The Hardworking Man From Alvin, Texas

It did not start out like a good day. I woke up with a sore back and took painkillers before leaving our house in Alvin for the long drive to Arlington Stadium where my team, the Texas Rangers, plays their home games. I was slated to be the starting pitcher that night.

It was early last season, May 1, a Wednesday. The heavy-hitting Toronto Blue Jays were in town. I was going with just four days rest since my last start. I hadn't been very successful the previous season with less than five days rest, and at age 44 I could've used that extra day.

Right before leaving I said goodbye to my wife, Ruth. Whenever I'm pitching a home game Ruth just about always comes over from Alvin to watch me play. If she can't make it, she watches on TV. Of my six no-hitters the only one she hadn't seen was my third one, with the California Angels in 1974, when she was moving us and the kids from Anaheim back to Texas and I was making my last start of the season. Ruth still hasn't forgiven herself for missing that one.

On this particular day Ruth didn't think she could get away. "I'll see it on TV," she said as I threw my stuff in the car and waved good-bye.

At the park I went through extra stretching exercises and even wore a heating pad during the scouting meeting where we go over the hitters.

Then, while I was loosening up in the bull pen, scar tissue tore open on the middle finger of my pitching hand. I told pitching coach Tom House, who was also 44, "I don't know about you, Tom, but I feel old today. My back hurts, my finger hurts, my ankle hurts, everything hurts."

Even my kids—Wendy 15, Reese, 16, and Reid, 20—tease me about being an old man and losing my hair and ask when I'm going to get a hairpiece. I just tell them that's the way the Lord wanted me, so I don't worry about it. I worry more about losing something off my fastball than off the top of my head. On that day it didn't feel like I would have much of anything on the ball.

Late in the afternoon Ruth found out that the Toronto game wouldn't be televised locally after all. So she phoned one of my ranching partners, Jim Stinson, and asked if she could come over to his place (Jim has a satellite dish for his television). "I thought he was pitchin' Friday in Detroit," Jim answered.

"No," Ruth said, "they switched him to today."

"If I'd known that, I'd have flown up for the game," said Jim. "Fact there's still time to hop up there in the plane if you want to, Ruth."

Meanwhile I had one of my worst warm-ups ever. Right after the national anthem our manager, Bobby Valentine, came out to the mound and asked how the back was. "It'll be history once I start pitching," I told him. Adrenaline always takes over when I'm on the mound, even after 25 seasons in the majors.

But I wondered how long I'd last after the kind of stuff I had—or didn't have—in the bull pen. I learned later that Tom House had told Bobby to keep a close eye on me and not leave me in too long. We'll just take this one hitter at a time, I told myself before the first pitch.

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