Just Tell Me I Can't (24 page)

After two foul balls on cutters down and away, Moyer throws a two-seamer below the strike zone. Kotsay takes the bait and chops down on it, a routine grounder to Scutaro at second, who promptly turns the double play. Walking off the mound, Moyer throws his hands into the air in mock celebration—he's gotten him out!—and Kotsay laughs his way back to the Padres dugout.

In the bottom of the third, as if to make up for his miscue in Moyer's last start, Fowler crushes a two-run home run to right off Padres starter Anthony Bass, the first runs the Rockies have scored for Moyer all season. They add one more in the fourth on an RBI double by Rosario.

Meantime, Moyer has found his groove. After getting Kotsay to ground into the double play in the third, he retires seven of the next eight hitters—until Kotsay (of course) beats out an infield single in the sixth. But a low changeup at 73 miles per hour results in an inning-ending groundout by Chase Headley.

In the seventh, trouble. Moyer walks Jesus Guzman on four pitches. “That's my responsibility there,” he'll say later. “There's no excuse for that.”

After Nick Hundley flies out, Chris Denorfia hits a bloop single.
They're still off balance and not getting good wood on the ball
, Moyer tells himself. But then back-to-back Gold Glove winner Tulowitzki boots yet another easy ball, scoring Guzman. It's Tulowitzki's sixth error of the season, which is all of eleven games old. After the game, he'll have tears in his eyes and manager Tracy will give him the following night off to collect himself. Somewhere, Harvey is smiling at this latest example of just how much mind matters, for good or ill.

In the stands, Karen Moyer's phone lights up. It's an apoplectic Digger, watching via satellite in Indiana. “This Little League team is blowing it for him
again
!” he shouts.

After a sacrifice fly by Jason Bartlett to make the score 3–2, Moyer avoids further damage when pinch hitter Jeremy Hermida grounds out to Scutaro. Rockies fans stand en masse when Moyer walks off the field after seven, leaving with the lead, his fastest pitch having topped out at all of 79 miles per hour.

Now it's up to the bullpen. Karen is still fielding calls from Digger while watching nervously. Flamethrower Rex Brothers hurls a scoreless eighth for Colorado and then the Rockies' bats come alive in the bottom of the inning, with Michael Cuddyer scoring Tulowitzki and Rosario adding a sacrifice fly. The Rockies have a 5–2 cushion.

As the ninth unfolds, Karen is on her feet, cheering, and the TV cameras follow her every move between pitches. “No one knows how hard he's worked for this,” she says, still nervous. Reliever Rafael Betancourt gives up a run, but with two down, Yonder Alonso swings and misses for strike three and Karen and Jill and the kids catapult out of their seats. The scoreboard screen blares the fact that Moyer—at forty-nine years, 150 days—is now the oldest pitcher ever to win a major league game and the fans are on their feet, cheering and chanting for the old man.

In the clubhouse, Rockies' PR man Jay Alves tells Moyer the Hall of Fame has called—would he donate his cap and glove? Moyer smiles. “The cap is no problem,” he says. But asking a ballplayer to part with his glove—that could be heresy. Moyer doesn't use just any glove; his is oversized, the better to disguise his pitches. But he relents: “I'll give them the glove, but not tonight,” he says. “It'll take me a couple of weeks to break in a new one.”

When the glove does make it to Cooperstown, it will join a ball from 1929 signed by Jack Quinn, then a forty-six-year-old pitcher for the world champion Philadelphia Athletics. But before that can happen, the press is waiting. After Tracy declares the evening “a historic night for one tremendous human being,” Moyer is asked for the secret to his longevity. “I don't have any secrets,” he says. “I try to work hard. I try to dedicate myself to what I'm doing. Be responsible for what I'm doing. Be accountable for who I am and what I do and what I bring to the ballpark. And I try to have some fun with it.”

He's asked about Quinn, whom he admits he'd never heard of until this chase began. “I kind of wish I was a baseball historian, and I am a little embarrassed that I don't know more about it,” he says. “To have my name mentioned with the greats of the past is special.” Upon hearing this, the Hall of Fame announces that it is inviting Moyer to be part of its ten-week internship program, in which students from across the country trek to Cooperstown to study the game. “Maybe in the off-season,” Moyer jokes.

While he's holding court in the postgame interview room, Moyer can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. There are hundreds of congratulatory texts coming in. “Congrats old man,” writes Roy Halladay. “Pretty special accomplishment and I'm sure a special night! Keep it going, look forward to seeing you soon.”

