High Heat Read Free

such enterprises hit the skids long ago and the goal became how a city could reinvent itself. Playing off its link with the beginnings of rock and roll (local disc jockey Alan Freed coined the term “rock and roll”), Cleveland edged out Memphis as the permanent home to a museum and hall of fame. Cleveland’s civic leaders pledged $65 million in public money to fund the construction. That financial package put the project over the top. As Cleveland Plain Dealer music critic Michael Norman later said, “It wasn’t Alan Freed. It was $65 million. Cleveland wanted it here and put up the money.”A pyramid-style shrine was erected to honor the Beatles, Chuck Berry, Bruce Springsteen, and other rockers along the harbor front, not far from where old Municipal Stadium once stood, the ballpark where Feller was a star. The Indians’ new digs are also located downtown and, along with the Rock and Roll Museum, have fostered a renaissance in these parts.
    In a way, the Rock and Roll Museum can be seen as a nod to our continued infatuation with speed. The average pop song is three to four minutes long. The MTV videos, which run in looped presentations at the museum in Cleveland, are minimovies created around a song. Of
course, Feller has no interest in checking out the computerized “jukebox,” containing virtually every song of every performer inductee, at the Rock and Roll museum. He’s more of an easy-listening fan and always liked the Big Band sound. Still, Feller says he’s happy that such civic landmarks bring visitors. “You need the out-of-towners,” he says. “Without them, everything can get desperate in a hurry.”
    At 8:50 a.m., I’m ushered by a member of the Indians’ public relations staff into a conference room at Jacobs Field. The room overlooks the emerald-green field several stories below. Feller is already there, waiting for me. He has a videotape of the motorcycle test and as we watch it for the first of several times, a small crowd of ballclub employees gathers to view the show.
    â€œI guess it’s our fascination with speed,” Feller says, again cuing up the two-minute clip. “Who was the fastest pitcher of all time? The world will never know, may never agree, but it sure is fun to talk about, isn’t it?”
    That sunny day in Chicago was a generation before radar guns and such modern-day timing devices. So, Lew Fonseca, a player for 12 years in the major leagues, the American League batting champion in 1929, devised what will forever be remembered as the motorcycle test to clock Feller’s legendary fastball. At the time Fonseca produced instructional baseball films. If he could capture Feller’s speed on film, he believed he could precisely track and calibrate how fast the baseball was traveling. But to do so, Feller seemingly had to do the impossible: hit his bull’s-eye target, about the size of a cantaloupe, from 60 feet, 6 inches away, just after the motorcycle roared past him.
    The Harley motorcycle had a 10-foot head start on Feller’s fastball and was doing 86 miles per hour when it flew by, just a few feet to the right of the Indians’ ace. At that moment in U.S. history, Feller was just about the most famous ballplayer, certainly the most famous pitcher, in the land. Soon after he began pitching for Cleveland, at the age of 18, he was on the cover of Time magazine. Three seasons later, on this summer day in Chicago, Feller was arguably the best pitcher, the fastest fireballer, in the game. He was on the verge of leading the
American League in victories for the second time in three consecutive seasons and being the strikeout leader for the third time in four seasons. But in Europe and on the far rim of the Pacific, World War II was building, and too soon Feller, Joe DiMaggio, Hank Greenberg, Ted Williams, and the other stars of this era would leave the national pastime to enlist. Perhaps that’s what