If baseball skill is genetic, there's nothing to be done. Either the kid has the genes or he doesn't. This philosophy seemed to work well enough until one day during his sophomore year at the University of Arizona he threw a curveball that severely damaged his arm. All that "natural" ability went out the window. This would have ended his career before it began except he couldn't see life continuing without baseball. Thus, he started a desperate eight year struggle that culminated in his transformation into an unorthodox but successful major league pitcher - the drastic changes in his throwing style inspired by insights gained from his study of ecological genetics and advice he received from Max Surkont, an aging pitcher in Dave's first spring training camp. On Dave's baseball odyssey he found a roommate who sleepwalked swinging a bat, another who chewed Gillette double-edged razor blades, and still another who was working up to a stretch in prison. He eavesdropped on the witty repartee aboard a burning airplane and a death-defying bus trip, during epicurean brushes with the criminal underworld, and in that awkward moment right after a bullet had ripped through a taxi window. He got to dodge tornadoes, lightning, and baseball hobgoblins. He experienced the bonding effect of minor league pranks and comedy acts, and got a taste of what it was like playing baseball askew in the metaphysical whirl of Steppenwolf and the hippie generation. And he learned the irresistible attraction of Janis Joplin and the dry spitball. The odd adventures didn't end once Dave made it to the major leagues. He spent a season busily tormenting Ted Williams, and once he unexpectedly found himself teaching the knuckleball to Seri Indians in a remote desert village in northern Mexico. Snake Jazz includes a number of anecdotes reflecting the world around baseball during the 1960s and '70s, such as the beginnings of the Viet Nam war and the impact on baseball of racial bigotry during the Civil Rights Movement. One chapter recounts the peculiar and dangerous situation of American ballplayers in Havana shortly after Fidel Castro's rebels had gained control of Cuba. Snake Jazz is more than a series of remarkable anecdotes, however. It is a demonstration of the importance of motivation and mindset in reaching objectives. Dave's dream of playing major league baseball and his stubborn determination drove him to overcome the notion that ability is inherent. If his dad was right, there must be some way to make it to the majors through hard work, even after inherent advantage had been lost. The big question was, "Work hard at what?" He needed a good pitching coach to give him that critical suggestion that would turn his career around. He rarely saw a pitching coach in the minor leagues, and those few that were available did more harm than good. He continued to work hard to improve, but he was still practicing the same way.

Obscure Press are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.

More than that, however, it is the story of how Jerry Rice awakened the champion within, illustration how we can unlock the greatness within ourselves.

If Cobb was the game's tortured bully, Wagner was the anti-Cobb. He was kind and quiet, the most beloved figure in the game before Ruth, the local boy from the coalfields of western Pennsylvania who made good on the green fields of Pittsburgh's ballparks. Despite terribly bowed legs and freakishly large hands, he patrolled the shortstop slot with remarkable dexterity; he may not have been as acrobatic as Ozzie Smith, but no shortstop was steadier defensively. Offensively, he was a genius, winning eight batting crowns, four in a row between 1906 and 1909, and he remains, almost a century later, among the all-time top 10 in hits, doubles, triples, and stolen bases. Cobb, who rarely complimented anyone, considered Wagner "the greatest ballplayer that ever lived. " Yet more than 40 years would pass after his death before any biographer seriously went to bat with his life. In Honus Wagner, the DeValerias have produced a clean hit, maybe not a home run, but, befitting a star of the dead-ball era, a well-placed, well-struck double. As solid as Wagner himself-and at 5'11" and 200 pounds, he was solid-the "Flying Dutchman" emerges as a shy man who loved the game and loved to play it, and that's about the extent of it. He was a regular guy, no tormented Cobb, no educated Mathewson, no flamboyant Ruth. There are simply no strikes against him; he was unfussy, immensely likeable, anxious to please, tremendously supportive of his friends and teammates, and, while inordinately polite on the field, off of it he rarely pulled his punch lines. If anything haunted him, it was his poor performance against the Red Sox in the 1903 World Series, which he more than made up for against Cobb and the Tigers six years later. He may have led a simple life, but he wasn't exactly a simple man; his biographers treat him with the same respect he treated the game, and propel themselves with the same thoroughness, doggedness, and care that Wagner displayed on the field. -Jeff Silverman.