A brilliant player

He played both second base and shortstop and no one that year
played them better.
In May 1965, I was with the Cocoa Astros of the Florida State
League, and it was loaded with talent. Players such as Don Wilson,
Johnny Bench, and Rollie Fingers were there, just to name a
few.
We arrived in Orlando to play the Twins for a three game series,
and as we came onto the field from the clubhouse, the Twins were
still taking infield and batting practice. They were wearing their
home pinstripe uniforms. I found the pin stripes to be mesmerizing
(I think that is why the Yankees were a dynasty.
Starting my wind sprints down the left field corner, I ran just
three instead of the usual 10. I was pitching that night so I
wanted to keep loose. After finishing my running, I grabbed my
glove, stuck it in my back pocket, and walked towards our
dugout.
They were still taking BP, and I wanted to get a closer look at
their players. Right away I was impressed with how well disciplined
they looked as a team. One in particular caught my attention.
He wore his uniform like a $300 Italian suit; finesse was
written all over him. Watching him take ground balls and seeing him
hit in BP I knew he was one of those very rare players that had a
star over his head. Covering ground to his left and right sides, he
was getting to ground balls other second basemen couldn¹t get close
to. Along with his great range and glove work, he had a strong
accurate arm.
Knowing he was going to start that night at second base, I felt
he was going to give me problems. As the game entered the bottom of
the first I had struck out the first two batters. Then he stepped
to the plate, like a thoroughbred into the winner¹s circle.
I let go with a live fastball on the outside corner waist high.
He waited to the last nano-second to line a shot past third base.
Watching him as he rounded first on his way to second base for a
stand up double. He ran with the speed of a cheetah and smoothness
of a downhill skier.
Going into the third inning it was a scoreless game. He had made
a couple of plays at second flawlessly, like a human tuning fork.
Stepping to the plate, I had the sense that no matter what I threw
he would hit it. My feeling proved to be right. The third pitch he
lined a shot past me into left center, and there he was, standing
on second base again. I muttered ³sonofabitch² to myself out of
frustration.
Going into the sixth, it was a one-run ball game. I had eight or
nine strikeouts and gave up three or four hits. He had two of them.
When he appeared at the plate for the third time, I thought of
giving him four high and outside. On the second pitch, he hit a
line shot over shortstop, going into the alley in left center.
Covering the back up at third, I watched him again with that speed
and grace of his pull up at the bag for a stand up triple. Again,
³sonofabitch² I muttered to myself.
As I took the ball from my third baseman, I walked back to the
mound. The feeling of futility set in. My only thought was, ³How do
I get this guy out?²
I was pulled in the seventh allowing only one run along with ten
or eleven strikeouts. We won the game, and I was thankful that I
didn¹t have to pitch to him again that night.
Every pitcher has a hitter that seemed to have his number. He
had mine, and by far, he was the best player I had seen in the
league that year. And before the season was over, I knew he would
be in Minnesota.
I went on to face him again that year, and each time was a
nightmare. He was truly a gifted player who played the game with
such intelligence. He was a brilliant player. He was Rod Carew.