Which was exactly the wrong thing to say to him, I know. But how was Freehan to know that? He’d never seen the kid before in his life. If it was me, I would have gone out to the mound, grabbed him by the jersey, and told him to stop acting like a two-year-old. Because getting him mad was the only way to get his head back in the game.

“Next batter is Boog Powell. God, I knew he was big, but not that big. He looked like a freakin’ building standing next to the plate. But he bats left-handed, so I figure, What the hell, the slinky is what got me here. I’m gonna keep riding it. Freehan calls for a fastball; I shake him off. He calls for a curveball; I shake him off. I want the slinky. I see him sneak a look into the dugout, like Who the hell is this kid, anyway? But finally, he gives me the slinky. And I throw it.”

He stopped and took a drink again. A born showman.

“So what happened?” Jackie said.

“Boog Powell hits it into the upper deck.” He took another drink and gave everybody a chance to groan.

“Did they pull you out of the game?”

“No,” Randy said. “They didn’t. The pitching coach came out and talked to me. Then Frank Robinson came up and I threw the slinky again. Freehan didn’t even call for it. I just threw it. Robinson hit it onto the roof in left field. Now it’s three to nothing. Freehan comes out and just about tears my head off. Tells me the next time I throw that pitch, he’s gonna break me in half. They’ve got two guys working in the bull pen already, and I’m in a daze by then. I walked Hendricks and then I walked Brooks Robinson, and it was just like a nightmare. I kept looking into the dugout, waiting for Billy Martin to come out and get me. But he’s just sitting there looking at me. With that look on his face like he’s got a bad case of gas.