Thirty-Nine and Still Stalking the Perfect Delivery

He rocky slightly, kicked and fired the ball to the catcher with his huge, determined stride.

He was 39 and, statistically at least, fading into the netherworld of mediocrity. His fastball was not so fast.

The sportswriter pestered him about retirement-asked him what he was going to do when he was out of the game.

Out of the game? He was the same one that they had once written be the best ever.

So now he, too, must know he was not. A great, a giant-but no one would ever say. "There goes Tom Seaver, the greatest pitcher that ever lived.

Perhaps that was what drove him now, in another pitching dimension. When he started, he was chasing Mathew son. Johnson and Koufas, but they were still ahead of him and would be forever.

But Seaver was still chasing harmony with each delivery, each perfect delivery.

Every other pitcher has some slight flaw in his motion, some minute deviation that helps him adjust to his own physical limitations. Some of these adjustments are almost imperceptible, some are grotesque distortions.

Tom Seaver alone has the perfect motion.

On this day, almost a year ago now, Tom Seaver was warming up in the bullpen in Fenway Park. He was still on his first tour of the American League and was making his first appearance in the shadow of the venerable Green Monster.

If Tom Seaver and his 258 National League victories were impressed by the surroundings, they weren't showing it.

He looked strange in his new White Sox uniform. The old number '41 was still there, but the garb seemed foreign, almost traitorous.

The American League had treated Seaver to an unkind first month. He had lost his only two decisions and had racked up an ERA over six and without delving much further into the gory details of his decline, he had been allowing opposition batters to hit well over 300.

On that May evening, the Boston weather was ominous, so the right-hander was taking his warm-up tosses deliberately, pacing him self. The 39 year old Tom Seaver knew his arm couldn't bounce right back after a rain delay, the was if had 20 years before.

The clouds and the air of doom didn't stop Seaver's delivery from being any more or less than it had been. His arm speed was down and the hop on his pitches had diminished, but his motion remained tranquilly the same as that of the 22-year-old who burst onto the major league with a 16-13 campaign in 1967 with the woeful New York Mets.

Two years later, Tom Terrific was 25-7, in possession of the Cy Young Award and the Mets were would champions.

Seaver would be voted the N.L.'s finest pitcher two more times, strike out 200 or more batters nine years in a row, compile four 20-win seasons with the Mets and on my fifth birthday, he would strike out a major league record 10 consecutive battery and finish the contest with another record--19 strikeouts in a single game.

He was traded to Cincinnati during the 1977 season and spent five complete seasons and pitched his only no-hitter there.

After a 5-13 season in 1982, he went back to the Mets before the 1983 season, for Charlie Puleo, Lloyd McClendon and Jason Felice.

Getting traded for Puleo, McClendon and Felice--three players whose greatest claims to fame are getting traded for Tom Seaver--signalled the beginning of Seaver's decline.

Through no fault of his own, he had never gotten the opportunity to play with a consistent contender Admittedly, he been on two champions, but the Mets never were big winners and when he arrived in Cincinnati he found the Big Red Machine rusting away.

Tom Seaver would eventually take a 614 winning percentage into this season, although he pitched for a combination of teams that played a few percentage points under 500 when he was with them. He possesses the highest winning percentage differential (.117) in major league history.

Even the great Walter Johnson, cursed with the uniform of the Washington Senators, did not rise as consistently above the lackluster play of his teammates as did Tom Seaver.

But that's not what I'll remember about seeing Seaver that evening in Fenway.

As he took his pitches in the bullpen, he was surrounded by a huge crowd of curious fans. The scene was marked by a horde of brats who kept screaming to a legend and his catcher that they should throw a glove, a ball, a batting glove or some souvenir over the fence.

The greedy little kids cried and should for some tangible members from their trip to the ballpark. I wanted to tell them who was they were yelling to, to shut up and have respect-go bug the rag-arm warming up in the Red Sox pen, but don't disturb this guy-he's special.

Seaver ignored them, but their persistent shouting ruined the scene.

Finally, as if by some divine grace, it began to rain. The kids stopped screaming and Seaver left.

The rain fell for almost two hours and sputtered to a stop. The teams came back out of the clubhouses and Seaver walked gently to the bullpen.

This time the kids were long gone, shoved into Hulk pajamas and tucked into bed.

Only a hardy few survive two-hour delays, so when Seaver resumed his warmups, the atmosphere had changed. Those of us who stood there with our faces pressed hard against the now-wet chain link fence were silent.

Seaver found his pace gently, indicating his pitch selection with measured flicks of his gloves. He would signal his fastball with a quick jerk, his curve with a sweeping gesture. All the time his battery mate was stoic, chewing his tobacco carefully, with respect.

No need to tell the catcher that he was working with a legend.

Each delivery was harmony. The pitches were not so perfect, but the motion remained beautiful.

Finally, after the White Sox batted in the top of the first, Seaver strode across right field to the mound.

Eight perfect deliveries. Eight warm-up pitches.

He started down at the first batter, rocked slightly, kicked and fired.

Strike.