Knuckler by Tim Wakefield Page B

the season, the Pirates sent Wakefield back to the New York–Penn League, to the short-season, lower-level Class A team that he had played for only a year earlier. The only difference was that the team had moved from Watertown, New York, to Welland, Ontario, which hardly mattered to Wakefield. He didn't know why the Pirates were sending him there, or what it meant, but he was grateful to still have a job. Wakefield had yet to begin his career as a knuckleballer, but he was already being tugged from one location to the next, from Bradenton to Watertown to Augusta to Welland, a ride that was becoming increasingly bumpy. He was all over the place. Tim Wakefield needed a foundation, needed stability, and he was ready to cling to most anything in order to find it.
    Upon reporting to Welland, Wakefield was introduced to manager
U. L. Washington, a former major league shortstop who hit .251 in 907 career games, most of them with the Kansas City Royals, the final 82 with the Pirates. At Welland, Washington used Wakefield exactly the way he had been employed at Augusta—as a utility infielder and bullpen catcher who would do whatever was asked of him. Wakefield was playing the infield one day when Washington came out of the dugout to make a pitching change. The manager summoned Wakefield into the game to pitch. Making no connection to the demonstrations he had given Huyke and Kison months earlier, Wakefield pitched exactly as he had done in high school—throwing fastballs and curveballs. He did not remember the results. After the game was over, Wakefield returned to the Pirates' locker room, where Washington approached him and delivered a very succinct message.
    "No," said the skipper, who had long been renowned for chewing on a toothpick during games, even as a player. "We want you to throw
the knuckleball.
"
    Not long after, in another minor league game, Washington again brought Wakefield in to pitch, this time from second base. The walk to the mound was short, so Wakefield had little time to think. The series of events seemed so insignificant to him at the time, the games so much like any of the games he had played in high school or summer leagues, that he could not remember later how he performed, how the knuckler responded, what the Pirates were searching for.
Are they serious about this?
The entire event was relatively forgettable. But shortly thereafter, as the minor league season wound down, Wakefield had a conversation with Washington during which the manager told him that the Pirates wanted to make him a full-time pitcher. Wakefield bristled. He wanted to hit. He was drafted to hit. He knew he could hit. He resisted the idea until, like Don Vito Corleone in
The Godfather,
the Pirates made him an offer he could not refuse.
    Not if he wanted to continue playing baseball.
    "I was a little rebellious at first because I didn't want to give up hitting. I was disappointed they were giving up on me that quick," Wakefield said. "But then, they basically told me, 'You're going to pitch or you're going to go home.' So I said, 'Okay, I'll pitch.'"
    That fall the Pirates sent Wakefield back to Bradenton, to the instructional league, which extended into November.
    During the organizational meetings the team held near the end of the season—all minor league teams hold these meetings, which are the equivalent of performance or job reviews for the players—the Pirates had decided that Wakefield had no promise as a positional player. They were prepared to release him. Wakefield heard that Huyke had spoken up on his behalf: his manager in extended spring training believed Wakefield might have promise as a knuckleball pitcher. The cost of keeping Wakefield was minimal, so the Pirates rolled the dice. In the worst case, from the team's perspective, the Pirates could release Wakefield later. In the best case, they might hit the jackpot and develop an asset to be used in their own system, in a trade, or in any number of other