The Method vs. The Fast Ball

Roy," she said, "how would you like to go to Detroit to work six days on a film for The Disney Channel called Tiger Town, written and directed by a 25-year-old director, Alan Shapiro?"

"Sounds awful," I said.

It was an old production-assistant friend, Susan Landau, calling me in New York. She's now a full-fledged producer, and I could detect an angle in her voice.

"Very funny," she said. "Your co-star would be the kid from Kramer vs. Kramer, Justin Henry. In Tiger Town, he idolizes you."

"Why?"

"Because in the story, you play an aging right fielder who, in the last weeks of the season, gets hot and wins the pennant for the Tigers."

"I'm a ballplayer?"

"One of the all-time greats!"

"I play with the Detroit Tigers?"

"You'll work out with the team for three days and shoot for three."

Pause. Then: "I'll do it."

"I can only pay you scale."

Longer pause: "I'll do it anyway."

She had made me an offer no red-blooded 48-year-old American boy could refuse.

Within a day, I had two gloves, four hardballs and a Lou Whitaker (Tiger second baseman) Louisville Slugger bat. I was off to Central Park to badger some kids I knew played there daily. They were perfectly happy by themselves, but I convinced them they could contribute to film history by playing a little pepper with me. Luckily, a few of them had just seen Blue Thunder. It didn't, however, stop one potential Nolan Ryan from trying to make raw meat out of my left hand. Although today's gloves have webbings as wide as a football field, I was still trying to catch the ball in the center of the mitt. I got out of that habit quickly. All this reminded me of those long, lazy summer twilights when my father spent hours trying to teach me to throw and catch. "Not up here, not down there, but right here--chest high!" he would bellow, and threaten to go back into the house if I didn't straighten my aim.

I bought Ted Williams' The Science of Hitting. He wasn't kidding. He kept saying that the hardest thing to do in sports was to hit a ball with a round stick. Big Ted had scientifically broken down his strike zone into molecular areas that guaranteed him from a .230 to a .400 batting average, according to where he swung his bat. The guy was fiendish in his desire to annihilate any pitcher he faced. My blood was beginning to run. I viewed myself in the bedroom mirror as I fluidly swung my bat again and again. I was awesome!

•

Tiger Stadium. An oasis of green in the midst of cement, downtown Detroit. As I stood on the second tier, overlooking home plate, the empty park felt pastoral and safe. A "hitter's ball park," they called it. Small and cozy, like Fenway in Boston. The first- and third-base lines are snug against the boxes and the stands, giving the fans a real intimacy with the players. Except for the swish of the sprinklers placed around the infield, our voices were the only sounds to be heard.

"Damn it, they painted the old green seats blue," said this little guy next to me, the director Alan Shapiro. He was wearing a Tigers cap and looked like a 20-year-old Dominican shortstop. "But other than that, it's all the same as when I was a kid!"

"A kid?" I said, looking at his wide-eyed enthusiasm. "That was only yesterday."

"You're right," he laughed. "Boy, do I envy you. Tomorrow, you'll be on that field, running and throwing and hitting. One of the last real grass diamonds in baseball--just think!" I did think. And I wasn't feeling awesome. I hadn't played softball for three years, hardball for 20. I was scared. This was going to take a hell of a performance.

In the Tiger Press Room, Scheider and Justin Henry meet the Detroit press.

Reporter: Mr. Scheider, were you ever a ballplayer?

Scheider: No one ever accused me of that.

Reporter: Why Detroit?

Scheider: It's the director's home town; he wrote the screenplay.

Reporter: What's your favorite team?

Scheider: Used to be the New York Giants. Then, I suppose, the Mets. [Laughter]

Reporter: No Yankees?

Scheider: With Steinbrenner?

Reporter: Mr. Henry, yours is the leading role. How do you like it?

Henry: [Calmly sitting in a big leather chair, wearing his Tigers cap] This part is my transitional role from child star to young leading man.

I had no excuse. I just loved baseball.

Clad only in shorts, T-shirt and shower clogs, Sparky Anderson sat back comfortably in his office swivel chair, puffing on his pipe. The Tiger skipper had just the craggy, tanned, fatherly face you'd want your leader to have. The Marlboro Man as manager. Colorful I expected; but the fast 30 minutes Sparky did on the state of the national pastime was candid beyond expectation:

"This is not my first movie, you know; we did the Ron LeFlore story for CBS--did you see it? The folks here in Detroit really deserve a pennant. They're really supportive and give this young team a hell of a boost. We'll be in it all the way. [They were, too, finishing second to Baltimore in the American League East.] Anybody could have managed that Cincinnati team [the Big Red Machine that won five pennants and four world series with Sparky's guidance]. Hell, we had a future Hall-of-Famer at every position. Guys like Bench, Perez, Rose, Morgan, Griffey. Double M.V.P.s. Pete Rose will kill you with his glove, his bat or his mouth. The fiercest competitor since Ty Cobb. Drugs? Sure, some. But in baseball, a player performs every day. After three weeks or so, it becomes visible. The team knows when a guy is off his game. Big money? Listen, I knew we were in trouble one time down in Houston when one of our million-dollar-a-year kids bought 11 pairs of hand-tooled boots. For Christ's sake, you can't break in four pairs of boots in a lifetime!"

"Hey, Sparky!" somebody yelled. "Gates is here!"

William "Gates" Brown is the batting coach for the Tigers. In his prime, he was the premier pinch hitter in baseball, with statistics that gave pitchers headaches. The nickname is purported to come from a little time he had done in the slammer. A barrel of a man, about 5'10", built like a fireplug, with strong arms and legs, he seemed a bit shy as he shook my hand, but he was quick to name the movies I had done that he liked. (Ballplayers are great movie fans. A lot of that lonely time on the road is spent watching movies.) His smile was quick, but his eyes were sad. Not gloomy, just sad, like those of a great jazz musician who had seen more than he wanted to.

"Well, my man," Gates said to me, "we gonna knock out a few?"

"Sure. Don't expect too much."

"We'll see. Ever play any ball?"

"Only as a kid."

"Don't worry. You can move. I've seen your movies. Get here around two-thirty and we'll get your shit together."

"Thanks, you're on."

I had requested, that first night, to go out to a batting range to get in a few licks. Susan, Alan and Justin went along. We all stepped into cages and faced the machines for about an hour. I was inconsistent at all speeds, batting above, below, early and late. After 200 or so pitches, my back was beginning to ache and my eyes were getting blurry and my fingers were beginning to numb. I kept glancing over at my co-star, Justin, in the next cage. He seemed relaxed, having some fun.

"Hey!" I said. "You're looking pretty good."

"Sure," he shot back. "I don't have to hit in the movie!"

•

Gates was waiting for me in the clubhouse at 2:30 sharp. I was surprised to see four or five Tiger regulars arriving that early. They were attending to their fresh uniforms, signing baseballs and answering fan mail. I was introduced to Enos Cabell, Lou Whitaker, Bill Fahey and Chet Lemon. I was struck by the size of these guys, the smallest of whom was Whitaker--and he was an inch taller and 30 pounds heavier than I was. They looked like the varsity football team. Again, they were all familiar with my films--I was able to congratulate them on their terrific record so far this year. But in front of those pros, I felt a little foolish donning the Tigers' home whites. They all giggled a bit as I struggled through the ritual of putting on socks, pants, underblues and, finally, a Tigers cap. As Gates and I talked about gloves and picked out a few bats, I became very aware of the clubhouse coming alive. Fresh uniforms were being placed around. They were polyester, tough, very white, but heavy, stiff and very, very warm.

Within minutes, the atmosphere was becoming chaotic--for me, that is. Two television sets began to broadcast simultaneously last night's tape of the Tigers and the Angels. If you had had a lousy night, there it was for the world to see. Another set showed whatever was available to the Detroit area from around the American League. Then several personal radios started up. Now a rock number was coming over the main speakers. Soon I couldn't hear a word Gates was saying. Trays of sandwiches, candy, health snacks were laid out, more trays of all kinds of chewing tobacco, three varieties of bubble gum and real cigarette samples. In one (continued on page 84)The Method(continued from page 74) corner was a huge beverage dispenser that had handles to draw out Coke, Pepsi, diet sodas, fruit drinks, club soda and water. (With the field at 102 degrees, water soon became my favorite.) All this, plus coffee and tea. Now the phones were ringing and voices were yelling out messages. I asked Gates how anybody could concentrate on baseball. "They'll do it when they get on the field," he said. "This is where the guys relax." Relax?

A cage had been set up behind home plate. Fahey had agreed to pitch to me while Gates observed. First we had a little hand-eye-coordination session using a rubber stand that held a ball, like a golf tee, waist-high. You tried to level your swing and hit the ball without making the end of the stand move. Not so easy. Ten or 15 swipes before I hit just the ball.