Raul Ibanez, his teammate in both Seattle and Philly: “Congratulations! You continue to be an inspiration to everyone, especially me. I am proud and honored to know you and be able to call you my friend. You are and always will be the man.”

Unnoticed in all the hype surrounding Moyer's
record
-​
breaking
win are a couple of equally stunning facts. The victory, his 268th, moves him into a tie for thirty-fourth on the all-time list with Jim Palmer. And though his record is 1–2, his 2.55 ERA leads his team.

But once the writers have gone upstairs to file their stories, Moyer doesn't have time to think about all that. It's time to party. It is, after all, Kati's sixth birthday, so the whole crew heads back to the airy house the Moyers are renting in Denver's Cherry Creek neighborhood for ice cream and cake. Kati blows out her candles and then the Moyer kids watch
SportsCenter
, the lead story of which is their father's win for the ages.

“Thanks for giving me an ending to the book,” I say, after the little ones have gone to bed.

“What do you mean, an ending?” Moyer asks.

“Well, I figure making history like this, it's pretty climactic,” I explain.

Moyer shakes his head. “I don't know,” he says with a wry smile. “I plan on winning a lot more games.”

By the end of April, despite the defensive breakdowns and inconsistent hitting, the Rockies are flirting with .500 and Moyer has been the team's best pitcher. He follows his record-setting win over the Padres with a six-inning no-decision against the Pirates, in which he allows just one earned run. That is followed by a five inning no-decision against the Mets, in which he is hit harder than in his previous starts, but he works out of trouble time and again and keeps his team in the game.

Meantime, some in the Denver media start referring to Moyer as the team's ace—as much a commentary on the Rockies' subpar starting pitching as on Moyer's surprising results. The sabermetricians weigh in, seeming to second the notion. Rob Neyer, who apprenticed under Bill James, writes, “I didn't think he could still pitch. Not well enough, anyway. But yes, he (arguably)
has
been the Rockies' best starting pitcher this season.”

Over at FanGraphs.com, Bradley Woodrum writes, “Not only has the near-half-century man earned a spot on the Rockies rotation, he is pitching like their ace.” Woodrum points out that Moyer's ERA is beating both his FIP and SIERA (skill-​i
n
teractiv
e
earned run average) numbers—the two stats that take fielding and luck out of the pitcher performance equation by focusing on those things a pitcher controls: strikeout, walk, ground-ball, and fly-ball rates, for example. “The last time Moyer had an ERA above his FIP, people could still greet their family at the airport gate,” writes Woodrum. “So whether it's good fielding on his part or just some other-worldly, quasi-voodoo trick, Moyer beats his FIP, his xFIP, and his SIERA. He beats them so consistently, in fact, that we can probably estimate his ERA this year by just subtracting his standard margin from the more stable predictors like SIERA. In other words, if we subtract 0.40 from his 4.56 SIERA, we get a 4.16 ERA, which absolutely boggles the soul and mind when we consider not only Moyer's age, but his role as a starter (no one his age has ever been an MLB starter), and his home park.”

With all this talk of his astounding month—Moyer ends April with a record of 1–2 with a 3.14 ERA—there is one person unconvinced of the hype: Jamie Moyer himself. He appreciates statistics like FIP and SIERA because they account for some of the variables that are not in his control, but in general he subscribes to what Harvey used to say about baseball's overreliance on complicated formulas: statistics can be used “in the same manner a drunken man uses lampposts: for support, rather than illumination.”

Even as the sabermetricians marvel at the numbers he is putting up, Moyer senses that something is not quite right. There is the small matter of his groin, which has never fully recovered since spring training. It doesn't affect him on the mound, but it is an ongoing, nagging irritant. There is the bigger matter of his velocity, or lack thereof. His fastball is averaging just shy of 77 miles per hour, four miles slower than in 2010 and six miles slower than in 2002. The combination of pinpoint location at alternating speeds is Moyer's whole game. If the speed differential between his fastball and changeup is now going to be five—instead of ten—miles per hour, it means there is less margin for error in terms of his location.

And that, so far, is the biggest trouble spot. Even when struggling early in his career, Moyer had always been able to hit his spots with stunning repeatability, as Dom Johnson would say. He still has better control and command than most, but now when he misses with a pitch, he misses bigger than usual. There are times when a pitch called for low and inside ends up high and out.

Moyer knows that one of the last things to return after Tommy John surgery is full command. But he feels this isn't a physical issue so much as a mechanical one. It doesn't feel like he has yet consistently found his arm slot, that same release point for every pitch, over and over again. While he works on finding it in his bullpen sessions, he wonders how long he will have to find it. Clearly, this Rockies team, with its horrid defense, irregular hitting, and batting-practice pitching, is not going to compete for anything this season. The question is—how long will they stick with a forty-nine-year-old starter?

In early May, the Atlanta Braves come to Coors Field, and Moyer is seeming to continue his early-season mastery. Moyer cruises through five with an 8–3 lead.

But trouble awaits in the sixth. Atlanta's Matt Diaz and Jason Heyward crush back-to-back home runs off Moyer, and when Tyler Pastornicky follows with a single to right, Tracy slowly walks to the mound and pulls his starter. Moyer leaves with an 8–5 lead, but reliever Esmil Rogers can't hold it. Moyer gets another no-decision and the Rockies lose, 13–9.

Five nights later, Moyer is in Los Angeles, where the lineup contains stark reminders of his longevity. After all, he faced Dodgers manager Don Mattingly two decades ago, not to mention the fathers of current Dodgers Tony Gwynn Jr. and Scott Van Slyke.

Through three innings, Moyer has given up two hits and one run on a Mark Ellis homer. He seems to have better stuff tonight—which may be a function of venue. At Coors Field, he's finding, his two-seamer doesn't sink and his cutter doesn't move quite as much as on the road. Tonight he gets ahead of five of the first seven hitters he faces.

Sitting behind home plate is super-agent Scott Boras, Harvey's old friend and boss. “Remarkable, just remarkable,” Boras comments, watching Moyer. “I used to tell Harvey, when Jamie was representing himself, to tell him I could make him a lot more money. He should have done a lot better than he did through the years.” (Of course, Harvey never said anything to Jamie. “He wouldn't,” Moyer says. “Harvey would have never put business into our relationship.”)

Moyer retires both Ellis and Matt Kemp to open the fourth inning. Andre Ethier hits a two-out double to right center, bringing up Bobby Abreu. Moyer starts the veteran lefty with two perfect cutters on the outside corner: 0–2. A fastball follows, high and tight. That sets up another cutter, again on the outside corner. But home plate umpire Ed Rapuano doesn't ring up the batter. Moyer comes back with the same pitch—again, he doesn't get the call. Now, with the count full, he has a decision: in tight or stay away? He opts to stay away—if Abreu takes again, in a battle between veterans, he's bound to get the
third
borderline call—but Abreu is sitting on the location. He sticks his bat out for an RBI single the opposite way, over Tulowitzki's outstretched glove. After Juan Uribe flies out to end the inning, Moyer berates himself on the walk back to the dugout for letting Abreu outthink him.
A good hitting veteran like Abreu is going to make an adjustment if all you do is stay away
, he thinks.
Why not keep him honest?

In the fifth, trailing 2–0, Moyer gives up three runs, all with two outs, the big blow a two-run double by Ellis. Moyer is done after five, having struck out seven Dodgers but giving up five runs. The loss drops his record to 1–3 and raises his ERA to 4.66.

Still, Moyer senses some progress has been made. His arm slot felt better, which might also explain the better movement on the ball, as evidenced by the high number of strikeouts. “But again it was the flippin' fifth inning,” he says two mornings later in a San Francisco diner. (On the street, a passerby does a double take and mutters, “I love you, Jamie!” Moyer thanks him before observing, “You gotta love San Francisco.”)

On the plane from Los Angeles, Moyer listened to the book-on-tape version of Dorfman's
The Mental ABC's of Pitching
. Given his troubles in the fifth inning of late, he listened to the chapter entitled “The Big Inning.” Dorfman captures the sinking feeling of helplessness a pitcher gets when everything starts to slide downhill. “The first order of business for ‘stopping the big inning' is for the pitcher to stop himself,” Dorfman writes. “To gather himself—get off the mound, collect his thoughts, recognize the situation and have a plan before toeing the rubber again.…Pitchers do not ‘stop the bleeding' if they do not stop themselves. The tendency of pitchers in trouble is to speed up. They want to get out of the inning quickly, to get off the mound, to get into the dugout—now! The greater a pitcher's sense of urgency, the more he rushes his mind and muscles. Self-control leaves him. The inning ‘wins'; the pitcher loses.…We get outs by paying attention to the task in front of us, not the runners behind us.”