Santana's pitches move all over the place—dropping, tailing, and cutting. This is what is commonly referred to by ballplayers as "stuff," and it isn't clear Santana always has control over it. What is certain is that Santana's "stuff" is nasty even when he's just going through the motions.
"I remember catching [an early] game against the Blue Jays, and I couldn't believe the stuff coming over the plate," recalls A.J. Pierzynski, a former Twin who has the unique perspective of catching for Santana and now hitting against him for the Chicago White Sox. "There's no one better. He's the total package."
Nick Vlcek
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Ask anyone why Santana's pitches are so effective, and they'll talk about the ball's movement five feet before crossing the plate. They also talk about "arm speed," which means every throw looks like a fastball; hitters can't tell what's coming until it's too late. Good pitching thrives on making the batter guess, but Santana concedes that sometimes even he's surprised where the ball ends up.
"It can catch up to him if he's not careful," says Jack Morris, known for pitching the greatest game seven in World Series history: 10 gritty innings of shut-out ball to win the 1991 championship for the Twins. "I try to convince him that he's never going to catch Nolan Ryan, that he should give up on that, and give his best pitches for more outs. But it's all about trying to be the strikeout king. He enjoys that."
Statistics aside, Santana has emerged as a team leader. He's the first in the dugout to greet a player who scores a run and he exudes a contagious confidence. With Santana as their ace in the hole, the Twins feel they'll rarely have to worry about a long losing streak.
Just take one look at him on the mound. When Santana strikes a batter out, he hops to his right, his glove hand on his hip, looking every bit like the matadors he grew up admiring.
The question is whether the Twins can afford to keep him. Though Santana has said he'd like to stay, the decision may be dictated by market value.
The prospects for resigning Santana took a major hit in the offseason when the San Francisco Giants signed Barry Zito to a seven-year, $126-million contract, the richest ever for a major-league pitcher. Zito, a lefty who had pitched for the Oakland A's, was considered one of the best hurlers in the American League. But he's no Santana. That he would attract that kind of free-agent cash will surely inflate Santana's value.
This spring, Sports Illustrated ran an article claiming Santana was unhappy with the Twins' lack of diligence in trying to sign him to a long-term contract, a report the pitcher promptly denied. No one within the organization will indulge in speculation about Santana's future. "He's stated publicly that he wants to stay with the team," Terry Ryan says, and leaves it that.
At just past 4:30 on an April afternoon, two and half hours before the Minnesota Twins are to take on the Baltimore Orioles in an early-season series, manager Ron Gardenhire is gingerly negotiating his way from the field to the clubhouse—he has a bum knee. The lineup card has been filled out, scouting reports digested, the media sated. Waiting is the hardest part.
Santana arrives in the clubhouse and catches the manager's attention. Gardy whirls around, curses his knee—he'll have surgery on it in a couple of weeks—and disappears down a hallway into the bowels of the old dome. Minutes later, he returns carrying two of Santana's game uniforms. He hands them over to Santana, who promptly hangs them in his clubhouse locker.
Despite his curmudgeonly moments, Gardenhire is an avuncular sort, and it could very well be that he's merely doing a favor for Santana. Then again, a reasonable man—and Gardenhire is certainly one—would be wise to keep his ace happy.
