 It's time for yours truly, Jimmy Powers, with another Grantland Rice story. Hello there, this is Jimmy Powers transcribed. To date, the life of Granny Rice, as depicted in his life story, The Tomb of the Shouting, has taken us behind the scenes with the greats and near-greats of sport. Not only from the present day, but also from the historical past. Right from his start with the Nashville News in 1901, after graduating from Vanderbilt University, Granny sure knew him. He collected the immortals from the world of sports as an antique dealer collects priceless curios. Today we're going to meet Granny's all-time pitching selection. So, with a salute to the every young spirit of Grantland Rice, we open the tumult and the shouting, and in first person, begin today's story. In over 50 years of wandering about, I have run across four master pitchers. Pitchers you might label super great. I have seen at least four other great ones. These four masters happen to be ancients, while three of the next four are what you might call moderns. Believe me, however, I have no special tie with the past that makes me see everything that's old as necessarily better than what's come since. If I didn't look ahead to greater deeds in this speeded-up age, I believe I would have withered away long ago. Incidentally, my own personal baseball hero was a fellow who never made the grade in the big leagues. I played baseball with him at Vanderbilt back in 1900. His name was Joe Cheryl, a 155-pound gangly sort who must have stood 6 feet 2. I was a freshman and substitute shortstop. Cheryl, a senior, was our number one pitcher, a right-hander. For a collegian, he had the poise, guts, and speed of a champion. When Cheryl graduated, he went straight to the Southern League. In his first assignment, he struck out 17 men and seven innings. Then his arm went lame. He never pitched again. He became a doctor. Had his arm remained in one piece, Cheryl would have become a pitching immortal, but that's water long since over the dam. So who are my four masters? In no special order, they are Si Young, 511 victories, Walter Johnson, 416 victories, Grover Alexander, 373 victories, and Christy Matheson with 373 victories. The four who are merely great, Rube Waddell, Bob Grove, Karl Hubbell, and Herb Pinnock. Oddly enough, the top four are right-handers, and the second four are south paws. They were all friends of mine, but I knew Matheson, one of the New York Giants, better than any of the others. I first met Matty in the 1905 World Series when we were both 25, but I didn't really get to know him well until 1911 when I came to the New York Evening Mail. Matheson was as fine a companion as I ever knew. A graduate of Bucknell University, Matty was just a little bit better at all games than anyone else, including chess, checkers, and poker. He usually drew in most of the pots. He was smart-looking and well-dressed. I also played a lot of golf with him from New York to St. Louis. We had a funny argument in Pittsburgh on one trip during the 1911 season. I had Mike Donlan for a partner against Matty and Merkel, the old, giant first baseman. I had about a three-footer on the first green when Matty spoke to Merkel just as I stroked and missed my putt. Naturally, I squawked. What's the matter? Matty asked. We play baseball with thousands yelling and cheering, yet somebody talks and you can't putt. They are entirely different games, I said. That's a lot of bunk, Merkel said. This particular match was at the Hilly-Shenley course in Pittsburgh. On the second tee, Matty was at the top of his swing when I spoke to Donlan. Matty lunged and topped his ball into the ravine. He glared at me. Merkel was also at the top of his swing when I spoke again. Merkel's ball followed Matty's into the ravine. What's this, Matty asked? A golf match or a talking duel? I thought you said it didn't matter, I replied. Both quickly agreed to keep quiet if I would. They found golf needs silence just as baseball needs noise. That night in Pittsburgh after the match, he asked me to have dinner with him at the Pittsburgh Athletic Club, where he was slated to play a chess match. He was to meet 12 opponents. After dinner, he met the 12 and, walking back and forth from table to table, he won all of his matches, as I recall. Matty had an unusual but sound idea concerning the alibi. An alibi is sound and needed in all competition, he said. You can't afford to admit that any opponent is better than you are. So if you lose to him, there must be a reason, a bad break. You must have an alibi to show why you lost. But keep it to yourself. That's where it belongs. Don't spread it around. Lose gracefully in the open. To yourself, lose bitterly, but learn. You can learn little from victory. You can learn everything from defeat. He was the smartest all the way around. In the 1905 World Series against the Athletics, during the six days he pitched and won three games, all by way of shutouts, Matthewson was the greatest pitcher I ever saw. In those games, Matty said later, I had everything you need, almost as much speed as Johnson, a curve that broke as I wanted it to, and perfect control. The next two years, in 1906 and 1907, he had a bad arm. He worked on his fadeaway. In 1908, he won 37 games for the Giants and saved at least 12 games, being responsible for at least 50 giant victories. Grover Alexander, a partly sick man, had unbelievable control. Cy Young had a puzzling delivery, four different ones plus speed and stamina. Walter Johnson had blinding speed. If he had ever been wild or had tried to brush a few hitters away from the plate, I don't believe they ever would have hit him except by luck. They were discussing Walter Johnson in various papers asking what he'd had. I wrote a piece of verse which closed with these two lines. How do they know what Johnson's got? Nobody's seen it yet. Johnson was a big, shy man who rarely had much to say. I never heard him protest to an umpire when he was pitching. Denton True, Cy Young, with his vast body, turned his back completely on the hitter with something of a swivel chair delivery. He never let the ball go until he spun back almost completely, making his pitch extremely difficult to follow. Of the four men, Grover Alexander was the keenest control artist I ever studied. He was a true alcoholic, yet he won 30 games or more for three years. His earned run average was the lowest of them all, around one, six, five year after year. Alex could throw a ball into a tin cup. I have never seen such control. He would pitch a game in an hour and 15 minutes, rarely longer than an hour and 20 minutes. He wasted no time staring at the batter or rubbing the ball in his hands as so many pitchers do today. He pitched like Gene Sarrison plays golf, no fuss and feathers. I remember one year when he pitched 16 shutouts, working mostly in Philadelphia's Bandbox Park where a soft fly was a home run. Rube Wandel, Bob Grove, Herb Penwick, and Carl Hubbell and Plank were magnificent, but in my book, not quite like Young, Johnson, Alexander, Matheson, and Dizzy Dean. Diz was as good as anybody for a short span. He didn't pitch long enough to be rated with these others, but Dizzy had more native color than one of his native Ozark sunsets. In 1929, Paul, Diz, and Father Dean started for Texas, riding in two separate, battered, old jalapes. Diz, the true pioneer, led the way by a few hundred yards. When a freight train came by and separated us, I went on. I must have left Pa and Paul behind, Diz recall later. They finally turned around and went back home to Arkansas. I went on to Texas. We didn't see each other again for years. I joined the army and had to be bought from Uncle Sam when Ricky discovered I was the best pitcher in the country. Struck on the tow by a line drive off Earl Averill's bat in the 1937 All-Star game, Dean was cut down at 26. Favoring the tow, he pitched without his full stride and injured his shoulder. When Bersidus developed, Dean's effectiveness dimmed. One morning in 33, Babe Ruth and I had a date to play with Dizzy Dean at Belair in Clearwater. Having recently started the game, Diz was pretty wild with his woods and long irons. I got a bushel of bets riding with Dean today. Bellowed Babe, I'm giving him strokes on 10 different bets from one to 10 shots and I expect to collect on them all. Diz may be wild, but not that wild, I warned. As we reached the club, Babe spotted Pat Dean, Dizzy's handsome bride. Pat said, Babe, come on out with us this morning. The walk will do you good. Puzzled but appreciative of Babe's invitation, Pat accepted, Diz said nothing. He hit a good drive, then smothered two shots. After another sloppy shot by Diz on the second hole, Pat commented, dear, you're ducking. Ducking exploded, Dean, who asked you on this rabbit shoot anyway? Followed the fireworks, Ruth howled, Pat stalked off. Dean couldn't hit a shot the rest of the round. The Babe never collected an easier hatful. Well, that's it for today. Now this is Jimmy Powers transcribe saying, so long until next time.