"OK," said Gates, "into the cage." As we both strode to the plate, the vastness of Tiger Stadium made me swallow hard. Three hundred forty feet down the left-field line, 440 feet in center field and 325 in right. The stands looked almost a mile away.

"How fast do you want 'em?" yelled Fahey on the mound. He had a big box full of balls next to him.

Gates: "Give 'im some about 40 to 50 [mph]."

I positioned myself in the batter's box and got ready. The first pitch came in very high, but old eager beaver reached up and slapped it back to the pitcher. The second was around my knees and faster. Swung right over that one. The next was low, inside. I caught it on the handle of the bat and dribbled it toward the imaginary shortstop. My hands stung like hell.

"Hold it!" said Gates. "That hurt, didn't it? I picked that bat with a fat end and thin handle to make sure you swing only at stuff over the plate. If you try for that inside garbage, the thin handle will kill your hands. Try to hit in your power zone, you know, where you can get the fat part of the bat on the ball, and then it'll really go. You got a nice natural swing, but you don't want to mess it up going for balls out of your strong area. Of course, if you got two strikes on you, you gotta swing at the pitcher's hat if he throws it."

I did try to wait for the pitches in my strong area of the plate, but I swung too hard and, again, I was either early or late.

Gates then gave me the single best piece of advice about hitting he could offer. "What you want to play," he said, extending my bat over the plate, "is watch-the-ball-hit-the-bat--not watch-the-bat-hit-the-ball. First of all, if you don't, you'll never get the bat around fast enough on fast pitches, and you'll get lost goin' for the low ones. See, you got to get out front of the plate quick; shit, you only got about a third of a second to do it!"

A few pitches later, I could feel my bat coming around better and I was actually lofting a few over second base. But when I missed, oh, how the ribs ached as all those muscles around the rib cage were being pulled. Missing is harder than hitting. More about that later.

"You see," said Gates, his huge arms making the bat look like a toothpick, "if you pivot on your back foot, keep your head out front always watchin' the ball, your body will move as a mass. It'll put some beef into your arms. You see, you gotta keep your platform steady. That applies in all sports--golf, tennis, football, even darts. You'll look smooth and easy and only the feet will be makin' the adjustments. Only a trained eye can see the adjustments."

"That's you, right?"

"Sure, that's what they pay me for. I don't like to mess with a player's natural swing, 'cause we're all different. But I do mess with a guy when he's being suckered into fucking up his platform by bad pitches. You see Reggie Jackson last night swingin' out over the plate? He's got a short, tight power zone, and when he stretches past it, he looks bad. He's got to get back on his platform."

When we finished that afternoon, I had to hurry back to the hotel to shower and dress for the game that night against the Angels. I did my usual 30-minute routine of exercises. I was aware of some soreness in my ribs, but I went through the workout anyway. Definitely a mistake.

The Detroit management had arranged for me to sit in a seat in a box right next to the Tigers' dugout. Gates stood on the step near my seat and pointed out a few of the subtleties of the game to me as it progressed. It was a great opportunity for me to observe dugout behavior as well. As an actor, I found it invaluable to catch the ballplayers in repose. Their personal peculiarities were all evident. Each player had his brand of dugout cool that covered various forms of anxiety. It seemed that if you were hitting next, for example, picking out your bat, rubbing it down and going into the on-deck circle were all preceded by a blank stare at the opposing pitcher to get down his moves. If you've been benched, it's difficult to hold on to your soured dissatisfaction and still root for the team. There was tobacco chewing, bubble-gum chewing, fussing with hats, jackets, going to the water cooler, spitting, making small talk and not talking at all. And, surprisingly, sneaking puffs on a cigarette at the opposite end of the dugout, away from the manager. My head went continually from the action on the field to what was going on in the dugout. Since the game went 14 innings, that was a lot of head turning. That, coupled with the generous folks in my box insisting on buying me 16-ounce beers all night, sent me home with a stiff neck and a light head. The Tigers had won with a walk and a double in the 14th. With victory in my heart, I slept well.

•

The temperature in Detroit the next day shot up to 98 degrees, making it about 110 degrees on the field. The sweat was rolling into my eyes after a short game of pepper with Gates. The ribs were aching and my stomach was full of too much beverage from that nifty soda fountain in the clubhouse. Anyway, into the batting cage I went. I was feeling pretty loose and doing a fair job of keeping my platform level when something happened. Something uncanny.

