Pitchers generally try to throw the baseball hard. Sometimes they do not. Sometimes they do the exact opposite. Sometimes they throw the eephus pitch.
You can keep your home runs and stolen bases, your hundred mile-an-hour fastballs and your picturesque 6-4-3 double plays. The single best play in baseball is the eephus — the lob, the rainbow pitch, the moon ball, the Bugs Bunny curve, a big swooping beauty and a statement of pure chutzpah.
History credits Rip Sewell, the former Pittsburgh Pirate, as the first to throw the eephus in the big leagues, but surely it’s been a part of the game ever since they spelled it “base ball.” It’s a natural progression. Pretty much every pitcher throws a changeup, intentionally slow in order to catch the batter off guard and make ensuing fastballs appear all the faster. So why not slow a changeup down even more? Why not toss the ball up there at fifty miles an hour, arcing fifteen feet in the air before it plummets down through the zone like you’re playing slow-pitch softball?
Well, aside from the off chance the pitch doesn’t catch the batter off guard, in which case it ends up 475 feet away in the upper deck instead of snugly in the catcher’s glove, and you’re left standing on the mound looking like quite the schmuck.
It takes some cojones to throw an eephus, is what I’m saying.
It’s cheeky and audacious, a zero-sum game in which either you or the batter will end up playing the fool. It’s also a gamble without any clear reward. The odds of even the best hitter in baseball turning a misplaced fastball into extra bases are well below fifty percent; I don’t have stats to back me up here, but it seems safe to assume the chances of an ill-timed eephus leaving the yard are much higher. Even if you’re confident an eephus will leave the batter baffled, throwing a pitch that’s, you know, normal, still seems the more logical option. Under what algebra is that increased risk worth the potential benefit?
A wise man on Twitter once asked the following question: Isn’t taunting the point of sports? Using a relatively broad definition of “taunting,” the roundabout answer is yes. At the base level, I think most could agree that the point of sports is to have fun. That is why we humans play games. Perhaps for some of us that fun comes from the simple joy of physical expression, or from the camaraderie of being on a team, or from the thrill of competition. But most athletes I know do not enjoy losing. I think it’s fair to say that the point of playing sports (at a high level, at least) is to win. Herman Edwards certainly agrees with me.
And why is that? Why does winning matter? There’s not a financial incentive; win or lose, the checks still clear. The answer is pride, and its very close cousin, bragging rights — the “rights” being a much more important part of the equation than the “bragging.” Not everyone likes to brag, to taunt, to talk shit. But everyone likes to have the option; or, to phrase it differently, to make sure their opponent does not. To shut the other guy up. So, fine: maybe taunting isn’t actually the point of sports, but having the right to taunt most certainly is.
Which brings us back to the eephus. The pitcher’s equivalent of a Jose Bautista bat flip. A pitch of pure confidence. A pitch of disdain. A pitch that says: I’m gonna lob a ball up there that a twelve-year-old could hit, and you’re not gonna touch it. A pitch designed to get outs, yes, but also a pitch conceived to embarrass batters. A pitch that talks so much junk on its own that its thrower needn’t bother.
Baseball loves its unwritten rules. Here are two of mine. Never take too seriously a game played with bats and balls by men wearing slightly modified pajamas. And when you see one, always take a moment to appreciate the eephus pitch, an eternal, slow-moving testament to the power of weirdness.