Thirty-five years ago, on June 12, 1970, Pittsburgh Pirate and future Texas
Rangers pitcher Dock Ellis found himself in the Los Angeles home of a childhood
friend named Al Rambo. Two days earlier, he'd flown with the Pirates to San
Diego for a four-game series with the Padres. He immediately rented a car and
drove to L.A. to see Rambo and his girlfriend Mitzi. The next 12 hours were a
fog of conversation, screwdrivers, marijuana, and, for Ellis, amphetamines. He
went to sleep in the early morning, woke up sometime after noon and immediately
took a dose of Purple Haze acid. Ellis would frequently drop acid on off days
and weekends; he had a room in his basement christened "The Dungeon," in which
he'd lock himself and listen to Jimi Hendrix or Iron Butterfly "for days." A
bit later, how long exactly he can't recall, he came across Mitzi flipping
through a newspaper. She scanned for a moment, then noticed something.
"Dock," she said. "You're supposed to pitch today." Ellis focused his mind.
No. Friday. He wasn't pitching until Friday. He was sure. "Baby," she
replied. "It is Friday. You slept through Thursday." Ellis remained calm.
The game would start late. Ample time for the acid to wear off. Then it struck
him: doubleheader. The Pirates had a doubleheader. And he was pitching the first
game. He had four hours to get to San Diego, warm up and pitch. If something
didn't happen in the interim, Dock Philip Ellis, age 25, was about to enter a
50,000-seat stadium and throw a very small ball, very hard, for a very long
time, without the benefit of being able to, you know, feel the thing. Which,
it turns out, was one of the least crazy things that happened to him on that
particular day.
Nick Lewis: Michel, I appreciate you coming back from the dead for the purpose of expanding a few minds that have retained curiosity about their world. That said, this medium has an impatient audience, so I hope you'll forgive me for moving straight to the first question: