The recent induction of Bruce Sutter into the Baseball Hall of Fame reminds us that we live in an ambivalent society, uncertain whether to champion versatility or specialization. On the one hand, multitasking is all the rage today, with residents in this increasingly mobile and fast-paced world doing two or more things at once, often out of necessity.
Sometimes, however, not out of necessity. Is it really necessary for half the people in the United States (or so it seems) to talk incessantly on cell phones while wheeling their huge Hummers, Excursions, and other monster vehicles around sharp corners with one hand, the other pressing a phone firmly to an ear?
In the workplace, necessity, as the mother of invention (and who multitasks more than a mother?), has required versatility as jobs fade and workers who thought they would spend their careers in one line of work try to transition into other professions.
At the same time, we all look for the specialist. For example, when it comes to complex surgical needs of our body, car, or bank account, we all want the specialist, not the versatile generalist.
So how does this relate to baseball and Bruce Sutter? In baseball, versatility also has high priority, as in the player with multiple tools: the consistent yet powerful bat, the sure hands, the strong arm and the quick feet. Not many have all the tools, but occasionally there appears a Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Mickey Mantle, or Barry Bonds. Having knocked Bonds repeatedly in this column, I hereby give him his due as a great player who should have been content with greatness and beaten down his desire to best Mark McGwire in home run fame.
Even pitchers usually need versatility to be successful. A fastball, no matter how fast, eventually will be timed by the batter if that is all the pitcher throws. Commanding different pitches, changing speed, locating carefully, and mixing up pitch selection are all common ingredients in the successful pitcher’s repertoire.
Yet there are exceptions to this quest for versatility, and Bruce Sutter makes the case for specialization. I am not talking here of specialization regarding function; there is plenty of that. We have the designated hitter, pinch hitter, pinch runner, defensive specialist, long reliever, middle reliever, set-up man, closer. In the case of Sutter, I refer to his reliance almost exclusively on one pitch. A minor league pitcher of modest talent who hurt his arm trying to master the slider to give himself a more versatile repertoire, Sutter in 1973 learned the split-fingered fastball, a pitch invented less than a decade earlier.
Sutter was quickly in the majors and on his way to becoming one of the great relief pitchers of all time, the fourth reliever to make the Hall of Fame, following Hoyt Wilhelm, Rollie Fingers, and Dennis Eckersley. In 1979, he won the Cy Young Award. Five times he led the National League in saves, and he accumulated 300 saves during his 12 years in the majors, spending his best years with the Cubs and Cardinals. Batters knew what was coming, but it really did not matter. They could not hit Sutter anyway.
Sutter was not the only relief pitcher to thrive with just one pitch, specializing doubly with one pitch in one very specific role. That first Hall of Fame relief pitcher, Hoyt Wilhelm, was going nowhere in his career until he mastered a knuckleball, which he then fluttered past flailing batters for 21 years (1952-1972), finally retiring at the age of 48. A contemporary of Wilhelm’s, Elroy Face, sparkled with the Pittsburgh Pirates, helping them win the World Series in 1960. His greatest season, though, came the year before when he won 18 games and lost but once. He did throw more than one pitch, but what he relied on in tough situations, to no hitter’s surprise, was the forkball, the ancestor of the split-fingered fastball.
Then there is Mariano Rivera, the future Hall of Famer still saving games for the New York Yankees. Rivera developed his cut fastball after experimenting with various grips on his fastball. He now seldom throws anything else. The pitch arrives at 95 miles per hour and breaks in by some six inches to left-handed hitters. Relying on that one pitch has made Rivera the gold standard for relief pitchers.
So if you find yourself plugging away at the same job day after day, enjoying little variety in what you do, just draw a deep breath and remember that you are not alone. You are right there with Sutter, Rivera, and those others who have done one thing, and done it very well indeed.
Edward J. Rielly is a Westbrook resident, English professor at Saint Joseph’s College, and widely published author with two books on baseball and American culture.
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