FAREWELL TO ARMS
An obsession with velocity has started to take its toll.
Even a terrific fastball hitter like Buster Posey has a speed limit. Not long ago, the San Francisco Giants catcher quizzed a few older ballplayers about the recent invasion of flame-throwing heat monsters.
“I’ll ask them. ‘Is it just me?’ I mean, I’m about ready to move the mound back a little bit,” Posey cracked.
“You have middle-relief guys coming in throwing 100 mph. And I’m like, ‘Wait, I thought 100 mph was supposed to be one or two guys across the league.’ “
It’s not just you, Buster. Triple- digit radar gun readings, once the sole provenance of legends like Nolan Ryan, now make for a crowded expressway.
A record 31 big league pitchers touched 100 mph on the radar gun last season, according to PITCHf/x data, and two pitchers — Aroldis Chapman and Mauricio Cabrera — averaged at least 100 mph for the season.
There is more heat in the forecast. Baseball America documented another 71 prospects clocked at 100 mph in the minor leagues last year.
The fastball fixation is nothing new. You can fairly trace pitching history through baseball’s rapidly spinning seams, from Walter Johnson to Bob Feller to Bob Gibson to Nolan Ryan to Chapman.
But it’s becoming increasingly clear that baseball’s best arms are cruising at dangerous speeds. Pitchers are getting injured at record rates, and a recent wave of studies demonstrates a relationship between increased velocity and increased risk in Tommy John surgeries.
There are apparently only so many Newton-meters of torque a human elbow can take.
“We’re seeing so many young kids coming up throwing 95-98. They throw as hard as they can for a full season,” A’s catcher Stephen
Vogt said, “and they come back the next season and their arm is gone.
“I think it’s become the mentality of a lot of organizations: ‘Well, let’s just use this guy until he can’t pitch anymore and next in line.’ I’m not a big fan of that.”
Velocity has gone up or held steady in 14 of the past 15 seasons. In the bullpen, especially, it’s as if everyone suddenly comes equipped with a Rich Gossage fastball. It’s not just Goose anymore, it’s geese: The top 20 relievers last year averaged 96.72 with their heaters, according to numbers collected from fangraphs.com.
Better training, more sophisticated throwing programs and advances in medicine have paved the way for this generation of young, hard throwers. But there’s no way to strengthen an elbow ligament, leaving the UCL to bear the brunt of this unprecedented fastball force.
Stan Conte, the former Giants and Dodgers trainer, last year was the first to report that while shoulder injuries are on the decline in major league baseball, the number of elbow injuries continues to rise.
The trend of mega-velocity has been described as baseball’s Faustian bargain: Throwing hard will get you drafted and could make you a star — and then, almost certainly, it will destroy you.
“Our bodies are not designed to withstand that kind of velocity,” Vogt said. “If you can, you’re a freak.”
In 2008, the PITCHf/x system was installed in all 30 ballparks, creating a generation of rubberneckers who swivel to see the MPH on the scoreboard.
“Oh, I feel like that’s the main thing that you look for,” A’s righthander Jharel Cotton said. “If I throw a pitch and I think it’s hard, I’ll look back and say, ‘OK, that’s pretty cool.’ “
Why are pitchers throwing harder than ever?
“Because they’re trying to,” deadpanned one injury expert, paraphrasing the great George Mallory.
The expert wasn’t being sarcastic. It was a perfect fourword summation for a world gone mad for mph. From the youth leagues on up, the gun is god.
Players recognize from an early age that velocity gets you the college scholarship. Kids know a good heater gets you drafted. Vogt sees the cult of the radar gun every time he agrees to catch a high school kid during the offseason.
“They’ll come out and they’re throwing as hard as they can. And I’m diving for the ball” Vogt said, shaking his head. “I’ll ask, ‘Hey, what are you working on?’ And they’ll say, ‘I’m just trying to throw hard.’ “
When young pitchers go to a showcase where scouts are watching, they aren’t trying to paint the outside corner. They’re trying to light up the gun.
It should be no surprise, then, the biggest rise in Tommy John surgeries is among 15- to 19-yearolds. The surgery rate for that age range rose 9.1 percent per year between 2007-11 per one study.
A’s pitcher Daniel Mengden, a Westside High School graduate, understands the lure of anyone offering a few more upward ticks to the fastball.
“It was all about it for me growing up,” Mengden said. “Maybe there’s a guy out there who is 89-92 with good stuff, but scouts are way more excited about the kid who throws 95-97 and is all over the place.
“You can teach someone to pitch, but you can’t teach velocity.”
As pitchers reach for anything to give their fastballs a boost, hitters are forced to keep pace. At what point does a pitcher throw so hard it’s unhittable? Is it 108 mph? 110? 115? None of the above, Giants outfielder Hunter Pence said.
“No matter how hard you throw, it’s hittable,” Pence said. “There’s no one with a 0.00 ERA. There are some tremendous pitchers out there, but there are also good hitters. It’s just the nature of competing against the best.”
There’s a common phrase in major league clubhouses these days: “Go until you blow.” The mentality is to throw as hard as you can for as long as you can because there is always more gas out in the bullpen.
Pitchers used to pace themselves, or at least vary the speeds of their fastballs. Tug McGraw called his hardest pitch a “John Jameson” fastball — that was a straight, hard one named after the Irish whiskey. But McGraw also threw a Peggy Lee, a slower one in honor of her song, “Is That All There Is?”
These days? Every pitch is a power ballad. Hunter Strickland was the hardest throwing Giants pitcher last season. His four-seam fastball averaged 97.7 mph.
“I’ve learned very quickly that you can’t just throw a ball by somebody. But at the same time, you can’t shy away from who you are,” Strickland said this spring. “So I still stick with my strengths, no matter what.”
Nolan Ryan pitched for 27 seasons, keeping the fastball fire burning until his elbow gave out at age 46. But for mere mortals, the risk of injury is real with every triple-digit pitch. The motto for this hard-throwing generation ought to be live fast, die young, leave a beautiful radar gun reading.
“The time of relief pitchers lasting 15-20 years is going away,” Vogt said. “It’s getting younger and younger. And it’s, ‘Come in and throw as hard as you can.’ Because if you can’t throw it 95, you’re not going to make it.”