Saratoga News

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Me, 2 for 3 against a Hall of Famer? That's right!

By Dick Sparrer

I own Bob Feller.

Yeah, you read it right. Bob Feller ... the Hall of Fame pitcher for the Cleveland Indians. The guy who won 266 games in his 18-year career in the big leagues. The guy who struck out 2,581 major league hitters.

The guy who threw three no-hitters, tossed 46 shutouts and won 20-plus games six different times. The guy whose fastball was faster than that speeding motorcycle in that old 1940s newsreel and who made short work of other Hall of Fame guys such as Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio.

Yep ... I own him.

I really hadn't thought much about it in recent years, though, until my youngest son, Kevin, bought me a book for Christmas, Bob Feller: Ace of the Greatest Generation (for reasons that will soon become obvious). But then, I am reminded of the experience each year about this time when the baseball players return to the sunshine and desert states for spring training.

At the time I didn't really appreciate what had happened. Sure, I knew I'd had a pretty good day against "Rapid Robert," but I wasn't really aware of my "ownage" until I heard John Madden talking on a morning radio show.

I was just cruising to work, "California Dreaming" along with the Mamas and Papas, when Madden came on and started talking about the Oakland A's playing pre-season exhibition games against college teams from Cal and St. Mary's.

Madden brought up a good point. With no fans to bear witness, any college kid who had a good day against an Oakland great like a Barry Zito or Mark Mulder--even if he never again violated the air space of a strike zone with his Louisville Slugger in a real game--would have a story to tell for the rest of his life.

What's more, the story would get better with age. The two hits in an exhibition game against the A's would simply become two hits in a game against the A's ... and if the person being told the story assumed that the game involved two major league teams, then so be it.

The morning jock at the time, Gene Nelson, had his own story to add, too. He had been the proud "owner" of Hall of Famer Jim "Catfish" Hunter ever since singling against the former A's great in a fantasy camp a few years earlier. He shared the story that morning, describing that single, years after the fact, as a shot that made the velocity of a bullet from a .44 magnum pale in comparison.

Nelson's story was getting better with age. But it doesn't alter the basic fact ... he owns Catfish Hunter.

And in much the same way, I own Bob Feller.

It happened quite a few years ago now. Feller stopped by San Jose Municipal Stadium and, in one of those clever minor league promotions, threw three pitches each to a number of area sports writers.

It was around that time that he said, "I can still throw in the 70s. And I can throw it in the 80s if I don't want to comb my hair for a week." So "Rapid Robert" could still bring it.

I wasn't the first hitter. Quite a few guys stepped to the plate before me, and it wasn't a pretty sight. He sent them packin' their Adirondacks back to the dugout with little more than a dribbler, a pop fly or a swing and a miss. Their egos were shattered, and my nerves were frayed.

It was finally my turn in the batter's box. The first pitch was on the outside corner, and I looped a soft single into right field. I fisted a ground ball up the middle on the next pitch (it reached the outfield grass, so I called it a single).

I was happy. I had made contact twice, and I was anticipating the third pitch with Hall of Fame confidence. "Bring the cheese, meat ... I'm hittin' this one out!"

Of course, he was the Hall of Famer, not me. And the fast ball I was anticipating had a pretty good break to it. My home run swing resulted in a tall pop fly that landed some 4 feet to the right of home plate.

Still, I was 2 for 3 in my book--and I owned Bob Feller for life.

Of course, the story has improved with age. The blooper to right is becoming a line drive, and the slow roller up the middle? A shot that Feller never had time to react to. And the pop fly? Just missed the sweet spot of the bat by a fraction of an inch, otherwise they'd still be looking for that baseball.

So for a lifetime I'll talk about how I own Bob Feller--of course, when I tell the story, never will I mention the fact that he was 72 years old at the time.

Want to talk? Drop me an email at dsparrer@community-newspapers.com or give me a call at 408.354.3110, ext. 31.