When Mickey Jannis leaves for the ballpark, his family does not bid him good luck or tell him to do his best or give him any parting words of advice. Instead, what they say is, .
It’s a joke, kind of, but there’s some truth under it. Jannis is a knuckleballer, and what is throwing a knuckleball if not practicing a rare, fabled performance art? The pitch flutters and darts in a way that can seem like an illusion. Even if you’ve seen it plenty on TV, “seeing it in person is so much different than seeing it on video,” Jannis says. “It tricks your eyes.” And there’s a natural comedy to the whole thing: Look how the hitter can be fooled by a pitch he is coming, one with velocity low enough to work on a highway, or how the catcher might find himself flubbing the most basic components of his job. Look how the pitcher himself can suddenly lose his touch for it! (No one said the comedy wouldn’t turn dark.) It can be art, or it can be slapstick, but it’s always a show.
And so when Jannis is somewhere new, he might go out for a bullpen session, and 10 or 15 people will inevitably crowd around. They come because they want to see a show, and they come because they have never seen a big league knuckleball up close.
How could they have? Jannis is—at least for the moment—the last big league knuckleballer.
