Knuckler by Tim Wakefield Page A

to either of them, Woody Huyke was stealthily standing by, watching with more than amusement, his curiosity piqued. Huyke was then the manager of the Pirates team in extended spring
training, and he was still in the earlier stages of a career that would be spent almost exclusively in the player development operation of the Pittsburgh organization. Like Bill Lajoie, Huyke was open to most anything, but he knew the rules of player development, which included this one:
a guy with a good arm who plays a position and can't hit, you almost always try him as a pitcher before releasing him.
Tim Wakefield did not have the kind of arm strength that would have inspired such an experiment—his fastball, so to speak, was clocked at roughly 75 miles per hour during the prime of his career—but what he did possess was that knuckleball, the rarest of baseball offerings, and one that possessed potentially great value.
    And so, as Tim Wakefield played what he thought was a relatively typical and uneventful game of catch with Jon Martin, and as sand trickled through the hourglass of his career, Woody Huyke cast the occasional glance their way and grew intrigued.
    Was that thing for real? Could Wakefield throw it consistently? Was he even willing to try?
    Casually, as if simply curious to learn the secret behind a card trick, Huyke wandered over to Wakefield and Martin. He watched the knuckler flutter yet again. The wheels in Huyke's mind then began to turn more rapidly, the evaluator intrigued by a discovery that might be worth a try given the player's dwindling prospects as a hitter.
    "You think you can throw that for a strike?" Huyke asked nonchalantly.
    Wakefield's reply: "Sure. I pitched some in high school. I don't see why not."
    Wakefield threw the knuckler. Huyke watched.
Throw it again.
The pitch unsteadily floated toward Martin, the laces entirely visible, almost bouncing through the air as if it had been launched, without the slightest spin, from a slingshot. The young outfielder labored to catch the ball.
Do it again.
Once more, Wakefield threw the knuckler to his teammate, who struggled to catch the ball, and Huyke fixated on the pitch as if he were sitting in a 3-D movie, watching the ball tumble away from him with the kind of unpredictable, confounding movement that could cause a man's eyes to cross and his head to begin aching.
    Huyke nodded and walked away, saying nothing more as Wakefield's
mind began to race.
Why did he ask me that? What does he want me to do? Does he want me to throw batting practice? Does he want me to pitch?
The Pirates played their game, as scheduled. Wakefield did not remember the opponent or the outcome. What he did remember was that, after the game, Huyke sent him down to the bullpen to throw for Bruce Kison, a former major league pitcher who had won 115 games during a 15-year career with the Pirates, California Angels, and Red Sox. At the time, Kison was working as Pittsburgh's minor league pitching coordinator, a job he held until later becoming a major league pitching coach with both the Kansas City Royals and the Baltimore Orioles. Kison watched Wakefield throw, said relatively little, and, like Huyke, gave Wakefield absolutely no indication as to whether he had done well or poorly.
    I still don't know if these guys like this thing or not.
    Roughly a week later, Wakefield was promoted to Class A and joined the Pirates' South Atlantic League affiliate in Augusta, Georgia, which was a step up from the team's short-season affiliate in Watertown. By then, he was regarded as nothing more than a utility player. Wakefield played some at first base, some at third, and warmed up pitchers in the bullpen whenever there was a need. He did not pitch. Wakefield was desperate to remain in professional baseball, and he made it clear to anyone and everyone around the Augusta team that he was open to doing "whatever I could to stay there." No job was too small.
    Late in the year, with roughly a month left in