Looking back, I wonder whether the moment of truth really registered in my brain. One strike and I could go home with something every ball player dreams about—a no-hitter in the World Series.

Trying not to think about the possibilities, I prepared myself to throw what I hoped would be the most important pitch of my life. Up in the broadcast booth, Vin Scully’s carefully chosen words added to the excitement: “Crowd’s roaring now similar to the day Johnny Podres stood out last year. But there is so much more at stake.”

If Yogi was feeling the strain, I couldn’t tell. His eyes peered at me through the catcher’s mask and his fingers indicated a fast ball.

Using my newly discovered no wind-up delivery, I somehow calmed myself and threw a dastardly fast ball that wove in toward the inside back outer edge of the plate. Sensing strike three, Pinelli prematurely started to raise his hand to call the 27th and final Dodger batter out, but he wouldn’t make the call. At the last possible second, Mitchell’s powerful hands and arms lunged at the too-close-to-take fast ball and fouled it straight back of the plate. The crowd’s thunderous “Ooooohhh” captured the moment.

A sudden gut-wrenching hush fell over the stadium as Pinelli dug a new baseball out of his umpire’s bag and placed it in Yogi Berra’s right hand. Mitchell stood just outside the batter’s box nervously waving his bat at the sky. No doubt his mind was racing in tandem with the others as they all prepared to witness what I hoped would be a historic pitch.

They all expected me, the ol’ Gooney Bird, to resume my position at the rubber and begin the sleight-of-hand motion that would deliver pitch #97. Every fan in the House that Ruth Built craned their necks to get the best possible view, but I was just not ready. I stepped away from the rubber and off to the right side of the mound.

When I lifted up my left hand and took off my dusty blue hat with the fabled white NY emblazoned on the front, every eye in the stadium was on me. As the seconds ticked by, I wiped my brow with my forearm and then put my cap back on.

I was still not ready to pitch. I stooped down and picked up the half-full, dirt-smudged rosin bag that lay a foot to the right of the pitching rubber. Caressing it in my right hand, I jiggled a mist of white powder out of the thin bag and then peered down toward the ground.

For a few charged seconds, I just stood there, immobile. But then, I knew I was ready. I tossed the rosin bag, and after a quick glance toward center field, I turned and ascended the pitching rubber.

Behind me, the Yankee defense, forced to fidget in their respective positions as they awaited my next effort, now assumed their ready positions. Every Yankee player was determined not to ruin my chance at glory.

Catcher Berra, batter Mitchell, and umpire Pinelli returned to their respective crouched, close-knit positions surrounding home plate. Berra’s eyes met mine, and the burly off-beat quipper and future Hall of Fame catcher ran through the regimen of pitch signs for what he hoped would be the final time.

Not unexpectedly, Berra signaled for a fast ball. Berra rose slightly from his deep crouch and positioned his catcher’s mitt knee high and just to the outside lower position of the diamond-shaped plate.

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