LEFTY WRITES A FEW KIND WORDS ABOUT THOSE NOBLE PITCHERS

San Francisco
June 17,1963

Dear Alice,
     On the bus to Candlestick Park the other day Bobby Lillis turned to
Dick Drott, who was to start against the Giants, and cheerfully announced:
"I got a feeling that we're REALLY going to bust loose today."
     As the world knows by now, Juan Marichal pitched a no-hit, no-run
game and beat us, 1-0.  After the game Drott told Lillis that, if it was
all the same to him, he would appreciate it if next time we busted loose
for somebody else.
     Alice, our Colt .45 pitchers have labored in so many lost causes we
feel like the prosecuting attorney who always draws Perry Mason.  Under
the circumstances you would expect us to get discouraged, but we don't. 
Harry Craft jabs us with a sharp stick a few times and we go right back
out there.
     You take Dick Drott.  The Giants were able to nick him for just one
run and three hits, and it is not easy for a team to produce less that
that.  But we did.
     Later, one of the San Francisco writers said: "I feel glad for
Marichal, but I feel sorrier for Drott."  And, Alice, those San Francisco
writers have razor blades for hearts.
     Pitching for the Colt .45s is a lonely war.  Against the Dodgers one
night Russ Kemmerer found himself in a pickle with the bases loaded, none
out, the score tied and big Frank Howard coming to bat.  Russ worried the
dirt around the pitcher's mound with his spikes, carefully studied the
situation and in general gave the impression that he was concerned.
     Finally John Bateman, our catcher, called time and trotted out to
him.  "Ah," Russ thought to himself, "here comes Bateman to give me some
advice."  So John reached the mound and put his hand on Kemmerer's
shoulder.  "Boy," he said shaking his head, "you really got yourself in a
heckuva jam!"
     Well Alice, I woke up this morning and I was still with the Colt
.45s, and FRANKLY I was rather surprised because a big rumor was going
around that me and Bob Bruce would be traded to the Dodgers for Moose
Skowron and a pitcher named Pete Richert.
     I learned later that Bruce started the rumor.
     Last night was the trading deadline and that's why things seemed a
little tenser than usual.  Bob Turley used to say that he always pitched
two good games a year, one just before cutdown time and the other before
the trading deadline.  I guess I got my good game just in time, though in
truth I don't remember having a good game.  It must have been last week
when I pitched an inning against the Dodgers and retired them in order.  I
had a little help from Howie Goss, who crashed into the centerfield fence
twice and made a shoestring catch for the third out.
     As he ran past me heading for the dugout Howie said, "Way to go,
Lefty.  Nothing to it."
     "Amen, brother," sez I, "amen."
     Say, I was only kidding about Bruce starting that rumor, but there
really was some talk about such a trade.  Skowron offered to rent Bob his
apartment in Los Angeles and the night Brucie pitched against them Sandy
Koufax asked him: "Who you pitching for tonight?  Us or Houston?"
     The fact is that the Dodgers start all that stuff themselves.  They
are the most active rumor mongers in the whole league which comes, I
guess, from being around Walter Winchell and Louella Parsons and that
crowd.  
     You may have noticed, Alice, that we didn't make any big deals, or
any little ones for that matter.  I have only one regret.  I wish we could
have made a trade for Harvey Haddix.  Any guy who ever pitched a no-hitter
for 12 innings and got beat deserves a chance to pitch for the Colt .45s.
     The pressure is off now that the trading deadline has passed, but we
filled the waiting hours with a sort of hold-your-breath humor.  Friday
night Ken Johnson climbed aboard the team bus with an airline schedule
sticking out of every pocket.  At the hotel Don Mc Mahon spotted a pink
notice in his mail box, and pretended to faint.  Then, with hands
trembling slightly, he unfolded it and read: "Your copy of the Sporting
News is at the front desk."
     Each man waits in his own way.
     This has been our longest road trip of the year, 16 games in 15 days,
and so far it hasn't been anything to write home about, so to speak.  I'm
not saying our attack is weak, but there is talk of putting an asterisk
beside Marichal's no-hitter in the record book because it came against
Houston.
     Anyway, San Francisco is one of my favorite cities, famous for its
charm, culture and eating places.  I had dinner last night in a French
restaurant called Le Clipjoint, and for the price of a chicken sandwich
you could buy 50 feet of frontage on Main Street in downtown Houston.
     This town would be just about perfect if they could do something
about the draft.  It's as if somebody had turned on the world's largest
attic fan and they couldn't find the cutoff switch.  The wind blows all
the time at Candlestick Park, and they found out they made one tiny error
when they built the place.
     You see, they had to level this mountain by the bay to erect the
stadium, and much later they discovered that it was the mountain that
blocked off the wind.
     Because of the cold nights most of the games here are played in the
afternoon.  So one day Chub Feeney, the general manager of the Giants,
moseyed out to the stadium site to see how the construction was going.  He
was somewhat stunned to find tools, machines, lumber and a little man
hurtling through the air.
     "Does the wind always blow like this?" Feeney asked one of the
workmen, as he clung for dear life to a steel post.
     "Only between one and five," the workman shouted back.
     Well, I got to get down to the bullpen now.  Hal Woodeshick just went
in to pitch-we're trying to win a doubleheader from the Giants-and I got
to take his place.  In the bullpen here we tie a rope around our waists,
like mountain climbers, to keep from blowing away.

                                                You Know Me, Alice.
                                                Lefty.