(6 of 10)
At work on the mound, Marichal is a study in contrasts. His chubby face and impish grin provide the perfect mask for his fierce concentration on the task at hand. His mental "book" on the weaknesses of National League batters is so detailed that Giants Catcher Tom Haller never even bothers to go over the opposing line-up before a game. His stockiness (5 ft. 11 in., 190 Ibs.) belies his agility and grace. Marichal's overhand pitching motion is wonderful to behold: rocking back, kicking his left foot high above his head—higher than any other pitcher in memory—he seems almost, for an instant, to be suspended on strings. Then, in one bewildering blur, he sweeps forward to release the ball, often so violently that he staggers sideways off the mound. That lone flaw in Juan's motion—the awkwardness of his follow-through—is forever giving batters bright ideas. "Why not just bunt him to death?" Houston's young Centerfielder Jimmy Wynn asked an Astro coach when he first saw Marichal three years ago. Replied the coach: "Go ahead and bunt—if you can." Wynn soon learned his lesson: "Juan doesn't give you pitches you can bunt."
Only How to Hide. "This is a guessing game," says Marichal. "The hitter is always trying to guess, and I'm always trying to guess what the hitter is guessing. I haven't gotten any better—only smarter." Strange as that may sound, it is the truth.
Every pitch Marichal throws today was already in his bag of tricks when he reported to San Francisco in July 1960. All but one (his screwball) were part of his repertory before he left the Dominican Republic in March 1958. In short, the Giants have not taught Juan a thing—except how to hide the ball in his glove during his windup. "I first saw Juan at the age of 19. And he looked like a ten-year pro even then," says Carl Hubbell, San Francisco's head scout and once a pretty fair pitcher himself. Giants Owner Horace Stoneham was so impressed when he first saw Marichal throw that all he could think of to say was: "Where did you learn all about pitching?"
He learned in the Dominican Republic—where baseball really is the national pastime. For as long as he can remember, Marichal has been enthralled by the game, and it still sticks out all over him—in the gleeful way he hogs the batting cage in practice ("Bases loaded, two outs," he chirps, waiting for the pitch. "Base hit! Base hit!" he screams, whenever he connects), in the solicitous way he treats the hordes of youngsters who hound him for his autograph ("I remember how I felt about ballplayers when I was a kid"). Juan's father died when he was three ("Too much rum," explains Widow Marichal), and his mother took a dim view of the lad's fanaticism. She railed against his playing ball because it interfered with school and farm chores, tried to stop him from attending grownups' games for fear he would be hit by a foul ball. Luckily, Juan's older brother Gonzalo and his sister's husband, Prospero Villalona, were baseball nuts too. By the time he was nine, Juan could throw a curve (his lopsided, homemade baseballs wouldn't do anything else), and he quit school after the eleventh grade "because I was crazy about the game."