While routinely hitting a few shots over second base, I was getting annoyed with my inability to really pop one. So I started to shorten the arc of my swing, to come around faster with a little more snap. Then I caught a fast ball cutting the plate in half. Crack! Following through with my eye on the ball, I watched and waited as it soared high down the left-field line, stayed fair by about five feet and went smack against the top of the left-field wall, just missing going into the bleachers. The numbers on the wall read 340 Feet! As the ball careened back onto the field, I dumfoundedly watched it come to a standstill. Suddenly, as if I had put my arms into a hot flame, I instinctively yanked my bat back from its follow-through position and pressed it to my chest. Turning to Gates, I blurted, "Oh, my God--what did I do?"

I actually thought I had done something wrong! I couldn't have done what I just saw. But I had. I even felt embarrassed.

"You feel that?" asked Gates.

"I didn't feel a thing," I answered.

"Like cream cheese, right? I told you, man. Good shot. You got some good wood on it. Really goes, doesn't it?"

"It sure as hell does." I was turning (concluded on page 178)The Method(continued from page 84) dizzyingly in the batter's box, looking into the stands, checking the field. Did anybody see that shot? The only face I saw besides Gates's was that of the pitcher, Fahey, and he was grinning ear to ear.

"You want to hit some more?" he yelled.

"Fuck, no," I said. "After that? I'm retiring for the day." I just wanted to walk away feeling as good as I felt that moment.

Of course, later, I quizzed Gates as to whether the left fielder could have caught it. "Don't think so," he said. "Looked too high up."

He was trying to be serious, but my delirium was infectious. "Hell," he said,"if the wall wasn't there, it would have gone at least 400 feet. How much you say you weigh? Shit, man, you're a powerhouse!"

Filming began the next morning and hit me square in the ribs. They were really sore now, and there was going to be no time to rest them. My character in the film, Billy Young (modeled on Al Kaline), had to look bad at the plate in the early sequences. Taking cut after cut and missing only heightened the pain. This is an instance when acting becomes sheer hell. We needed every minute in that stadium, and we couldn't just skip on to another scene and come back. Why? Because we had the grandstands filled with Detroit fans who had volunteered to come out and be our crowd for not much more than lunch and a chance to watch movie people work. We also knew their lot would dwindle soon because of the heat and the sheer boredom of waiting 25 to 30 minutes between setups.

During those two days, I suffered. I didn't realize I had set another trap for myself. I had insisted that for the final sequence, Billy hit an inside-the-park home run instead of one that went out of the park. That meant the not-so-young Young would have to haul his ass around all the bases at top speed in order to score. Besides not being skilled at running bases, I would now have to go at top speed.

Unbeknown to me, unlike running in a straight line, circling the bases means just that. This "great circle route" requires you to run with your left leg dragging in for speed and your right leg slightly splayed out to keep your balance. Consequently, the muscles in your groin are pulled and stretched in a way they know nothing about.

By the last day, Saturday afternoon and early evening, I was verging on becoming a cripple. Besides the master shots, done from higher up, each section of this sprint from base to base had to be covered again and again in medium and close-up shots--that is, if you wanted to see Young's face and body go through the torment of getting home with the winning run. I was going to have to push through the pain. No Stanislavsky sense memory here; this was the agony and the ecstasy. I moved it.

Having said all this, I should point out that actors have a macabre sense about themselves that the closer they come to death, the better the performance is. The final headfirst (another of my bright ideas) slide was the leap of relief. Home at last. Safe. The end of the journey. The hero's welcome. The completion of the film.

I staggered into the locker room exhausted, unable to turn my upper torso, legs bowed out like a drunken cowboy's. It would take me almost a month to be able to bend over or move quickly without pain.

When I saw the final product, though, damn it, I really looked like a ballplayer! I had satisfied the director, the producer and, mostly, myself. The ballplaying scenes in Tiger Town are truly first-rate, something to be proud of. In my mind, the Tigers had really won the pennant and I'd had a terrific time. I think the Detroit team will be pleased by the director's work and my performance; but most of all, there is Gates.

Thanks, Coach. I'll never forget that shot down the left-field line, a boyhood dream come true. And, man, you were right--it was just like cream cheese.

"Gates then gave me the single best piece of advice about hitting he could offer."

"Unbeknown to me, unlike running in a straight line, circling the bases means just that."