Only a hardy few survive two-hour delays, so when Seaver resumed his warmups, the atmosphere had changed. Those of us who stood there with our faces pressed hard against the now-wet chain link fence were silent.
Seaver found his pace gently, indicating his pitch selection with measured flicks of his gloves. He would signal his fastball with a quick jerk, his curve with a sweeping gesture. All the time his battery mate was stoic, chewing his tobacco carefully, with respect.
No need to tell the catcher that he was working with a legend.
Each delivery was harmony. The pitches were not so perfect, but the motion remained beautiful.
Finally, after the White Sox batted in the top of the first, Seaver strode across right field to the mound.
Eight perfect deliveries. Eight warm-up pitches.
He started down at the first batter, rocked slightly, kicked and fired.
Strike.