Duane Pillette wears a World Series ring. He was a 26-year-old pitcher for the Yankees in 1949. Today Duane, whose friends call him Dee, still looks like a ballplayer. He's tall. I asked him how tall.

"I'm not sure," he says. "I used to be six-five, now I'm maybe six-three. The other day I said to my grandson, 'you're growing.' And he answered, 'no, grandpa, I'm not growing, you're just shrinking'."

Duane still looks tall to me and very handsome. A good stand of white hair, steely blue eyes, good smile, and a graceful athletic build. He's one of those men from the old school who still open car doors for women and who excuse their bad manners when they want to use a swear word. Dee's a widower and he's still mourning the loss of his beloved wife.

But Dee's still a ballplayer at heart.  When the conversation turns to baseball, his eyes light up. He doesn't bring up the subject, but those of us who know him usually do. He likes to talk about it and it's always an amazing conversation. Dee can remember scenarios, like the time he gave up a homerun to Ted Williams. It goes this way: 

Williams didn't like me.  t was the way I threw the sinker ball. He preferred fastballs over the plate. No funny stuff.   had him down to his last strike, and as you may know, Williams always goes down swinging. I knew that. I threw the pitch, and I knew it was a strike, but the umpire called it a ball. I was mad. Williams was smiling. I just reared back and threw the next one as hard as I could, and Williams connected. It was a line drive that took off at an angle and would have sailed out of the park, except that we were playing in Boston. I think it would still going.

Dale asked him who he thought was the greatest hitter and Dee replied, "Ted Williams, no contest. He'd make numbers one through five on my list. There was nobody better as far as I'm concerned."

Then Dee remembered the time he made it into the All-Star game. It was 1954. He wasn't a starting pitcher so his job was to throw batting practice. 

Casey Stengel said, "Okay, Dee, you warm up Ted."

"Oh, no, coach," answered Williams, "I don't want to warm up with him. He throws those damned sinker balls."

"Don't worry, Ted," Dee said, "I'll give you something to hit."

Then Dee served him up one just the way he liked it and he hit it into the bleachers. Afterwards, Williams said, "Hey, Dee, that was right over the plate. I didn't know you could do that!"

"My pleasure, Ted." Dee smiled at him.

I've always had a list of unanswered questions about baseball.  Now was my chance to finally get the whole story.

"So, what do you guys really talk about when the manager comes out to the plate?" I ask.

"Well, it depends," Duane says. "They just want to settle you down, you know. I remember one time Stengel says to me, 'You know, Dee, I just want you to throw the ball. Don't forget, we got eight other guys out there who are pretty good."

"Oh, so, they're not chewing you out when you all have those conversations?"

"Nah. Sometimes the catcher might say something like, 'well, I know you're just going home to the wife and kiddies after the game, but I got a hot date, so why don't you just get on with it already.' They'd say stuff like that just to make you laugh and maybe loosen up a little."

I'm nodding. "So, Dee, did Gaylord Perry really throw spitters?"

"Yes, he did, and so did a lot of other guys. At least that's what they wanted the hitters to think."

"Why is that?"

"It's a psychological thing. If the hitters don't know what the ball is going to do, they'll maybe back away a little, maybe upset their rhythm. Something like that would give a pitcher the edge. That's what we're all looking for."

"Well, I guess I really don't understand. What happens to the ball when there's spit on it?" I ask.  

"Yeah," Dale said. "What about sweat. That's wet too. Wouldn't that do the same thing?"

"No, sweat's not the same as spit. Sweat dries off  Spit is denser. It sticks to the ball longer than sweat, and when it finally flies off the ball in a clump, midway to the plate, the ball dances around a little, sort of goes screwy for a little bit. The hitter gets shook up."

"Eeew," I say. "Sometimes it's better not to ask these things."

"Here's what I always wanted to know," said Dale. "Was there ever a time when you really wanted to get taken out of the game?"

Dee smiled that pitcher smile at us. "Never. I might be dying at the plate but I thought: I can get this next man out. Just give me a chance. I know I can do it.  One time I was pitching and the hitter sent a line drive straight at me. I reached up and grabbed it with my bare hand and threw to first base. Got him out. The guys ran to me and asked me how I was doing. My fingers felt a little numb but I didn't have any pain…yet. I told them I was fine but they pulled me out anyhow. By the time I got to the dugout, my fingers were throbbing and so big there was no space between them. I'd broken them all."