Balls Out

"He's still the person you call if you want to find somebody from the old Neighborhood. Later, he liked to create this image that he was a gangbanger or something, but Dock never got into much trouble. Except with the ladies."

Ellis and Rambo soon began running around with a couple of other neighborhood athletes, calling themselves "The Sons." At 6-foot-4, Ellis originally gained notice as a basketball player; he once had 21 assists in a Gardena High game. He refused to play for the baseball team--one of the white players had called him "spearchucker"--until, during his senior year, he was caught drinking wine in the bathroom. Play baseball, he was told, or we'll suspend you.

He played in four games and was named all-league.

Ellis' true initiation to baseball took place under the tutelage of legendary pitcher Chet Brewer, a 20-year veteran of the old Negro and Mexican leagues, a man who had played alongside Satchel Paige on the Kansas City Monarchs. Brewer was a scout for the Pirates and the manager of L.A.'s Pittsburgh Pirate Rookies squad. (In the days before the draft, such scouts were heavily relied upon to recruit players for rookie teams; at one point, the talent on Brewer's team was so impressive that Ellis wasn't even their No. 1 pitcher--and future Hall of Famer Eddie Murray was the bat boy.) Almost immediately, several teams tried to sign Ellis to a proper minor league contract, but he and his friends had heard of rookie players signing with the Pirates for $60,000, so he held out. Then, a year out of high school, Ellis got arrested for stealing a car. (Long story.) After he got off with probation and a fine, Chet Brewer suggested that, at this point, he might consider signing anything with a dotted line. And so, in 1964, Ellis signed a one-year minor-league contract with the Pirates for $500 a month, plus a $2,500 signing bonus. The Nut was going to The Show.

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Here's what Ellis remembers about the trip from Los Angeles to San Diego: not a goddamn thing. Apparently he got to the airport, boarded one of the San Diego shuttles that left every half-hour, flew for 22 minutes and landed. The first thing he recalls is sitting in a taxi, telling the driver to "get to the fucking stadium. I got to play." Next thing, he's sitting in the locker room. 5 p.m. By that point, Ellis had enough experience with LSD to know that it wouldn't be wearing off anytime soon; as a, uh, "precautionary measure," he took somewhere between four and eight amphetamines and drank some water. He walked to the railing at Jack Murphy Stadium where, each time he played in San Diego, a female acquaintance would bring him a handful of Benzedrine. White Crosses. He took a handful of those and went to the bullpen to warm up.

After that, it's impressions, mostly. The bullpen. Throwing. No idea how that felt, but he can remember being there. Next: the dugout. Sitting. Looking up and seeing drizzle. Not really how it looked or felt or any of that; just hoping to shit the game would be canceled. Just before 6:05 p.m., the umpire emerged, wiped off home plate and did a quick and basically ceremonial examination of the drizzle situation and signaled to the Pirates' bench. The national anthem began. "Damn. Looks like I'm gonna have to pitch." At this point, the thing in his hand felt, more or less, like a very heavy volleyball.

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Much like rock music or God, baseball is forever being declared dead. This scandal or that problem has tarnished the game forever; this strike or that contract has permanently alienated the fans; this player or that legend declares the sport has seen its best days. Ellis hates that shit. "When I played the game." "When I played the game." The ball is the same, isn't it? How about the bat? Still four bases? OK then.

Looking at tape of Ellis in his prime, what's most immediately striking is how much bigger--as in taller, naturally wider, fatter--the players appear to be; by contrast, a baseball game in today's steroid era looks like a carnival of bloated red midgets. The second-most striking thing is the economy of Ellis' motion. There's no elaborate wind-up, no huge leg kick or head move. He hides the ball until the last possible moment, then nonchalantly throws a brutal breaking ball. After a few pitches, it's easy to see how, even without the best pure stuff in the league, he became one of its premier pitchers.

In 1968, after being called up from the minors in June, Ellis went 6-5 with a 2.51 ERA; as quickly as the 1971 season, he was 19-9 with a 3.06 ERA and starting for the National League in the All-Star game. He had the arm speed and leg strength, but he also relied heavily on strategy--which consisted almost entirely of intimidation.

"It's such an important aspect of the game," he says. "Like hitting batsmen. All hitters know they're gonna get hit. They just don't know when. The kicker for the truly good hitters is, you cannot hit me as many times as I'm gonna hit you. They take that hit to get six hits. But you gotta pop their ass so you can get an 0 for 4 on them one day. Don't get cocky now, motherfucker. The challenge is on. So let's get it on. Other guys might explain it differently, have different reasons, but that was mine.

"Right about the time I left, it changed. You can't throw at anyone without getting thrown out of the game. The announcers today say it ruins the game. They never talk about the fights that Cincinnati and St. Louis got into 30 years ago. Barry Bonds? I'd hit him at least once a game. 'Cause he's got all that shit on. Yeah, let's see that shit stop the ball from hurting him if I hit him on the motherfucking elbow or something. I'd hit him just to see, does it work?"

It was also that 1971 All-Star game that first gained Ellis his reputation as a militant--an image later etched in stone by the 1976 biography Dock Ellis in the Country of Baseball, which declared him "baseball's Muhammad Ali."