When subjected to slow-motion replay, as this motion often is, it looks less like pitching than feeding pigeons or shooting craps. The announcers often call him sidearm pitcher, but that hasn't been true of him for nearly four years. He's now, in baseball lingo, a "submariner," which is base ball's way of making a guy who throws underhand sound manly.

The truth is that there is no good word to describe Chad Bradford's pitching motion; "underhand" doesn't capture the full flavor of it. This year, for the first time in his career, Chad Bradford's knuckles have scraped the dirt as he throws. Once during warm-ups his hand bounced so violently off the ground that the baseball ricocheted over the startled head of Toronto Blue Jays' outfielder Vernon Wells, minding his own business in the on-deck circle. ESPN had replayed that one, over and over. Chad's new fear is that he'll do it again, in a game, and that the television cameras will catch him at it, and everyone will be paying him attention all over again.

The odd thing about Chad Bradford is that he wants so badly to be normal. Normal is what he's not. It's not just that he throws funny. His idiosyncratic streak runs straight down to the bottom of his character. Back in high school he had this shiny white rock he sneaked out with him to the mound. He'd noticed it one day when he was pitching. He was pitching especially well that day and the rock didn't look like any rock he'd ever seen on the mound. He attributed some part of his success to the presence of the shiny white rock. When he was done pitching, he picked up the rock and carried it home with him. For the next three years he never ventured to the pitcher's mound without his rock. He'd sneak it out with him in his pocket and put it on the mound, just so, and in such a way that no one ever noticed.

By the time he reached the big leagues, he'd weaned himself of his lucky rock but not of the frame of mind that created it. He had the tenacious sanity of the slightly mad. A big league pitcher who wishes to avoid attention, Chad Bradford has learned to disguise his superstitions as routines. There are things he always does--like throwing exactly the same number of pitches in the bullpen, in exactly the same order,- or like telling his wife to leave the stadium the moment he enters a game. There are things he never does-like touch the rosin bag.

His twin desires-to succeed, and to remain unnoticed-grow less compatible by the day. Chad Bradford's 2002 statistics imply, to the A's front office, that he is not just the best pitcher in their bullpen but one of the most effective relief pitchers in all of baseball. The Oakland A's pay Chad Bradford $237,000 a year, but his performance justifies many multiples of that. At one point the Oakland A's front office says that if Bradford simply continues doing what he's done he'll one day be looking at a multi-year deal at $3 million plus per. The wonder isn't merely that they have him so cheaply, but that they have him at all. The wonder is that, until they snapped him up for next to nothing, nobody in the big leagues paid any attention at all to Chad Bradford.

In this respect, if no other, Chad Bradford resembled a lot of the Oakland A's pitchers. The A's had the best staff in the American League and yet of all their pitchers only Mark Mulder, one of the team's three brilliant starters, had failed to inspire serious doubts at some point in his career in the baseball scouting mind. The team's second ace, Tim Hudson, was a short right-handed pitcher who couldn't get himself drafted at all in 1996, after his junior year in college, and then not until the sixth round of the 1997 draft. The team's third ace, Barry Zito, had been spat upon by both the Texas Rangers, who took him in the third round of the 1998 draft but declined to pay him the $50,000 required to sign him, and the San Diego Padres, for whom Zito privately auditioned and badly wanted to play. The Padres told Zito that he didn't throw hard enough to make it in the big leagues. The Oakland A's disagreed and selected him with the ninth pick of the 1999 draft. Three years later a top executive for those same San Diego Padres would say that the reason the Oakland A's win so many games with so little money is that "Billy got lucky with those pitchers."