"Rotten Ronnie" Hughes played alongside Van Roth at college and with Twin Cities in 1967 and 1970. I asked him about Van Roth as a ballplayer.

   “He was a workhorse at college," spouted Mr. Hughes ... "played second base when he wasnʼt pitchinʼ, but was on the mound in nearly every game. He pitched every Wednesday night game, then the nine-inning morning game of every double-header on Saturdays, and the last three innings of the second game if we had the lead. In the Santa Rosa Tournament, he pitched in all four games and started three in a row at the conference tournament. It was Rothʼs last year so the coach squeezed every drop of blood he could possibly get out of his right arm.”

   “Thatʼs impossible," I stated. "Nobodyʼs pitching arm would hold up under those conditions. He would have pitched most of the season with less than two days rest and several games with no rest. He would have pitched twelve innings in a day on several occasions while throwing more than 140 pitches. Nowadays, a coach and the college would get sued if there was an injury. Only a junk-baller could pitch like that but they donʼt get many strikeouts. How many Kʼs did Van Roth get that year? How many games?”

   “At least 150, maybe 170. We were 23-10 and Roth pitched more than half the games.”

   “Letʼs check him out.” I logged onto his college baseball all-time records. “Van Roth still holds ten records including most victories and all the strikeout records -- 20 in a game, 160 in a single season, and 269 for a career. He had back-to-back years with over 100 Kʼs and ERAs under two. Thatʼs probably some kind of college record. More than a hundred Kʼs in a season for a college pitcher is a big deal. Iʼve never heard of a college pitcher with 160 strikeouts. Tom Seaver struck out a hundred and three at Fresno City College. Van Roth must have had a damn good fastball to get that many Kʼs.”

   “They didnʼt have radar guns back then," says Mr. Hughes. "I'm sure he could top ninety but I think he sacrificed a few miles per hour for location. He was a Picasso and a strikeout artist. You know what I mean by a Picasso?”

   “As a matter-of-fact, I do. I use to be a catcher. So, Van Roth was a virtuoso; a dexterous master who painted the corners with the surgical accuracy of a Leonardo da Vinci. He likely foresaw possibility and probability and was designed to eliminate randomness and remove chance. Control must have been his forte and he must have had an instinct or inkling to what the hitter was thinking before each pitch ... kind of like pitcherʼs intuition or ESP. He most likely knew what pitch to throw because he could think like a hitter, and as a hitter, knew what pitch was coming because he could think like a pitcher. Also, your catcher must have been a pretty good signal-caller.”

   “That would be Martin ʻNot-So-Fastʼ Matsumoto, but you ... a ballplayer?” challenged Hughes. “Whereʼd you ever play?”

   “I used to catch for the big Green Wave at Dartmouth.”

   “Dartmouth,” snickered Hughes with a cynical grin. “Thatʼs one of those snob, commie, poison Ivy League schools, ainʼt it? Didnʼt know they even had a ball team ... maybe cricket. What else do they play there? Lacrosse? Rowing? Bocce Ball? Shuffle Board? Tiddlywinks? Whudya hit at Dartmouth? Bet ya the next round that ya couldnʼt even hit your own weight or reach the Mendoza line.”

   “Guess Iʼll be buying the next round. So, Van Roth shaved the corners. What kind of stuff did he have? What was his repertoire? What was his demeanor like on and off the diamond? What kind of competitor was he? Who did he hang out with?”

   “Youʼre foaming at the mouth with all these questions," barked Hughes. "Other than Van Roth himself, Iʼm probably the only other guy that can answer those questions. Maybe his brother, but he hasnʼt been around for forty years. Why should you know?”

   “Because Iʼm buying.”

   “Oh ... right,” smirked Hughes. “I forgot. Roth and I were tight, good buds. He got along with, but didnʼt hang out with the rest of the players; mostly kept to himself; never talked much but played the game with a fiery attitude -- intense but never out of control. Between innings, he took his usual spot at the far end of the bench, away from the rest of the team; away from the coach; away from the crowd; away from the noise. Sheeeeit ... he would have waited in his car in the parking lot listeninʼ to tunes if he cudda gotten away with it.”

   “So, he had a stealthy demeanor. Rogers Hornsby was that way,” I explained. “Sat on the bench alone. Didnʼt want anybody bothering him while he was concentrating on the game.”

