

I wanted to report that Mr. Shea ended up hocking hubcaps in Hesperia, but I found him still punching a calculator in South Orange County.

I used an Internet people search to track Shea down after Ryan was named on 491 of 497 Hall of Fame ballots.

I asked Mr. Shea if he remembered marking up the paper.

“Ah, I just did that to harass you, you were a sickie,” he said.

I asked Mr. Shea if he wished to apologize to a player who earned a higher Hall of Fame percentage than Ty Cobb.

Shea started in with the same old stuff: Ryan was overrated; his wildness deflated the players around him, blah, blah.

“I’m not sorry,” he said. “I admire the man, but I’ve got a little twinge of detraction. He’d probably be on my second ballot.”

You talk about bad accounting.

Knock the Vote

Hitchhiking having been a serious option, I make it to Albany on Saturday, secure a rental car, check into the hotel, and I’m thinking about . . .

Bill Conlin.

Conlin was one of six writers who did not vote for Ryan. And while you’d think this would be nothing to boast about, the veteran Philadelphia columnist went very public with his decision.

Twenty years ago, Conlin and his ilk were the guys Ryan fans feared most as they handicapped the pitcher’s Hall of Fame chances: east coast Jim Palmer lovers who, pre-ESPN, rarely saw Ryan pitch in his prime and had no context of his won-loss record.

It took Ryan’s transition from physical freak with the Angels to icon as a 44-year-old Texas Ranger to cinch first-ballot status. A credible voter, no matter how skeptical of Ryan’s 324-292 career mark, could not blithely ignore the mountain of evidence: 5,714 strikeouts, seven no-hitters, 324 wins.

Happily, Conlin and his “Cooperstown Six” were ballot blips, although near unanimous vindication of Ryan’s career was not enough for me.

Before my trip, I called Conlin, a regular on “The Sports Reporters,” ESPN’s Sunday morning squawk show.

The inimitable one explained he didn’t vote for Ryan as a protest because it took Don Sutton five years to make it.

“My gripe was with the baseball writers association for not applying the same standard to Nolan Ryan that they applied to Don Sutton, who won the same amount of games and lost many fewer in four fewer seasons,” Conlin huffed.

So, I said, you penalized Ryan?

“I’m not penalizing him for one thing!” Conlin bellowed. “He’s got 15 years to get inducted, and it was very obvious he was going to be a first-ballot Hall of Famer. No doubt in my mind whatsoever. I knew I was not hurting him in any way.

“In fact, had I realized it was going to be so overwhelming in his favor, and only six of us were not going to vote for him, I wouldn’t have bothered because, quite frankly, it hasn’t been worth the . . . aggravation.”

But it was more than that.

Conlin could not resist poking an open wound, bringing up Ryan’s inability to hold a 5-2 lead in Game 5 of the 1980 NL playoffs between Houston and Philadelphia.

“Gag” was the word Conlin chose.

“I think when a guy goes into eighth inning of an end-game situation, pennant on the line, if he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread, he’s supposed to close the deal,” Conlin said.

Ryan, in fact, did close a deal in 1969, pitching seven innings of three-hit ball against Atlanta to clinch the pennant for the amazing New York Mets.

Or maybe Conlin missed Game 5 of the 1986 NL playoffs, when the 39-year-old Ryan, pitching with a throbbing arm and a broken heel, gave up two hits and struck out 12 before leaving a tie game the Mets won, 2-1, in extra innings.

“It’s not like I’m some dummy, who doesn’t know a great pitcher when I see one,” Conlin said.

Conlin saw one.

He just didn’t punch his ballot.

And he says Ryan gagged.

One for the Money Two for the Show

Sunday morning, July 25: I head toward Albany, the last stretch on the long road to Cooperstown, and I’m thinking. . . .

Craig Wall should be here.

Wall is an old high school friend who had two passions: Elvis and Nolan Ryan.

It had been years since we had spoken, but I had to locate Wall on the eve of Ryan’s induction. I found him tending bar in Pasadena, and we set up lunch.

“Ryan’s a guy I feel like I went through hell with,” Wall said. “Even though he got 98% of the vote, it was more of a cumulative effort, all the years. But he never got the credit he deserved with the Angels.”

