"Blind people come to the park just to listen to him pitch."

Reggie Jackson was commenting about New York Mets Hall of Fame pitcher Tom Seaver's performances during the mid 1970's. He was the dominate pitcher of his generation.

Listen to him pitch?

Counterintuitive and true.

Certainly the blind patron could not have seen Seaver's wind up, pause, gaze, and delivery. Nor could he have seen the dirt on Tom's right knee - a sure sign that his follow through was complete, and that his stuff was unhittable.

The blind patron could, however, hear what the others might miss; the distinctive pop of a high fastball into catcher Jerry Grote's mitt, the soft crack of a ball missing full bat contact and dribbling down to first, the crowd's screaming anticipation with every two strike pitch, and, of course, the public address announcer introducing a new player with every third or forth pitch.

Perhaps that's what it was like to listen to Tom Seaver pitch.

When I worked for the New York Mets, I saw Seaver pitch dozens of times. Occasionally, I closed my eyes and felt the unmistakable aura that existed in Shea Stadium when he was on the mound. Different rules applied when Tom pitched and my every sense was aware of it.

The sense of sight may, thereby, be no more important to watching a great baseball pitcher than, say, hearing is integral to appreciating a Beethoven symphony.

Had I been deaf, I would like to have seen Leonard Bernstein conduct Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in New York's Carnegie Hall. I would have watched his animated arms extol the mighty brass while enticing the delicate triangle in the same seamless motion.

The hairs on the back of my neck would feel the mighty strings while my arms tingled at the subtle vibrations of the oboes. The chorus would be animated while the audience sat rapt in anticipation of the next note - indeed the next quarter note.

Finally, the crescendo. The audience would stand and cheer while mouthing the word "more!" Bernstein would bow his deep bow, wave to his concertmaster who would bow in turn, while signaling his arm to the orchestra who would all rise and bow.

It would have been the euphoria of a near perfect performance that Beethoven himself had never heard. Beethoven was near total deafness when he composed the Ninth Symphony. For years he sat plotting note after excruciating note, hearing a perfect symphony in his head without ever having the perceived benefit of his ears.

I was most fortunate.

As a child, I did hear Leonard Bernstein direct Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in Carnegie Hall. Every one of my senses understood that Saturday afternoon that they would never be the same.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack