Gehrig
08-22-01, 01:37 PM
Wes Ferrell - Pitched for several teams including a brief stint with the Yankees in '39...
Talking about throwing at hitters and how he NEVER threw at "The Babe"...
They had the art of hitting in my day. There were so many good hitters, you just had to go out there and take command. A team had a string of guys in the lineup hitting .390, .330, .340. Like facing machine-gun fire. When a guy hit a home run, the next two hitters went down. They knew it was coming. Once, in a game in Detroit, somebody hit a home run off me, and up comes Fothergill. A real hitter. I lowered the boom on him putting it right over his head. He gets up, dusts himself off, and I get him out. Next fellow comes up -- I forget his name his name -- and lies down flat on his back in batter's box.
"Hey, Wes " he yells, "I'm already down. You don't have to throw at me."
I got to laughing so hard I just laid one right in there, and damn if he doesn't knock it back through my legs for a base hit.
I never threw at Ruth, though. You just didn't want to do that. He was baseball. What was it like pitching to him? Like looking into a lion's jaw, that's what. Hell, man, you're pitching to a legend. And you knew, too, that if he hits a home run, he's gonna get the cheers; and if he strikes out he's still gonna get the cheers. You were nothing out there when Ruth came up.
You look around and your infielders are way back and your outfielders have just about left town, they're so far back. And here you are, sixty feet away from him. You got great encouragement from your infielders too. The first baseman says pitch him outside, the third baseman says pitch him inside. They're worried about having their legs cut off. "Take it easy, boys," I told them. "I'm closer to him than you are, and I'm not worryin'." The hell I wasn't. Ruth could swivel your head with a line drive.
But I always had pretty good luck with Babe. He was a guess hitter, you know. I'd watch that right leg; it told me what he was looking for. Sometimes he'd have his back almost to the pitcher, with that right leg pulled around toward the catcher. That's when he was looking for curves or slow stuff. When he was looking for a fast ball he'd place that right leg differently. So I'd pitch accordingly to him. Ruth hit only three home runs off me in the seven years I pitched to him. And he never beat me a ball game.
After Babe had died, I went to an old-timer's game in New York. After the game, we all went to Toots Shor's restaurant for the shindig. Mrs. Ruth was there. I'd never met her, so I went up and introduced myself.
"You're Wes Ferrell?" she said.
"That's right." I said.
"Babe said a lot of things about you."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
'He'd come home and say how tough it was to get a base hit off you. It upset him quite a bit."
Well, that flattered me more than anything in the world...
Talking about throwing at hitters and how he NEVER threw at "The Babe"...
They had the art of hitting in my day. There were so many good hitters, you just had to go out there and take command. A team had a string of guys in the lineup hitting .390, .330, .340. Like facing machine-gun fire. When a guy hit a home run, the next two hitters went down. They knew it was coming. Once, in a game in Detroit, somebody hit a home run off me, and up comes Fothergill. A real hitter. I lowered the boom on him putting it right over his head. He gets up, dusts himself off, and I get him out. Next fellow comes up -- I forget his name his name -- and lies down flat on his back in batter's box.
"Hey, Wes " he yells, "I'm already down. You don't have to throw at me."
I got to laughing so hard I just laid one right in there, and damn if he doesn't knock it back through my legs for a base hit.
I never threw at Ruth, though. You just didn't want to do that. He was baseball. What was it like pitching to him? Like looking into a lion's jaw, that's what. Hell, man, you're pitching to a legend. And you knew, too, that if he hits a home run, he's gonna get the cheers; and if he strikes out he's still gonna get the cheers. You were nothing out there when Ruth came up.
You look around and your infielders are way back and your outfielders have just about left town, they're so far back. And here you are, sixty feet away from him. You got great encouragement from your infielders too. The first baseman says pitch him outside, the third baseman says pitch him inside. They're worried about having their legs cut off. "Take it easy, boys," I told them. "I'm closer to him than you are, and I'm not worryin'." The hell I wasn't. Ruth could swivel your head with a line drive.
But I always had pretty good luck with Babe. He was a guess hitter, you know. I'd watch that right leg; it told me what he was looking for. Sometimes he'd have his back almost to the pitcher, with that right leg pulled around toward the catcher. That's when he was looking for curves or slow stuff. When he was looking for a fast ball he'd place that right leg differently. So I'd pitch accordingly to him. Ruth hit only three home runs off me in the seven years I pitched to him. And he never beat me a ball game.
After Babe had died, I went to an old-timer's game in New York. After the game, we all went to Toots Shor's restaurant for the shindig. Mrs. Ruth was there. I'd never met her, so I went up and introduced myself.
"You're Wes Ferrell?" she said.
"That's right." I said.
"Babe said a lot of things about you."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
'He'd come home and say how tough it was to get a base hit off you. It upset him quite a bit."
Well, that flattered me more than anything in the world...