True stories of the 70s - Dock Ellis

Here's one for the sports fans. To tell you the truth, although I love baseball, I've never heard of the legendary Dock Ellis before now, but he's an interesting character from baseball history. The Dallas Observer catches up with him, some thirty five years after he threw a no-hitter game while tripping out on LSD and high on other drugs.

It didn't start out well. Dock had been partying with friends. He woke up on this particular morning and dropped some Purple Haze. He wandered into the kitchen and ran into his friend's girlfriend who was reading the morning news.

"Dock," she said. "You're supposed to pitch today."

Ellis focused his mind. No. Friday. He wasn't pitching until Friday. He was sure.

"Baby," she replied. "It is Friday. You slept through Thursday."

He started pumping amphetamines and headed to the stadium. He doesn't remember much of the trip there or the game.

...he recalls is sitting in a taxi, telling the driver to "get to the fucking stadium. I got to play." Next thing, he's sitting in the locker room. 5 p.m. By that point, Ellis had enough experience with LSD to know that it wouldn't be wearing off anytime soon; as a, uh, "precautionary measure," he took somewhere between four and eight amphetamines and drank some water. He walked to the railing at Jack Murphy Stadium where, each time he played in San Diego, a female acquaintance would bring him a handful of Benzedrine. White Crosses. He took a handful of those and went to the bullpen to warm up. After that, it's impressions, mostly.

...What's weird is that sometimes it felt like a balloon. Sometimes it felt like a golf ball. But he could always get it to the plate. Getting it over the plate was another matter entirely. Sometimes he couldn't see the hitter. Sometimes he couldn't see the catcher. But if he could see the hitter, he'd guess where the catcher was.

....Ellis had no idea what the score was, and he knew he'd been wild--he ended with eight walks, one hit batsman and the bases loaded at least twice--but here it was, bottom of the seventh, and he was still in the game.

The hardest part was between innings. He was sure his teammates knew something was up. They had all been acting strange since the game began. Solution: Do not look at teammates. Do not look at scoreboard. Must not make eye contact. His spikes--that's what he concentrated on. Pick up tongue depressor, scrape the mud, repeat. Must. Clean. Spikes.

The story has a happy ending that I won't spoil for you. Read it for yourself.

[hat tip to Vig]