Palmer was another person whose arm troubles were felt by some to be located in his head. It turned out that they were located in his leg. They began in 1967 and lasted through the '68 season, during which he pitched only 37 innings, all in the minors.

"If my arm hurts in Baltimore it's going to hurt in Rochester," Palmer was heard to grumble at one point. He had won 15 games for the Orioles in 1966 and became the youngest pitcher ever to throw a World Series shutout when he stopped the Dodgers 6-0. He felt nobody quite believed him about his sore arm. He was vindicated last year when his problem was diagnosed: his left leg is shorter than his right, causing arm and back strain. Last year, with one shoe padded, he was 16-4, and this year, with any luck, he would have won as many games as his two left-handed friends.

McNally's troubles also cropped up in 1967. In June of that year it was concluded that he had been nursing a sore arm since spring without realizing it. A calcium deposit was found in his elbow. The fluid on the elbow was drained off and cortisone was injected. Still, although he was throwing hard again and had reacquired his slider, which he had mysteriously lost somewhere in the vicinity of Elmira, N.Y. six years before, he was hardly a Gibson or Seaver. All he could do was win. He won 17 straight from September of '68 to the following July, and during this period was rescued from defeat so often by his teammates as to win the nickname McLucky. Now he has become a truly savvy pitcher—and the Orioles still hit.

The Big Three, in a few words, are sound, smart and able. In a time of less than universal displays of solid workmanship across the land, it may be worthwhile to consider their attributes.

CUELLAR. He has superstitions. No one can throw him his glove or the ball. He must pick up each from the ground himself. Before starting each inning he circles the mound and walks up the front of it with his back to the hitter. During the game no one but his regular catcher can warm him up. Even if the catcher is busy putting on his gear between innings, Cuellar will wait. During his pre-game warmups no one but Coach Jim Frey can catch him, and for the whole 15-minute warmup period Catcher Elrod Hendricks—and no one else—must stand there in a batting stance.

Cuellar is known among his teammates as "Crazy Horse." He has a slow screwball, a medium screwball and a fast screwball. In a recent game he threw 55 fastballs (41 for strikes), 34 screwballs (20 strikes) and seven curves (four strikes). Hendricks, who is from St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands, says that when he and Cuellar talk they speak "40% Spanish, 30% English, 20% pig Latin and 10% jokes. But to tell the truth," he says, "I usually don't get much accomplished when I go out to the mound to talk to Mike."

Usually Cuellar is a quiet, collected and brisk workman on the mound, but sometimes he loses his temper. The first five batters to face him a few weeks ago hit safely and one of the hits was a grand-slam home run. He got into several arguments with the umpire during the bombardment and finally took himself out of the game because he was so upset. His wife Emma says that on the night before he pitches, "We'll be sitting there watching television and suddenly his muscles will jump out and his arm will shoot out."

McNALLY. "Pitching," he says, "is just a matter of not giving up and not giving in." The only exception to this rule is when Frank Howard is up. Howard, McNally confides, "has more than a great deal of confidence when he's against me, and I have less than a little confidence against him. I'd rather walk him and get it over with."

The Angels' Jim Fregosi says: "The question came up the other day, 'Who would you like to have as your pitcher if you had to win one game for everything?' I'd pick McNally." McNally seems always to be pitching out of trouble. Reliever Pete Richert calls him "Super Tarp," because "he takes just enough line to make you think you have him hooked, just like a tarpon, but he'll spit that hook out every time."

PALMER. He tests his reflexes in a game with his roommate, Leonhard. Leonhard throws two baseballs at once and Palmer catches both, one in each hand. "I once caught two 20 times in a row," he says. "And I can catch three at once, too. I'd like to try four, but Dave can't throw four at once."

When he was still looking for his 20th victory and McNally and Cuellar had 23 each, Palmer said, "I think I've pitched as well as Cuellar and McNally. That's what concerns me right now—people around the country think of me as the other starter with the Orioles. Look, I've said you've got to be lucky when you pitch—lucky, lucky—and I haven't been." He also said, "Look at this. My face is broken out in a rash and I know it isn't the strawberries I ate. It must be this trying to win 20. I'm too old for pimples."

When Sonny Siebert of the Red Sox made him hit the dirt with a close pitch early this year, Palmer said, "He's crazy to throw at me because I throw harder than he does."

That, then, is the Orioles' Big Three. Weaver figures that in any Series he has a 50% chance of winning the first game with any one of the three going against the other club's ace. And then "no one can match our guys in the second and third game."

Finally, Weaver faces right up to the question. "If you went into the last game of the season with each of your Big Three needing one win for 20, whom would you pitch?" he is asked.

"Phoebus," Weaver replies.