“No more than he could be defiant about the right to breathe and eat. He has the quiet, complete, irrevocable calm of an iron conviction. No dramatics, no hysteria, no sensitiveness about it—because there are no doubts. A quiet, almost indifferent acceptance of an irrevocable fact.” (Rand, Ayn. The Journals of Ayn Rand)

   “I use to watch some of Van Rothʼs high school games before joining the Air Force. He played calm, smooth, nonchalant ... seemed like a cool dude. He had the perfect motion, almost effortless. Something must have happened between high school and college. You couldnʼt see it from the stands or dugout, but somethinʼ had pissed him off. I played up on the grass to take away the bunt and was only a few yards away from the mound. I could see and hear all his mannerisms -- talking to himself, mumbling, sometimes swearing, psyching himself up. I could hear him encouraging himself. Make a mistake and he would cuss himself out. He pitched mad as if he hated every batter he faced. Youʼd never know he pitched angry unless you were on the field, close by; otherwise, he seemed like a nice guy.”

   “Van Roth must have had a dire hatred of losing and a burning hunger to win ala Billy Martin -- a fear of, and refusal to lose. Also, he might have conversed with an inner self, quite possibly a rather violent inner self. Reminds me of Al Hrabosky, 'The Mad Hungarian' who pitched for the Cards and Royals back in the seventies and led the National League in saves one year. Remember the guy with the long, flaming red hair and Fu Manchu mustache who would act like a madman behind the mound -- ranting, and raving, and then charge the hill before each pitch? Vern Rapp, the new Cardinal manager, made him cut his hair and shave his ʻstache. I donʼt think Hrabosky was ever the same, kind of like Sampson after Delilah cut his hair. Sounds like Van Roth appeared to pitch with a serene stoic composure on the outside, but inside blazed the flame of a blowtorch.”

“What you call passion is not a spiritual force, but friction between the soul and the outside world. Where passion dominates, that does not signify the presence of greater desire and ambition, but rather the misdirection of these qualities toward an isolated and false goal, with a consequent tension and sultriness in the atmosphere. Those who direct the maximum force of their desires toward the center, toward true being, toward perfection, seem quieter than the passionate souls because the flame of their fervor cannot always be seen. In argument, for example, they will not shout or wave their arms. But, I assure you, they are nevertheless, burning with subdued fires.” (Hesse, Hermann. Magister Ludi. NY: Frederick Ungar, 1957. pp. 76)

   “Like I was saying” says Hughes, obviously annoyed by my interruption. “Get a hit off him and the next time up, youʼd be eatinʼ dust. Ever so often, heʼd get this cold-blooded, killer look on his face. I could see him grittinʼ his teeth, flaring his nostrils. Like the man said, nice guys finish last."

   “Yes, and like the great Vince Lombardi once said: Show me a good loser and Iʼll show you a loser. Actually, if I may quote Leo Durocher in his autobiography, “Leo the Lip” said something like: ʻTake a look at that Number Four there. A nicer guy never drew breath than that man there... Take a look at them. All nice guys. Theyʼll finish last. Nice guys. Finish last... Give me some scratching, diving, hungry ballplayers who came to kill you... Thatʼs the kind of guy I want playing for me.ʼ (Durocher, Leo. Nice Guys Finish Last. NY: Simon and Schuster, 1975. pp.14). Leo was referring to Mel Ott and his New York Giants. What else can you tell me about Van Roth?”

   “Van Roth was a magician,” tooted Hughes. “Pitched with smoke and mirrors -- set ya up with fastballs and sliders away ... then, while youʼre leaninʼ, sneak the heater by ya on the inside corner for a called strike three. Theyʼd suck in there bellies and look like fools. He had long arms and big hands so he could put a lot of spin on the ball with an assortment of pitches, and ... he could control all of them. At times, he would turn his back to the hitter and pretend to be rubbing up the baseball, but actually, he was popping up the seams of the ball with those giant hands of his ... make his curveball drop straight off the table. He also threw from all angles, but his late-breaking slider was his best pitch; his strikeout pitch. His natural motion was three-quarters but he occasionally slung it up there straight over the top or cross-fired, and a couple of times a game from down under -- submarine-style.”

   “Sounds like Van Roth pitched with a silent rage; stood atop the hill like a Harry Houdini of the knoll and pounded the corners with fastballs and sliders seasoned with a sprinkle of magic ... kind of like a slim El Tiante,” I says.

