Dalkowski spent every spring in the Orioles’ major league camp; Paul Richards worked with him constantly. But he didn’t get his act together until he hooked up with Weaver at the Orioles’ Double-A affiliate in Elmira, New York, in the early ’60s. Dalkowski finally started getting the ball over the plate, struck out 167 and walked only 88 in 144 innings in ’62, and fashioned a 7–8 record with a 3.07 ERA.

The next year, he pitched well in spring training and had the club made as Opening Day neared. On the afternoon of the last game of the Orioles’ spring season, he was fitted for his Orioles uniform, finally on the verge of becoming a major leaguer. That night, pitching in relief against the Yankees, he severely strained a tendon in his left elbow. Dave McNally took his place on the staff and went on to win 181 games for the Orioles. Dalkowski was never the same.

Herm Starrette: “It was in ’62 in Elmira when he became a pitcher. Earl made a reliever out of him. His velocity was about the same, maybe down a little, but he was pitching. His control was really coming around. And Earl would take him out when he wasn’t pitching good. Wouldn’t let him pitch into jams. Wouldn’t let him fail. And it was working.”

Earl Weaver: “I got him not to throw every pitch as hard as he could. Plus he got a slider that he could throw over the plate, and in the last 55 innings in Elmira [in ’62] he gave up 11 runs and didn’t walk many. Struck out 104. He finally understood that at the point of release, you couldn’t just rear back and throw as hard as you could. He finally understood that. Steve’s IQ was about sixty. I had him tested, and he finished in the bottom one percentile in the ability to learn facts. He was also an alcoholic. It just shows you can’t be too smart to throw away that kind of ability.”

Boog Powell: “After the ’62 season we went down to Puerto Rico and played winter ball together, and he had really found himself. He had hurt his arm a little, and he wasn’t throwing hard anymore. I mean he was probably throwing like Nolan Ryan, in the mid-nineties, but he wasn’t throwing hard anymore. I’m serious. He was still blowing people away, but he was throwing strikes. He’d figured it out all of a sudden.”

Herm Starrette: “In ’63 he went to the big-league camp and had the team made. There was no doubt. He was throwing great. And then he threw one pitch that went way wild, and he looked over at the dugout like something funny had happened, and everyone just sat there and watched. They just thought it was one of his [wild] pitches. Then he threw another pitch that went funny, and I said to Harry Brecheen, ‘Cat, you better go out there. I think he’s hurt himself.’ It was in his elbow. He had the club made, and he was showing off his arm, like anyone would have done, and it happened. He came back after that, but his arm was never the same. It was all downhill after that.”

Earl Weaver: “No one threw harder. Nolan Ryan or any of ’em—nobody threw harder. Steve could have had years like Koufax. He could have strung some together. Talent-wise, there’s no doubt. Who knows if that stretch [when he pitched well in Elmira] was just a stretch, or the start of something? If he hadn’t hurt his arm, who knows?”

Released in ’65, Dalkowski was soon out of baseball. Unable to stay sober or keep money in his pocket, his life spiraled sharply in the wrong direction. For years he was a farmworker, picking grapes and apricots in California. Friends from his baseball days tried to help, but he kept drinking. When his wife died, his sister brought him back home to Connecticut in ’95 and put him in a nursing home. He was suffering from dementia, the result of years of alcohol abuse.

Herm Starrette: “In ’77 I’m at Candlestick Park, and I’m down in the bullpen warming up a pitcher before a game, and I look up and there’s Steve leaning over the railing. The poor guy looked seventy. He was staying at Ray Youngdahl’s place, and Ray had him in rehab, but he’d go to rehab during the day and come home and get drunk at night. He had the beer stashed somewhere.”

Boog Powell: “Then he was picking vegetables out there in California; I guess that was what he was doing. He calls me up every now and then and says, ‘Hey, brother, can you help me?’ And his wife or whoever he’s with says, ‘Don’t help that son of a bitch; he’ll just drink it up.’ You know, I can hear her in the background. Then all of a sudden, click, the phone hangs up.”

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