Short story: In his first start as an Angel one year, Ryan struck out 13 Oakland batters in six innings before being lifted with runners on base for a reliever, the Angel manager wanting to protect Nolan’s arm early in the season. When the reliever blew Ryan’s lead, Craig and I went screaming out of the stadium in hysterics, so disoriented it took us an hour to find our car in the parking lot.

Wall wanted to go to Cooperstown, but he couldn’t make it work.

In June of 1992, though, he entered a newspaper contest and won a chance to be on the field the night the Angels honored Ryan.

“When they retired his jersey that night, and I was on the field, that was my Cooperstown,” he said.

Wall knows what it took to get Ryan here.

“There were Friday and Saturday nights that we chose to see Ryan pitch rather than work on our social lives,” he said. “He meant that much to us.”

Either way, we figured, strikeouts were involved.

Wall isn’t here, though, and it doesn’t seem fair.

He has never been to Graceland, Elvis’ home in Memphis.

I have.

Now, here I am, beating him to Cooperstown.

I act as his emissary.

Psych 101

I settle in for Ryan’s induction speech, consider my personal foibles, and I’m thinking about . . .

My mental well being.

I know some friends think I’ve flipped, not that it hasn’t crossed my mind: all these crazy brain synapses that pervade my idle thought: Ryan’s 3.19 career ERA being lower than Bob Feller’s 3.25, for example.

I sought help. Before embarking on this trip, I contacted Bill Gayton, chair of the psychology department at Southern Maine University.

I gushed it all out to Gayton, explained to him my Ryan compulsion, fearing it could be an obsession. Gayton is an expert on fan behavior in sports, and I braced for the worst: a 12-step program, shock therapy, perhaps.

And then he said a wonderful thing:

“I don’t have any problem with people being fascinated by, and wanting to learn all they can about certain subjects, whether it’s hot sauce, Civil War generals or athletes.”

Relieved, I unhooked the jumper cables from my ear lobes.

Gayton said being a Ryan-aholic was perfectly normal and even suggested, no charge, the reason I became so attached.

“Adolescent males look to sports for a variety of reasons,” he said. “Certainly, one of them I think is boosting self-esteem. Those of us who were never particularly good on the field found other ways of using sports to boost self esteem.”

Bingo, Sigmund.

And the friends who think I’m nuts?

“Tell them a psychologist has given you complete clearance,” Gayton said.

Here I Am

I stand in Cooperstown on late Sunday afternoon, the sun setting on a quarter-century quest, and I think about . . .

Red Murff.

What if the Mets’ scout had not, on a whim in March of 1963, stopped between scouting trips to watch a high school tournament in Alvin, Texas, not even knowing who was playing? Murff took his seat in the stands just as the Alvin High coach summoned Ryan to the mound.

The kid hummed two fastballs to the plate and Murff knew.

Had Murff not seen Ryan, and the Mets not drafted him, they could not have in 1971 so foolishly traded him west to a 13-year-old boy’s hometown team.

Ryan may have eventually ended up in Anaheim.

But not in 1972. Not in that context, not in a way that would impact a man to the degree the next 27 years of his life’s book would be dogeared on the Ryan pages.

Not to the point where the boy would vow long before he settled on a career that--should Ryan ever make it to the Hall--the boy would make his way to Cooperstown. It wouldn’t matter where he was in the world, whether he was writing sports in L.A. or selling shoes in Des Moines.

The boy WAS going to be here.

It was destiny’s call. I cannot dismiss as coincidence the fact my 3-year-old son has two friends in his preschool class, one named Nolan, one named Ryan.

Isn’t it strange, though, how we are impacted by the arbitrary and the abstract--for me, the pragmatic business transition years ago that sent a wild-armed pitcher out West.

Isn’t it curious how we become motivated and moved by people we don’t know, how we assign ourselves mentors from this great public pot; how we collectively mourn a slain Beatle, the death of a president, the death of a president’s son.

But are these not, in some sense, tethers that bind?

The boy then could not have imagined penning these words for this publication.

The man today can’t believe he has been paid to do it.

Lucky me.

Cooperstown or bust.

For years, it was a rallying cry.

Lo, all these fastballs later, here I am.

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

New York Mets

Years: 1966-71

Record: 29-38

Strikeouts: 493