For Ryan, It Was A Very Special K

It was a perfect setup for a strikeout record: a dominant pitcher against an outmatched hitter. On the mound at Montreal 's Olympic Stadium the afternoon of April 27 was Houston righthander Nolan Ryan , just one K away from replacing Walter Johnson as baseball's alltime strikeout leader. The sainted Senator had assumed the lead in 1921, with 2,820, when he passed one Denton True (Cy) Young, and had 3,508 when he retired six years later.

At the plate was Brad Mills, a substitute infielder with 154 at bats in the big leagues. Expo Manager Bill Virdon had summoned the lefthand-hitting Mills to hit for the righthanded Doug Flynn . Mills had singled off Ryan in their only previous encounter, last season in Houston . But Mills was struggling now, and Flynn had never struck out against Ryan . So much for baseball's book of percentages.

Ryan walked around behind the mound, telling himself not to rush his delivery. He braced on the rubber, raised his hands over his head, tucked his left knee under his chin and threw with his simple and fluid motion, leading with his left foot, shifting his weight and releasing the ball with his right arm at an 11 o'clock position. In came a fastball over the outside corner for a called strike. Now a curve, low and inside, but Mills couldn't stop his swing. Strike two. Ryan wasted a fastball outside. One and two. Tugging at his cap, Ryan walked off and on the mound and shivered like a dog shaking off water as he looked in for the sign. A big, sidewinding curve over the outside corner. Called strike three!

In the crazy quilt of activity that followed, no two characters seemed to mesh. Mills stood forlornly. "I was looking for a fastball, he threw a curve and I got vapor-locked," he said later. Umpire Bob Engel was animated. He turned and threw a hard right jab—a memorable thumb for a record-breaking strikeout. As the 19,309 fans at Olympic Stadium rose to cheer, Ryan hesitantly raised his hat. Meanwhile, stoic as monuments, giant likenesses of Ryan and Johnson appeared on the electronic scoreboard in centerfield.

Like Johnson before him, Ryan is a modest and clean-living young man from rural America who has pitched uncomplainingly for generally mediocre teams. He was born in 1947, the year after Johnson died. As Johnson did, Ryan relies primarily on big heat. Johnson was the celebrated Big Train; Ryan—Nolie or Tex to his teammates—throws the Ryan Express. Oh, there are differences. Johnson threw almost nothing but a sidearm fastball, which all but blinded the hitters of his day. "You can't hit what you can't see," former American Leaguer Ping Bodie marveled. Ryan goes over the top and throws a nifty curve about 30% of the time. But Johnson and Ryan will forever be linked as the most overpowering pitchers of their time.

Still, baseball men debate the importance of the strikeout record. "Three thousand strikeouts is the equivalent of 3,000 hits," says Seattle Pitcher Gaylord Perry , who at week's end was just 42 short of Ryan 's 3,509. "Strikeouts are important if you need them to win a game, but I don't know if they're a measure of how good a pitcher is," says Hall of Famer Bob Gibson , one of seven members of the exclusive 3,000 Strikeout Club. "Wins and losses are the important thing," says Atlanta 's Phil Niekro . But Cincinnati 's Frank Pastore counters, "With wins, you're dependent on your team. You can get the strikeouts yourself."

The record could not have come at a better time for both Houston and Ryan . The Astros went 3-16 in spring training and lost their first nine games of the season, in part because Ryan missed three weeks with prostatitis. "When he plays, Nolan always has a positive effect on the team," says Houston General Manager Al Rosen . "He's like Joe DiMaggio—not a holler guy, but a leader. You respond to him. There's a sense of majesty, like Affirmed at the post."

Ryan 's first 1983 start didn't come until the 12th game of the season. He set down the Expos 6-3, getting seven strikeouts in six innings. The Astros responded by winning six of their next nine. With Ryan eight short of the mark, 32,130 fans—nearly 2� times the average Astrodome crowd this season—lined up for his April 22 start against the Phillies. Ryan was so nervous before the game he put on his jersey backward. Then he admittedly tried too hard, walking six, striking out only three and losing 6-3. "People expected him to get eight strikeouts when he'd hardly pitched at all [8? innings] in spring training and just one game in the season," says his wife Ruth. "That was really a lot to hope for."

The conditions and premonitions were better in Montreal . The Astros awoke Wednesday out of last place for the first time all year. "We're not Lastros anymore," said Pitcher Joe Niekro . The previous afternoon Bob Knepper had shut out the Expos 2-0, although he walked the leadoff batter in five different innings. "Not your basic game plan," said Knepper . On the bus to the park Wednesday morning Ryan kidded Knepper about his win, but recalled that he himself had walked eight batters in one of his record five no-hitters. "I knew you'd find a way to get your no-hitters into the conversation," Knepper said. Ryan laughed. This time he was plainly at ease.

Ryan was following his game-day routine: an early pancake breakfast and then a lengthy rubdown from trainer Doc Ewell. An hour before game time, with a Willie Nelson tape playing "All of me, why not take all of me?" Ryan stretched and strengthened himself in the weight room: a few seconds hanging from a bar, some elevated sit-ups, a little weight training on his legs and arms and, above all, much limbering of his massive thighs like a runner. "Just to stay loose," he said. "Nobody lives a better life," says Ewell, who has been in baseball 45 years.