October 1964 by David Halberstam

the competition with interest. They noticed one additional difference between the two players, and that was that Mikkelsen seemed to carry himself with more physical authority than most minor-leaguers. There was a sense that he would be grizzled one day, and there was an obvious physical toughness about him. By contrast, Metcalf had a cherubic face, innocent and unlined; he looked like someone who might be the most popular member of a college fraternity. This did not mean that Metcalf was, in fact, more innocent or gentler than Mikkelsen or that Metcalf cared any less about getting to the majors, but Metcalf looked innocent, and Mikkelsen looked tough. To some of the other players that was an important distinction, for they believed in the macho theory of baseball decision-making: you could put pictures of two equally talented players in front of several coaches and a manager, and they would, being pretty grizzled themselves, invariably choose the tougher-looking player.
    As the competition continued, some players told Pete Mikkelsen that he was doing well, but he did not believe them. When there was a report in one of the New York papers about him and his improving prospects, the story referred to him as Jim Mikkelsen, which did not leave him optimistic. But he knew that Yogi liked sinker-ball pitchers, and the other players pointed out to him that if his name was in the papers, it was probably because Yogi had put it there—the sportswriters never pushed prospects without getting signals from the manager. But then the day came when he pitched against the Minnesota Twins, and he looked up at the plate to see the immense figure of Harmon Killebrew facing him. Here was the man believed by most players to be the only other hitter in the American League as strong as Mantle. Harmon Killebrew at bat, Mikkelsen thought. I must be getting closer to the major leagues than I ever imagined if I’m pitching to him. He gave Killebrew nothing but sinkers, and Killebrew drove four of them into the ground, foul. Although in the next inning Tony Oliva hit a ball off him that seemed to go past the flagpole in deepest center field, the fact that he had been able to handle Killebrew was something that the manager and the coaches had to have noticed.
    Mikkelsen still believed that he was going to be sent back to a minor-league camp, although at a higher level than he had originally believed possible, when Rube Walker called him over. “Where do you think you’re going next year?” Mikkelsen answered that he was hoping to go to Double A or, maybe with luck, Triple A. “You ain’t going to no Double A, you’re going to New York,” Walker said. Mikkelsen said that they did not have a team in New York. “Yes, they do,” Walker said. “You’re going with the big club, the Yankees.” Mikkelsen still did not believe Walker, but ten days later, when they were set to leave camp, Pete Sheehy, the clubhouse attendant, who knew every rumor ahead of everyone else on the team, asked him where he wanted his things shipped. “What do you mean where do I want them shipped?” he asked. “Where in New York?” Sheehy persisted. That was how Mikkelsen learned he had made the big-league roster. He later heard that there had been a split in the executive ranks—that Yogi and Rube Walker, a former catcher for Brooklyn and a close friend of Yogi’s, had favored him, while Houk preferred Metcalf, but that Yogi had won out. What had made the difference, the other pitchers were sure, was the fact that Mikkelsen had one great pitch, the perfect go-to pitch for a reliever, because it produced ground balls. Metcalf, possibly more talented, had no comparable pitch that would serve a reliever so well.
    Bruce Henry, the traveling secretary, asked Mikkelsen how many sports coats he owned. Mikkelsen answered that he owned one, because that was the way young men of limited means dressed in those days: one suit for weddings and funerals and one sports jacket.