The Only Change Is Strike 3

On a moonlit night in Pennsylvania with enough suspense in the air to rival Transylvania, the bats were very quiet. They were too quiet. And, in the ultimate goose-bump, goose-egg situation for a baseball pitcher, it was up to Alejandro Pena to keep them that way.

One wrong move and all was lost. One mistake and Andy Van Slyke of the Pittsburgh Pirates could have driven one through the hearts of the Atlanta Braves like a stake. The score was 1-0--no news there--in Game 6 of the National League playoffs, Gary Varsho was on second base, Van Slyke was in the batter’s box and Pena was on the spot.

A frost warning had been issued by the weather bureau for Allegheny County, and the summer comfort of July and August was long forgotten. Wednesday’s chill was such that a pitcher could have worn gloves on both hands. Wooden bats snapped like dry twigs in the hands of the batters, and Steve Avery, after eight innings of brilliance, gave way to Pena and then cheered him from the dugout bench, swaddled by a cloak.

Talk about a hard act to follow.

Avery was 99 44/100% pure. He was practically perfect. The Pirates swung and swung, but Avery and his catcher were pretty much playing catch. The kid took an eraser to the league championship series record for scoreless innings in succession, and, at the ripe young age of 21, Avery looked as though he could have gone on twirling all night.

Trouble was, his own teammates could not score a run. For 26 fruitless innings, Atlanta went without. Even when one guy appeared to get home safely, it turned out that he had forgotten to check in at third base. The Braves couldn’t score if their life depended on it--and, in a baseball sense, it did.

So, when finally someone did touch all the bases, in the top of the ninth inning, the manager of the Braves was so hungry for more that he risked removing Avery from the game for a pinch-hitter, who promptly struck out.

Bobby Cox said that he had intended to replace Avery with Pena regardless, that the kid was pooped. Those hummers being clocked at 94 m.p.h. begged to differ, but at least Cox had a luxury that his Pittsburgh counterpart lacked--a flamethrower of a relief pitcher. So, in came Pena, the man once called upon by the Dodgers in situations such as these.

All of Atlanta was in Alejandro’s hands.

Varsho, pinch-hitting, launched a single to center and was bunted to second. The next batter, Jay Bell, flew out to right field, leaving everything up to Van Slyke. Base hit--extra innings. Home run--Pirates go to the World Series. An out--everybody comes back the next night to do it over, one more time.

Van Slyke dug in. At last, out there 60 1/2 feet away stood a right-handed pitcher, more to his liking. Against Avery, Van Slyke at times had not swung at the ball so much as flailed.

He fouled one back.

Pena, he knew, would throw him fastballs. Nothing but fastballs.

“I knew he had a changeup,” Van Slyke said. “But I never thought he’d throw it.”

The second pitch was actually a fooler, an experiment, a forkball. But the only one it truly fooled was Pena’s catcher, Greg Olson, who had to retrieve it after the pitch nose-dived into the dirt at Van Slyke’s feet and skidded to the screen. Varsho took third.

OK, Olson said. That’s enough of that. Fastballs now.

And Pena threw one, and Van Slyke fouled it back.

And Pena threw another, and Van Slyke fouled it back as well.

And Pena threw still another, and Van Slyke sent it screaming into the night, toward the right-field corner of Three Rivers Stadium, past praying hands and craning necks. The ball smacked against the wall, but decidedly foul.

OK, Olson said. That’s enough fastballs for now. Let’s try that changeup.

Pena shook him off.

“I know Van Slyke is a dead fastball hitter,” Pena said later. “He was timing them pretty good. I kept throwing them and he kept fouling them. But I have to throw my best pitch.”

Fastball, again.

Van Slyke fouled it back.

The bat chipped upon contact, not the first time this had happened this night. Van Slyke returned to the dugout for another. Olson consulted with Pena. Time for a change?

Not yet.

Fastball, again.

Van Slyke ripped a line drive, again to the right side, again foul.

Olson took a deep sigh, went back into his squat, threw down three fingers.

“Thirty pitches,” Olson said. “I think Pena threw 30 pitches. And I finally got him to try the changeup.”

OK, Pena said.

“I said, ‘Greg is right,’ ” Pena said. “I have got to throw him a changeup here, and whatever happens, happens.”

It cuddled comfortably into Olson’s catcher’s mitt. Van Slyke never even waved at it, never saw it coming.

And Alejandro Pena punched his gloved hand with his bare hand, saw his own breath when he sighed in relief, then ran down the hill into his catcher’s arms.