Knockdown Pitches

Knockdowns Were a Part of the Game

When I played (1953-1960) knocking down a hitter was just a part of the game. Let me tell you a story to convince you. It's a little long, but I think you'll find it interesting.

I was pitching in Asheville, No. Carolina in the Class B Tri-State League. Ray Hathaway was my manager, and we were in the playoffs against Greenville, So. Carolina.

It was early in the game and the Greenville centerfielder, Len Pecou, slid into our second baseman and cut him very badly on a force out with two down.

It might have been excusable if it was an attempt to break up a double play, but there were two out so there was no need to slide and cut up our second baseman. In fact, he cut him so badly, (it was a two or three inch gash) that our second baseman was forced out of the game.

Ray didn’t need to tell me that the next time Pecou came up, the first pitch better be a knock-down. He went down in the dirt, and came up screaming at me and waving his bat. I couldn’t hear a word he was saying, because it was a full house and the crowd was really screaming.

After all I had just knocked down their favorite ballplayer. He was hitting over .300 and batting third in the lineup.

So I figured I had done my job. Got even! I sent the message that we weren’t going to put up with his attitude. I confess, I was tempted to hit him, but it was the playoffs, and I didn’t want to put a guy on base in a close ballgame.

When I looked in to get the sign for my next pitch, I heard a whistle. We were in the first base dugout that night, and I looked over my left shoulder and there was Ray giving me a sign with his two hands to knock the hitter down.

He was doing this on the front step of the dugout. So everybody in the ballpark, including the umpires could see that I was being ordered to knock the hitter down.

On the next pitch, Pecou went down again. He came up screaming at me, and again I couldn’t hear him. He was waving the bat at me like he was going to come out and get me. My thought was that my catcher will get him before he ever gets to me, so I wasn’t too worried.

I looked in to get my sign for the next pitch and I heard a whistle. I turned around and there was Ray telling me to knock him down again. So I did. And he came up waving his bat and screaming. I still couldn’t hear him.

Now the count was 3-0. I’m slow, but I’m not that slow. Instead of looking in to get my sign first, I turned around to look at our dugout. Ray was standing on the dugout steps, shrugging his shoulders as if to say go ahead and pitch to him.

I threw two fastballs for two strikes to get to 3-2, and then I walked him. I didn’t want to. But I walked him. He trotted down to first, stepped on the bag, raised his hands and asked for time.

I figured that he was coming after me, so I threw my glove down and waited. But he didn’t come after me. He went straight into our dugout and attacked Ray.

Ray kicked the hell out of him. He came out of the dugout bleeding from the nose and mouth. He was a bloody mess.

Here’s the payoff to this whole story. I didn’t get thrown out of the game. Nor did Ray get thrown out of the game. The only guy who got thrown out, was the hitter . . . because he charged our dugout.

Yes, it was a very different culture then, than now.

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