   “Thatʼs right. I remember when we clinched the title against Sierra. We had the lead going into the ninth inning and were headed for the field when I noticed Van Roth still sittinʼ on the bench, head down and starinʼ at spent sunflower husks. He wasnʼt movinʼ. I went over and tapped ʻem on the shoulder and said, letʼs go Roth. Letʼs end this thang. It was like he was in some kind of trance; like he had hypnotized himself or something. I had to shake him. As usual, he sauntered out of the dugout, hopped over the chalk line, lobbed a few from in front of the hill, stepped backed, twisted off a few curves, and finally fired a couple of full speed fastballs to complete his warm-up. “Not-So-Fast” Matsumoto threw to second, then around-the-horn to me standing next to Van Roth. I had this ritual before handing the ball to Van Roth where Iʼd toss the ball up over my head and sidekick it back into my glove without lookinʼ ... like this,” he says.

   Hughes stood up, took out his keys and flipped them up over his head, and then, like a highland dancer, propelled the keys with the side of his foot back over his head and caught them while still looking forward. “So you were hotdogging it, showboating,” I said.

   “Damn rights. A little intimidation factor. Let ʻem know whoʼs boss, only this time, I didnʼt get a chance ʻcause Van Roth snarled: gimmie the fuckinʼ ball! Whoa! I jumped back. Then I saw it ... his eyes. They were bright red. Iʼm not talkinʼ about bloodshot eyes. I know what they look like. These eyeballs were red, pupils and all, and they were looking right through me. One minute, heʼs half-asleep on the bench in some sort of trance; then, a few minutes later, heʼs all jacked up. It was like he summoned the devil in-between innings. He somehow became empowered -- had a little extra on his fastball this time. His breaking pitches were sharper and his control was pinpoint. He Kʼed the leadoff guy on three pitches. The next guy hit a little bleeder back to the mound and then, ... up comes Tucker, big bad Tommy Tucker, the leagueʼs top home-run hitter and second in batting average behind Van Roth. The ball goes around-the-horn again, and this time Van Roth says, Tuckerʼs going down! Goinʼ down? I asked. Youʼre not going to hit ʻem and put the tying run on base ... are ya? Heʼs going down! snarled Van Roth. He got ahead of Tucker 0-2, then gives me this wicked glance out of the corner of his eye. Holy shit, I thought. Here it comes, and sure enough, Van Roth cut loose with a blazing high-inside fastball, right at Tuckerʼs head and down he went ... like a sack of taters. lʼve always thought that I could handle myself pretty good and would have been the first to back up Van Roth, but Tucker never charged the mound. Instead, he got up, brushed himself off, then stared at Van Roth before digging in for the next pitch.”

   “So, their eyes met briefly but Tucker could only muster a transfixed gaze, eh? Reminds me of that great battle between Hector and the giant Ajax in Homerʼs Iliad -- Like fiery meteors, his red eyeballs glow. Van Roth might have practiced a little Zen in the dugout before waging war from the pitcherʼs mound -- transcended himself from a hostile recluse. Perhaps he had reached Satori or a brief moment of enlightenment -- a level of self-realization -- a state of pure thought-free wakefulness; a moment of being Buddha. Mindfulness meditation is a process of reaching your inner landscape or ... he may have been daimonic.”

   “What, you mean like some kind of demon worshipper? You think he had a pact with Lucifer ... had a little chat with the Prince of Darkness?” asked Hughes with a smirk. “I donʼt think so. We hung together. I would have known.”

   “No,” I said. “Daimonic can be rather ambiguous. Sometimes, words have two meanings. I think Van Roth might have been inspired and motivated by some spiritual force or guiding spirit -- a kind of reaching his inner being induced by meditation; perhaps a little tête-à-tête with his guardian angel. Like a Maharishi yogi, he might have been in some form of transcendental meditation preparing himself for the final knockout punch. Thatʼs probably what he was doing in the dugout. It may have given him a little extra for the last inning. A daimonic force can take over the entire individual, eliminate any distractions, and allow someone to reach their maximum power and concentration, sometimes even empowering them. The inner being, once released, can produce great results. Perhaps Van Roth was some kind of Svengali and hypnotized himself into a greater being, but then again, maybe he was in deep prayer. So what happened to Tucker?” I asked.

   “Before practice, Van Roth and I used to warm-up together. Thatʼs when everybody thought that they were a pitcher and practiced their specialty pitch. Mine was the knuckleball. He practiced his ʻDipsy Doodle.ʼ Van Roth threw him the power forkball -- the “Dipsy Doodle.” Tucker swung over the top of it and we won the Division title.”

   “Seems as though he may have anticipated the splitter with his ʻDipsy Doodleʼ being a precursor to the split-seam fastball. Abracadabra. Now you see it. Now you donʼt. The red ape-eyes might have been some kind of animalistic force coming out, kind of like Dr. Jekyll becoming Mr. Hyde.”

   “More like Teen Wolf,” says Hughes. “In fact, our right fielder, Jimmy Ohrt, had a nickname for Van Roth -- ʻAnimalʼ. It was during a game when Van Roth tripled. There was a cloud of dust and the ball wound up in the coachʼs box. He leaped to his feet and headed for home. There was another cloud of dust with the same result. Ohrt hollered, Jesus! Van Rothʼs an animal! The name sorta stuck. I kinda think Van Roth liked the name; at least, he never complained about it.”

   “Sounds like time to celebrate.”

   “Damn straights. We headed up to Camp Far West for an all-nighter with a couple of kegs. The coach showed up, smoked a victory cigar, then left us to party. Van Roth even made an appearance. He never partied, didnʼt drink, didnʼt smoke, but this time he made an exception. He roasted a marshmallow over the campfire, faked a few sips of Ripple, and the next thing I knew ... he was gone. Went cruisinʼ in his hot rod.”

   “Hot rod. What kind of hot rod?”

   “His olʼ man built it for him. His dad was a trucker and diesel mechanic. He put a big-block Caddy engine in a 1930 model A five-window coupe, competition orange. It had big meats in the rear with a Lincoln differential, Corvette tranny with a Hurst shifter, and a black 8-ball for a shift-knob. That rat rod had torque up the ying-yang. We use to go cruisinʼ and drag racinʼ -- stoplight to stoplight. Weʼd race for dollar bills, sometimes a fiver. Never lost a race and the fuzz never bothered us back then. Nowadays, youʼd go to jail for exhibition of speed and reckless drivinʼ. Sometimes, weʼd head up into the foothills, past Browns Valley where thereʼs a long, flat, straight stretch. Van Roth would shove an eight-track into this big ʻol chrome tape deck he had mounted on the floorboard, just behind the shifter -- Stones, Hendrix, Zeppelin, the Doors, and once in a while, something weird like Mozart or Beethoven, but mostly the Moody Blues. There were headphone jacks mounted in the dashboard. Heʼd downshift into first gear, cruise at about 5,000 rpm and wait till the music started to build up. Faster and louder. Louder! Faster! Whatʼs that called?”

   “Crescendo!” I said.

   “Right. Then heʼd stomp on it. Thereʼd be a screech and throw us back in our seat. Once he hurt his pitching arm power-shiftinʼ into second gear. That Orange Crate would rear up on her haunches, lay a patch of rubber, then take off like a bat outta hell. I can still hear those twin, Holly double-pumpers suckinʼ air. By the time he hit fourth gear, weʼd be doinʼ eighty-five before shuttinʼ ʻer down at a hundred-ten. What a rush. Damn, I miss those days!”

   “So, you guys went racing into the sublime, climaxing with glorified thoughts of victory. Iʼve read somewhere that one could find God by listening to those Moody Blues.”

   “Whatever," hissed Hughes. "We also went bikinʼ. I had a chopped ʼ68 Triumph Bonneville 650 and Van Roth had a BSA Victor 441 single stroke. Heʼd git me off the line but Iʼd blow by him down the stretch and it would piss him off. Weʼd cruise up to Smartville, up in the foothills where I had a girlfriend that lived in one of those hippie communes. She was an ex-cheerleader from Yuba City High that had gone wild and ride naked on the back of my ʻTrumphʼ.”

   “Thatʼs quite the saga, Mr. Hughes. So, ... where can I find Nolan and Van Roth? Iʼd like to meet them.”

   “Nolanʼs a card dealer in Vegas. Good luck with Van Roth,” snickered Hughes. “Heʼs a recluse and moves around a lot. Builds a house, lives in it for a while, then moves on. Last I heard, he was somewhere in Arizona. Youʼre the detective. You figure it out.”

   It was getting late. Styx asked if I would like to meet Mrs. Van Roth. She lived just a few miles away in West Linda, part of the Olivehurst-Linda area. Why not? Surely, she would know of her sonʼs whereabouts and where he had played ball after college. It was a date and hopefully ʻol “Few Clothes” would not be along for the ride. Iʼd pick her up after work at the Moose Lodge in a few days after my visit to Humboldt County.

The Madman & His Rat Rod