Daddy Long Arms

So far this season, the Milwaukee Braves have not set the world on fire, or even Milwaukee, but every now and then a spark crackles. Easily the, hottest spark is Gene Conley. 24, a moose-tall (6 ft. 8 in.) pitcher with enough fire in his long right arm to burn down the best batters around. While his team sputtered around the .500 mark, Gene was sizzling along last week at an .833 clip. He has started in seven games, finished five, won five and lost one (to Brooklyn by only one run).

Fast Cat. A reformed basketball player from Washington State. Conley is the kind of energetic athlete who never tires of playing. So, after he quit college, while he polished up his pitching, he also earned a fast buck playing professional basketball with the Boston Celtics. In due time Gene decided to concentrate on big-league baseball. Last year he won 14 and lost nine for Milwaukee. This year, says Manager "Jolly Cholly" Grimm, he is a cinch to win 20.

Gene Conley on the mound is an impressive spectacle. His gloved hand resting on his left thigh, his right hand cupping the ball somewhere back of his right kidney. Gene leans forward, staring like a studious crane at Catcher Del Crandall's signal. Then he straightens, toes the rubber, lifts his left leg high as if to ram his cleats down the batter's tonsils and swings into a full windup.

When he coils that big frame, his delivery is deceptive. He seems to be lobbing the ball toward the plate. Suddenly it zips" past, a whistling fast ball or a wicked curve. Even more surprising is his speed afoot. He can field a bunt with consummate ease; last week, he caught Giants Captain Alvin Dark taking a long lead off first, whirled off the mound and stalked the base runner like a great, fast-moving cat. Flustered, Dark watched him move in. A leisurely toss to First Baseman Joe Adcock, and it was all over.

A Mouthful. Just as important as his skill on the field is Conley's spirit between games. He gets a kick out of his work: he loves to pitch batting practice; he never shirks his own turn at the plate. (For a pitcher, he hits a commend able .217.) When things go wrong, he never sulks. "The only guy Conley ever blames," says Pitching Coach Bucky Walters, "is Conley himself." The only ballplayers' vice he has picked up is the game-time habit of worrying a wad of chewing tobacco (adulterated with a few sticks of chewing gum). Gene recalls how his wife discovered this lapse.

In Wilkes-Barre, Pa. one afternoon, she drove to the ballpark to watch him pitch.

Gene ambled to the fence and gave her a big kiss, smack on the lips. "She near choked to death," he remembers ruefully.

No man has done more than lean Gene Conley to keep the Braves in contention, and Conley is still confident that come August his team will be up there fighting it out with the Dodgers. Meanwhile, he figures, the Dodgers themselves are a big help in his campaign to burn them down. At Ebbets Field they provide the smallest dugout in the league. Between trips to the mound, Big Gene has to fold his frame into an awkward curl. Somehow, this seems to help his pitching.

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