April 4, 1993
Olin's bright future
disappeared forever
on dark Florida lake
David de la Fuente
Seattle Times copy editor

On the eve of Opening Day, it's hard to be enthusiastic about the season, because my favorite ballplayer is gone.

I felt a sense of dread seeing the initial story come across the Associated Press wire March 22, a story saying that one Cleveland Indians pitcher had died and two were injured in a boating accident. (The first reports mentioned no names; pitcher Tim Crews died later.)

At the time, I could think only one thing: Let it not be Steve Olin.

A lot of Indians have come and gone since I began following the team growing up in Ohio in the early '70s, so there has always been a reluctance to attach too closely to members of a team legendary for trading its best players, from Rocky Colavito to Dennis Eckersley to Joe Carter.

I kept wondering exactly why I felt an affection for this player that I had never felt for any other. It was not until I heard Olin's friend, Indians reliever Kevin Wickander, at a televised news conference that I understood.

"Everybody dogged him all the way through," Wickander said, straining through the sadness. "They kept saying he'd never make it. He was such an underdog."

That summed it up perfectly. Doubts persisted that Olin, a submarine-style, right-handed relief pitcher, could ever become a big-time closer, let alone make the major leagues.

He had weaknesses; left-handed batters gave him trouble, drawing a bead on pitches which must have seemed like they were coming from third base. He didn't throw 100 mph, which is almost considered a prerequisite for a closer today. And with his unconventional style, he had to battle management's ideas of what makes a good pitching prospect.

When Olin came up in 1989 he was inconsistent; I was disappointed whenever he was sent down to the minors, which happened during each of his first three seasons in the major leagues.

But his vulnerabilities only endeared him to me, and they made his breakthrough in 1991 that much sweeter. Olin saved 17 games after the All-Star break for a bad team, and followed that up by saving 29 games last year for a team that was not much better.

I tried to attend every Indians game whenever they were at the Kingdome, hoping to see Olin pitch. Watching an Indians game always felt incomplete unless he took the mound, whether to save a game or to get an inning of work during a blowout.

It takes a combination of demeanor, performance and style to make a ballplayer special in a fan's mind. To me, Olin had all three.

In relief pitching, the confidence so necessary to succeed can overflow into the finger-pointing, chest-beating arrogance of a Dennis Eckersley or an Al Hrabosky. But I saw only a cool, workmanlike professionalism from Olin. Maybe that was because he was young, more bashful than brash. He hadn't achieved the consistent level of success that Eck and the Mad Hungarian had. But I couldn't ever see him donning their attitude – demeaning his opponents and the essence of competition, and turning it into a sideshow.

Steve Olin threw beautifully. His right arm would flare outward almost effortlessly, as if on a swivel, away from his body at hip level, an angle that surely froze right-handed hitters. His release point was about three feet lower than a typical pitcher's release. Despite his unusual style, he had wonderful control.

And aside from his motion, I liked him precisely because most other people had never heard of him. I could never be a fan of Michael Jordan or Ken Griffey Jr. to that extent, despite their overwhelming athletic skills; superstars have to be shared with the masses. Olin was a man with a different style trying to make his way in the desperate minefield of relief pitching, a world where it was better to be anonymous, since one failure draws more attention than a month of saves.

Bill James, the baseball writer, once wrote that we would eventually see more pitchers who threw like Olin, since the style is unconventional (people will try anything to make the major leagues) and it strains the arm far less than the typical overhand or three-quarter motion.

I took that to mean I would watch Olin have a long, successful career. He would be less prone to injury, and until more of his type came along, his style was something batters would rarely see. I hoped Olin would become the vanguard for this resurgence of submarining pitchers. I imagined great things from him.

It all disappeared in an instant on a dark Florida lake.

Being a fan. What does it mean? I think of the phrase from Peter Gent's football novel "North Dallas Forty," where Gent's narrator, a wide receiver named Phil Elliott, belittles the nature of fandom. Elliott complained that just because fans knew his name and uniform number, they felt some kinship with him. Was that what was happening here?

I didn't idolize Steve Olin; I merely followed his performances on television and in agate type. I cheered at his successes, sighed at his failures. I doubt I would have recognized him away from the stadium, without his uniform.

But inside the stadium, when he was on the mound, no one ever captured my attention more.

There was one ballplayer in the world who made me want to come to the ballpark.

Goodbye, Steve. It was a pleasure to watch you pitch.
_______________________

After the column appeared, Steve Olin's parents and grandfather wrote me. In particular I found his grandfather's letter very interesting and touching, so I include it below:

Dear Mr. Fuente:

I would like to thank you very much for the nice story you wrote about our grandson, Steve Olin. It is very gratifying to us to know that others appreciated Steves' talent too.

As you said so well in your article, Steve never adopted the arrogance of some of the over-paid, loud-mouthed, complaining super stars, who always grabbed the headlines. And I know that no matter how much success Steve would have attained in later years, he would always be the "cool, workmanlike, professional" you so aptly described.

We had a horseshoe court at our vacation home several years ago, and when I first started playing with Steve, I usually won. I would let Steve stand in front of the stake, because when he was quite young, he couldn't toss the shoe the standard distance. But it wasn't long until Steve didn't want any handicap. And just like his unorthodox baseball pitching style, he developed his own way of throwing the shoe. Then grandpa couldn't win anymore.

Steve loved baseball, and he loved the pressure situation of a relief pitcher. His sidearm style of throwing gave the batters fits, and he got a lot of double-play ground balls. I just loved it when he struck out Canseco, Parker, Winfield, and the like who always get the headlines. And as you know, the hitters rarely got the ball out of the infield if they did hit it.

I played a lot of sandlot baseball, but never in my wildest dreams could I ever imagine that someday I would have a grandson in the Major Leagues. I just wish God would have let us have him a little while longer.

Sincerely,

(signed)
Carl H. Olin