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The best that the Dodgers' Sandy Koufax could manage was one single all through the Series. Everybody knows though, that Koufax can't hit or run and that his fielding is so erratic his own manager says, "I worry every time he lobs the ball to first base." What's more, he is a physical wreck: a circulatory ailment nearly ended his career in 1962, and he now has "traumatic arthritis" in his pitching arm. But over five short seasons, Koufax has reached a pinnacle attained by no other pitcher. He has won 102 games and lost only 38, pitched a record four no-hitters (including a perfect game), struck out a record 382 batters in one season, and posted the lowest earned-run average m the National League for four years in a row. "Sandy Koufax is the only pitcher in baseball I would pay to see warm up," Minnesota Manager Sam Mele said before the start of last week's World Series. By the time the Series was over, Mele was wishing that he would never see Sandy again.
The Twins beat Koufax in the second game—although he allowed only two runs. In the fifth game, Minnesota was lucky even to get a hit. Sandy retired twelve in a row before Harmon Killebrew dumped a soft liner into centerfield that Willie Davis misjudged and dropped. The scorers ruled it a hit, and everybody in Dodger Stadium groaned with anguish—everybody except Sandy Koufax. "Nice try, Willie," he yelled, with a big smile on his face.
Not Even a Picture. Just because a man does his job better than anybody else doesn't mean that he has to take it seriously—or even like it. Sandy Koufax, born Sanford Brown in Brooklyn ? years ago, picked baseball mostly because it seemed easier than being an architect—which is what he first wanted to be. His stepfather, Irving Koufax, is a lawyer, and his mother is an accountant, and they were more than a little taken aback when Sandy decided to spend his life throwing a ball around. To this day, baseball is never discussed in the Koufax household.
All of which suits Sandy fine. Alone among ballplayers, Koufax is an anti-athlete who suffers so little from pride that he does not even possess a photograph of himself. TV and radio interviewers have learned to be careful with personal questions—or risk a string of billingsgate designed to ruin their tapes. One Los Angeles sportswriter had to spend two years buttering Sandy up before he got permission to take photographs of his Studio City, Calif., home Last year, when the Union Oil Co. sent him a questionnaire for its baseball booklet, Koufax reacted with typical taciturnity. "Any off-season jobs, work with youngsters, public relations?" the questionnaire asked. Wrote Koufax: "No." "Did your father, brother work out with you?" "No." "Anything else you'd like to tell us?" "No."