Sam Of 1,000 Ways

It has been said that McDowell possesses a talent even greater than the best stuff—the talent to refuse his greatness. Like a character from an Ayn Rand novel, he has discovered that he has the kind of awesome impact that stills all motion in its wake—only McDowell does not know why all motion is stilled in his wake and, furthermore, he could not care less. He seems to be afraid that if he let his talent flower to fulfillment, he might cease to possess it and it, in turn, would possess him. So he treats it like some unruly growth he must periodically prune before it becomes too unmanageable. As a result of this attitude there is more bravado than confidence in Cleveland toward McDowell's present success, which finds him with a 16-6 record, 2.63 ERA and more strikeouts than anybody in the majors. This bravado seems to conceal beneath its surface two questions: "Lord, when will he screw up this time?" and "Why won't the son of a bitch just be great?"

Before a recent game against the A's, McDowell came down the darkened runway into the sun-drenched Cleveland dugout, where he emerged like some monstrous pinstriped polar bear awakening from a winters hibernation. He stands 6'5", weighs 220 pounds and has a natural snarl to his lips. On this day he also had a heavy sandy stubble growing over his large square jaw.

"I never shave on days I pitch," he said in a deep, understated growl. "I try to look extra mean on those days. It helps me get batters out." He also does not talk to fans, sign autographs or pose for pictures on those days.

When McDowell saw the young boy bouncing the bat off the dugout floor he walked up behind him, reached over his head and snatched the bat in midair. The boy whirled around, looking up and up and up into that unshaven shadowed face in terror.

"Watch this," said McDowell. He bounced the bat handle on the floor, caught it as it sprang back, flipped it over his shoulder, let it slide down his back, pulled it through his legs, bounced it once more off the floor and then executed a perfect pirouette before catching the bat on the rebound.

"Wow, Sudden, how d'ya ever learn that?" asked the boy.

"Easy," said McDowell, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. "I practice every time I hit a home run."

"Will ya teach me?" said the boy.

"I can't right now," said McDowell, and he navigated three steps in one leap. "I have to go practice The World's Greatest Drag Bunt." And he did.

McDowell claims he is the second best hitter on the Cleveland club, so he sees no sense in practicing his hitting when he could be spending his time more valuably by practicing his drag bunt. In keeping with his character, McDowell says, "The only thing I get satisfaction from is accomplishing something I'm not supposed to be able to do. I live for challenges, and once I overcome them I have to go on to something new." But the possibility of achieving a goal and the actuality of doing it are one and the same thing to him. To his mind the possibility that he could be the greatest pitcher is the same thing as being the greatest pitcher. Therefore, why should he bother to prove it? This is precisely why McDowell never has had a won-lost record to match his ability. He knows he has shown time and again that at a given moment he can outpitch anybody else in baseball—aside from Sandy Koufax he is the only pitcher ever to average more than nine strikeouts per game—therefore he feels he is naturally the best pitcher in baseball. Right? Wrong. Wrong to most people maybe, but not wrong to McDowell. Like a genius, McDowell does not judge his accomplishments by conventional standards. His challenges—and their eventual resolution—are very private affairs.