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Along with those old pros, the Year of the Pitcher has spawned a flock of superlative youngsters. Graduates of the Little League, the Pony League, the Babe Ruth League, the American Legion League, they were poised and polished pitchers by the time they broke into the majors. Baltimore's Jim Hardin, 25, has already won 17 games in his first full big-league season, and even the lowly New York Mets boast a couple of budding superstars in 25-year-old Jerry Koosman (17-10) and 23-year-old Tom Seaver (14-9). "Pitchers never used to mature until they were 27 or 28," says Manager Walter Alston of the Los Angeles Dodgers. "Sandy Koufax was 27 when he first won 20 games in a season; Whitey Ford was all of 32."
Gift of God. It all happens sooner now. Denny McLain is only 24. And not since blue-bearded Sal Maglie, who used to point his glove like a pistol at the batter's heart during his follow-through, has there been an angrier, more arrogant or more confident man on the mound. A chunky, 5-ft. 11-in. 190-pounder, McLain stands there stiff-backed, briefly fingering the resin bag before throwing it violently to the ground. Like a high-school wise guy, he tilts his cap so far down over his eyes that he has to cock his head back to see the catcher's signs. Then, with the barest hint of a nod, Denny is ready to pitch. He squirts a stream of spittle out of his mouth, the left corner of his upper lip curls back in a sneer, his hands come slowly together at his chest. Suddenly he wheels to the right, rears back and throws. If it is a strike, McLain licks his teeth with obvious satisfaction. Back comes the ball from the catcher and, as if bored with the very sight of the batter, McLain turns away from the plate.
More often than not, Denny's second pitch is identical to the first. So is the third. He delights in tweaking danger by the nose just for the sheer, perverse fun of it. An opponent who hits a home run off McLain's fastball will probably get another hummer the next time he comes to bat. Denny is always anxious to prove that any hit was a fluke.
Although his arsenal includes a slider, a medium-speed curve and a jug-handle changeup as well as a fastball—all of which he can deliver either overhand, three-quarter-arm or sidearm—McLain's main assets are speed and control. Cuteness and cunning are foreign to him: he rarely wastes a pitch, and he does not try to sucker batters into swinging at bad balls. "Control is God-given," Denny claims. "Like a good arm. You don't develop it, and I thank God He gave me both." Last month, in a typical McLain display of power and accuracy, Denny fired seven straight fastballs at Carl Yastrzemski, Boston's batting champ. Every one of them was a strike, and Yastrzemski only postponed the inevitable by fouling off four pitches before he went down swinging. Says Umpire Ed Runge: "I don't think McLain ever throws anything but a strike intentionally."