A Scout With Honor: The Man Who Discovered Nolan Ryan

There are secrets to being a scout. He must have the awareness of a big game hunter (or, better yet, a bird watcher), the eye of an art lover, the prescience of a voodoo witch doctor. He must be a gambler, but know, when it comes to a baseball player's potential, that the dealer owns the odds. He must be skeptical, a heartless observer. But he must always hope. Maybe he'll find what he's looking for on a small field, maybe in the box score of some small-town rag: Maybe, someday, unexpectedly, will appear signs of the holy grail.

As a scout, Red Murff put 1.5 million miles on the road, most of that on the endless tar of Texas. Murff was responsible for discovering ballplayers. He sifted through every American Legion ball field from El Paso to the swamplands of Louisiana, sniffed out ex-Little Leaguers from Oklahoma City to the mouth of the Rio Grande, knew every high school coach on a first-name basis in 100 counties. He traveled 50,000 miles a year on the road, most of those in the six-month span from February to July, a prime harvest time for high school and college recruits.

Murff started scouting for the Houston Colt .45s in 1960 and in '62 moved to the New York Mets, and later scouted for the Montreal Expos, Atlanta Braves and Chicago Cubs. By the time he was hired by the Mets, Murff had at least one future star to his credit, a San Antoniocatcher named Jerry Grote. All told, Murff sent close to 50 players to the major leagues.

He worked like a detective. Life was a reconnaissance mission. Every shoeshine was an inquisition, every bag boy at the grocery store a potential spy for the cowtown intelligence network. Every grease-soaked gas station attendant was asked the question: "Is there a ballplayer in this area?" Every now and then a waitress in Wacoor Waxahachie would say, "Ol' Hotfoot Dingler can really hit a baseball," or, "That Marvis boy sure can play." Parents wrote. Coaches bragged. Some tips paid off. Most did not. When the day came that somebody said so and so could throw a baseball 90 miles per hour, "You were obliged to take note," Murff said.

So after miles and miles of white-line fever, hundreds of dinners in untidy diners, countless nights in claustrophobic motel rooms with paper thin walls transmitting the rumble of cattle trucks at 3 a.m., Murff heard the magic words: "There's a pretty good arm at Alvin High School."

Red Murff took note.

There was no name attached to the arm--although the information was that the arm belonged to an underclassman. Murff promised his spy that he'd go see the pitcher next year.
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In our baseball memories, we all have glimpses, indelible moments, freeze-frames that stand out. The games blend into one, but nothing can add or subtract from the resonating details of that screaming line drive hit by a star-to-be in spring training, the glove reaching for a catch to deny a homer in a big game, the outfielder's thud into the wall. For Murff, that impression lives on in the echo of a fastball exploding into a high school catcher's mitt.

"You don't have to see it but one time to know it's there," says Murff of The Pitch. "Once you know it's there, you don't forget it."

Murff would risk everything for that echo. A pitcher for the Milwaukee Braves in 1956 and '57 (at the time the oldest rookie in major league history at 34), he knew a thing or two about throwing mechanics and exploding

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