This was it, my major-league debut, the precise moment that I had been working toward my whole life, my father's whole life. I was about to dance the essential moment, to play with the powerful icons of my American dream. For me to be emotionally in control at a time of such dramatic personal intensity would have been to will away a tornado.
As the first batter made his way to the plate, I turned toward the outfield and rubbed up the baseball, the view before me locked forever in my senses — the grassy terrace in left field, the Wiedemann's billboard, the Longine's clock atop the scoreboard, the house lights twinkling on a nearby hillside. A voice from the press box high above home plate announced my name, then the batter: “Now batting for Cincinnati, number 14, right fielder Pete Rose.”
I watched him dig in, taking his familiar crouched stance in his sleeveless uniform, bent at the waist, waving his bat. He was hitless in the game, trying to keep a 20-game hitting streak alive. All I knew about him was that he was an all-star and played like a maniac, the kind of hitter I hated to face, a pesky left-handed slasher.
My catcher, Mike Ryan, signaled for a fastball. As I nodded in agreement, every mechanic of pitching that I'd ever been taught was forgotten. My mind was blank, the target a distant beacon, the plate a postage stamp. I rocked into my windup and let it fire, the ball heading toward the plate as if on a leisurely stroll. Rose leaned into the plate, then watched contemptuously as the ball sailed low and away.
Umpire Harry Wendelstedt signaled ball one.
Ryan put down two fingers. Curve. Gulp. Gripping the ball behind my back, I had more confidence in my ability at that instant to recite the complete works of Camus than I did of snaking a breaking ball by Petey Boy. If my infielders were chattering it up behind me, I didn't hear them. The pitch bounced two feet in front of the plate.
Rose snarled. He wanted to swing the bat, keep his hitting streak going.
Ryan walked the ball halfway back to the mound, offering words of encouragement in his thick New England accent. “Eye on the target,” he said, settling back in behind the plate, signaling another fastball.
The last thing I wanted to do was walk the first big-league hitter I faced, so with that in mind, I went into my delivery and hummed an overhand express down Broadway. The salivating Mr. Rose unleashed a mighty swing, the crack of bat against ball echoing viciously through the nearly deserted old ballpark. The ball screamed into left center, rattling the boards at the foot of the scoreboard, and as I'd rehearsed a million times in spring training, I ran to back up third. No need. Rose stopped at second with a stand-up double.
And I was in The Baseball Encyclopedia.
Somehow, and I wasn't quite sure how, I got the next two hitters, Alex Johnson, a future batting crown winner, and Tony Perez, a future RBI leader, to ground out. And then, with Rose jitterbugging off third, trying to distract me, I got six-time all-star Vada Pinson to swing and miss at a slider at the knees for strike three. I floated off the mound. I had just debuted against four excellent major-league hitters and held them scoreless, pitching my way out of a tight jam. My ERA was a heady 0.00. I was averaging a strikeout per inning. I was intoxicated, passing in front of manager Gene Mauch in the dugout, expecting a word of praise. Nothing.
In my second inning, Lee May, a man with arms thicker than Rhode Island, jumped out of his shoes and drilled a dreaded hanging curve for a resounding double to left to lead off the inning. The next hitter, rookie sensation Johnny Bench, grounded out to second, advancing May to third. So there I was again, a runner on third, one out, trying to pitch out of a jam. Ryan called for a fastball inside on the next hitter Tommy Helms, a smooth-swinging second baseman. And that's right where I put it, the ball rising up and in, sawing him off at the hands. His bat splintered in two, the ball blooping toward first baseman and future president of the league Bill White, who was playing in to cut off May at the plate. Sadly, from my perspective, the ball quailed just over White's outstretched glove for a cheapo single, sending May home, ending my scoreless major-league skein. Undaunted, I humped up to retire light-hitting shortstop Leo Cardenas on a grounder and then blew three fastballs by feeble-hitting pitcher George Culver to end the inning.
Mauch, still mum, pinch-hit for me, thus ending my baptism. Sitting in the dugout, my heart still pounding as if Buddy Rich was cooped up inside my chest, I wanted to keep pitching and have another shot at Petey Boy. I was ambivalent about how I'd done, upset that I'd given up a run and that I'd made bad pitches to Rose and May, but happy that I hadn't walked anybody or embarrassed myself by tripping over my spikes or something. I was still averaging a strikeout per inning. I'd earned another shot. No matter what happened in the future, I could now say that I was a big-leaguer. I was in the fraternity.