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Blessed relief

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The concept of the relief pitcher is as old as baseball itself. The originals having been introduced sometime in the early '80s; that would be the 1880s, old Sport.

For a couple generations they were just washed up starters used to mop-up one-sided games. The notion that you should call upon a young, fresh arm to bail out your mighty ace at the end of a tight or vital game was considered anathema.

Nowadays, relievers are baseball's hottest commodities. No team features fewer than six and better teams may have eight, all varying in the look, stuff and purpose they present. There are relievers for all occasions, all situations. They parade through game after game, often asked to throw just a dozen pitches, sometimes merely three or four. But they must be on call at least every other day, ready to fire every pitch as if it were their last and, sometimes, it is.

Relief pitchers have profoundly changed baseball and it's come to the point where they dominate it, for better or worse. A fair number of we who merely stand by and watch might vote the latter.

It was John J. McGraw, fierce and legendary skipper of the pre-war New York Giants' fire wagon (that would be WWI, old Sport) who refined the role.

McGraw had a pitching staff to die for; anchored by the incomparable Christy Mathewson and his colorful sidekick, Rube Marquard, with their gilded services being nicely supplemented by Red Ames, Jeff Tesreau, and Hook Wiltse. Yet, McGraw still found a role for a crafty spot-pitcher named Doc Crandall. In a run (1908-1913) that included three championships, Doc got to save a couple of dozen games making him the first de facto "closer" although nobody used that term; certainly not in the presence of Matty or Rube.

A decade later Fred "Firpo" Marberry further defined the role. Big, blazing and durable, Marberry alternated between starting and relieving duties averaging over a decade more than 50 appearances a year for the ancient Washington Senators and excelling as they interrupted the Yanks' Roaring Twenties Reign of Terror by copping consecutive pennants in 1924 and '25. In 1926, Marberry had 22 saves in 64 appearances; unprecedented. As a true pathfinder, old Firpo belongs in the Hall of Fame.

Thus the role was secured. All subsequent champs had obligatory bullpen aces assigned to "put out the fire." Waite Hoyt and Eddie Rommel did it for Connie Mack's last great Depression-era A's dynasty. Succeeding Yankee titlists raised it to an art form with Wilcy Moore begetting Johnny Murphy who begat Joe Page who begat Johnny Sain who begat Ryne Duren, etc. On the Dodgers, there was first Hugh Casey then Joe Black. On the Giants, Marv Grissom and Hoyt Wilhelm. On the Indians, Mossi and Narleski. On the Phillies, Jim Konstanty became the NL's MVP in 1950 and another year Elroy Face won 18 games for the Pirates; all in relief.

Even crummy teams had superb firemen. When fully focused and cold sober who was better than Ellie Kinder of the then wayward Red Sox? For a too brief but truly spectacular three-year blitz no one was ever either better or more dramatic than Dick Radatz. Even with Dick Stuart, Eddie Bressoud, and Felix Mantilla behind him, ''the Monster'' was sublime. The increasingly distinguished calling made another quantum leap in the seventies thanks to Rollie Fingers, Sparky Lyle, Bruce Sutter, Goose Gossage, Soup Campbell, Dan Quisenberry, among others; many others.

At the start of the '80s Pat Corrales, crusty manager of the Phils, declared, "The Game's becoming reliever-oriented." Whereupon Ralph Houk, then the boss of the Red Sox, added: "I'd take a great reliever over a 20-game winner any time."

To traditionalists, that was heresy. Stalwart "stoppers" who anchored rotations, never begged out, and pledged to finish what they started come hell or high water had always been the coin of the realm. Unquestionably it was nice to have a Dennis Eckersley lurking in the pen for insurance, but how could a true believer and certified throw-back like Major Houk prefer even gems like an Eck to genuine horses like Roberts, Spahn or Feller, Gibson, Seaver or Morris? How can a guy gifted at giving a couple quality innings a week be more desirable than one guaranteed to give 330 innings over the length of a long, grueling season.

Then along came Mariano Rivera of the Yankees -- who with a comparably elegant bearing would become the Christy Mathewson of the relievers -- and for many, Rivera rather ended the argument.

In the new millennium, we've seen the role steadily expand to a degree of influence that would have seemed impossible only a decade ago and now, in 2012, we have another "quantum leap," if you will, on our hands. Might one day a manager, armed with a computer printout of his opponent's particular moods and circumstances, use his starter only the first inning then turn to his bullpen corps for the next eight, mixing and matching his way through the opponent's lineup as if he were playing not baseball but chess? It would come as no surprise to this observer.

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