Bill Lyon: Sure, it’s not natural, yet who wouldn’t, at least once, like to take the hill

There's a physicist, Dizzy Dean was once told, who says he can prove that the curveball is nothing more than an optical illusion. To which Dizzy replied: "You tell that scientist feller to stand behind that tree over yonder, and I'll whump him with an optical illusion."

Well, it can be made to curve, of course. Or drop. Or rise. Or sink. Or dance like a butterfly with the hiccups. It can, in the calloused hands of a seasoned fireballer, be delivered at supersonic speeds.

But at a fearsome cost.

For there is no more unnatural act in sports than pitching a baseball. It is a violent, traumatic, wrenching movement, a concussive insult to the wrist, elbow and shoulder. Over time, the toll includes bone fragments, shredded ligaments, eroded tendons and mysterious words like labrum and rotator cuff. And inevitably, Tommy John surgery.

And yet, be honest now, who among us has not fantasized as a Position No. 1, perched imposingly on the mound, peering down with an imperious sneer while the catcher wig-wags signals and the batter, well aware of the high heat you can bring, twitches nervously and tries not to let his front foot bail out? Trade a lifetime of not being able to comb your hair for the chance to pitch in the bigs? Where do I sign?

How about being reincarnated as Nolan Ryan? Seven no-hitters. And maybe even more impressive, 12 one-hitters. Almost 6,000 strikeouts. Trying to hit him, Willie Stargell said, was like trying to eat soup with a fork.

You have two choices of pitching style: Gas or guile. Flame or finesse. You can be the Ryan Express, a freak of nature still leaving a vapor trail in your 40s. Or you can nibble and frustrate, like, say, a Greg Maddux. Up and in. Low and away. Every direction except straight. A subtle change of speeds, 5 miles per hour here, 10 there, but always with the same exact arm speed.

The late Johnny Podres was especially fond of the change-up because, he said, with the change-up the batter does your work for you - lunging, off balance and overanxious, he tends to get himself out. And look foolish at the same time.

One of the most intriguing careers was that of Sandy Koufax, who needed six seasons before he could finally harness his control. And then, for a five-year stretch, he was literally untouchable - four no-hitters in four back-to-back seasons, a two-year combined total in 1965-66 of 54 wins, 668 innings pitched, and 679 strikeouts.

This was when the game was played in a simpler time, before pitch counts and all sorts of set-up specialists and relievers. Koufax retired abruptly. His left elbow was permanently bent. He had traumatic arthritis. He could barely lift his arm. He had paid the price.

When the Phillies won their one and only World Series, their Irish leprechaun, the reliever Tug McGraw, had pitched and pitched and pitched, yet kept taking the ball.

Don't you have a sore arm?

"You better believe it."

What do you do for it?

"Tape aspirin to my elbow."

Sometimes, it's really a simple game.