Oddly (but not unreasonably), the name Jim Maloney has always been associated in my mind with “The Dave Clark Five” — the North London rock band that, for a short time, gave “The Beatles” a run for their money. The DC5, as they were called, had a number of hits (“Glad All Over,” “Bits and Pieces,” “Anyway You Want It”) and a solid following, particularly among those (and there were some) who thought “The Beatles” were over hyped, over exposed, foppish and a tad too popular. Maloney was that way: the big Cincinnati right hander was one of the best pitchers in baseball during the same year (1964) that the DC5 reached the peak of their popularity, though he was bound to be left out among all the oohing and ahhing reserved for the big four of Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale, Bob Gibson and Juan Marichal. History is the best judge: Big Jim could never compete for space against Sandy, Don, Bob and Juan any more than Dave Clark could garner the same attention as John, Paul, George and Ringo. Tsk. Tsk.

I remember watching Maloney pitch the front end of a double header in Milwaukee in the deep summer of ’64. It was the week following the Tonkin Gulf Resolution was passed in the Congress, and two weeks after the bodies of three civil rights workers were discovered in Mississippi. But while at least some of the country was focused on war and civil rights, a large number of people in Milwaukee were focused on the August Braves-Reds match-up. The Braves-Reds tilt, it was thought, would determine whether the Braves would contend for the pennant. All of Milwaukee was atwitter with talk about how the Braves front four would match-up perfectly against the mighty Reds — and for good reason. The Braves front four consisted of a legend (Warren Spahn) and three savvy nose-in-the-dirt youngsters: Tony Cloninger, Denny LeMaster and Hank Fischer. Spahn was faltering then, but never mind: Wade Blasingame could come in to spell him in odd starts, and the 20-year-old was something to behold.

The only problem was that Cincinnati’s front four was even more formidable. Jim Maloney anchored the staff, which consisted of Jim O’Toole, Bob Purkey and Joey Jay. If that wasn’t enough, Joe Nuxhall was still kicking around (at the age of 35) and Sammy Ellis was an intimidating presence in the bullpen. The Redlegs’ starting nine was a terrifying mix of heavy lumber and hit-em-to-all-fields stars that included the underrated Vada Pinson, the man-for-all-seasons Frank Robinson and a young Pete Rose. But the real deal on the mound for the Reds was Jim Maloney, a brute of a pitcher whose up-and-in 95-plus fastball was nearly unhittable. Maloney, then all of 24, had just come off a 23-win season, with a sparkling ERA of 2.77. His ’64 season looked like much the same, though he wasn’t as well-supported as he had been the year before. While Maloney’s best games were still a year away (he pitched three no hitters in his career — and won only two of them), he was the one guy who could sink the Braves’ hopes for a World Series match-up. Which is exactly what he did.

But not with his arm.

Memories are strange things, allowing us snapshots of the past — and rarely a comprehensive account, or anything resembling a “film.” So it is that I recall that back in the deep summer of 1964 (and as I sat on the first base side of Milwaukee County Stadium) the great Cloninger-Maloney duel to decide the National League Pennant wasn’t a duel at all. It was an artillery barrage, led by none other than Maloney, a hulking presence, a converted Fresno, California shortstop whom the Reds transformed into a fastball ace because he couldn’t hit a lick. Except (of course) for that day in Milwaukee. And here’s the snapshot: in the sixth inning of the first game, with the bases loaded, Maloney came to the plate (a sure out) and swung his bat through the strike zone (click) and sent the ball sailing high and deep (I can see it still) into the bleachers in left field. It was a Jim Maloney grand slam — the only home run he hit that year and it sent all of Milwaukee into mourning (I swear, I thought Cloninger was going to have a stroke). Suddenly (but certainly, for that is how these things are) and though it was only the first game of the double header, the Braves were d-e-a-d Dead, Dead, Dead for 1964. The second game (as I recall) was all Vada Pinson and ended up a Reds win, but it hardly mattered. By then, Milwaukee fans knew for sure that at least for 1964 (which saw a legendary Phillies collapse) the Braves would not win the pennant.

Jim Maloney is one of those great forgotten pitchers. In June of 1965 he threw a ten inning no hitter and lost, giving up a home run in the 11th. He struck out 18 — still a Reds record — but he took the loss. In August of 1965, Maloney did it again, throwing another 10 inning no hitter, while striking out eight. This time he won. He wasn’t finished; after successive one hitters through ’65, ’66 and ’67 — years in which he battled an increasingly sore arm — he pitched a no hitter on May 13 of 1969 against the Astros. It might have been his best game. In 1970, Sparky Anderson took over as Cincinnati’s manager and inaugurated an era of Red baseball victories. But by then Maloney’s shoulder (and achilles tendon) had exploded. He was shipped to California, in an attempt to revive his career as an Angel, but it was too late, and in 1971 he retired. Maloney — the Dave Clark of pitchers — was only 31.

The Cincinnati Reds are the oldest team in professional baseball, so you’d think that after all these years their rich legacy would have yielded a tradition as intimidating, or as legendary, as (say) the New York Yankees. Not so. While nearly 120 years old (they were founded as the Cincinnati Red Stockings in 1866), the Reds have struggled more than triumphed – with their earliest years being the team’s most successful. In 120 years, Cincinnati has won five world championships, their last coming in 1990. Even “the Big Red Machine,” the leave-em-for-dead powerhouse of the 1970s, is now a fading memory, with the proud franchise along the Ohio River continually and vainly groping for an identity. The last time Cincinnati won a world championship was in 1990 and they’ve never finished higher than third in any of the last nine years. So . . . what’s the problem.

There’s a big problem in River City and it starts with a ‘p’ and it ends with a ‘g’ . . . and it’s called pitching. The problem with the Cincinnati Reds is that through all of their history, the franchise have never really (ever) had any pitching or, rather, they’ve never had any overwhelming pitching. Go ahead, name a really great Cincinnati Reds’ pitcher. Or better yet, name a really, really good one. In a game where pitching is at a premium (and something you can never have too much of) the Reds have never really had any. Is that even possible? Well, let’s check the record. In a list of the top ten Reds’ players of all time — a very subjective list — there are no pitchers. Here’s my list: 10. Dave Concepcion (shortstop), 9. Ted Kluszewski (first base), 8. Vada Pinson (outfield), 7. Barry Larkin (shortstop), 6. Edd Roush (outfield), 5. Tony Perez (first base), 4. Joe Morgan (second base), 3. Johnny Bench (catcher) 2. Frank Robinson (outfield), and 1. Pete Rose. Five of that list played for the Big Red Machine, Pinson is a maybe (you could as easily have included outfielders Eric Davis or George Foster). Truth is, you might even be able to make a “Top Fifteen” list of the greatest Reds — and not one of them would have been a hurler.

Of course, there’s always Eppa Jephtha Rixey, a gangly pretzel of a Reds’ pitcher who is now in the Hall of Fame — having been put there by the veterans’ committee back in the 1960s, long after Eppa hisself had passed from the scene. The problem with Rixey (one fine pitcher, to be sure) is that his 266-251 record is what kept sportswriters from considering him as one of the all-time greats. In two years he led the National League in losses. There’s also Joe Nuxhall, who pitched in his first major league game when he was 15 — they thought he was that good. It would be another seven years before Nuxhall returned, and he pitched well. But even with that, Nuxhall’s career numbers are not that good and he developed arm trouble that hampered his later years. The pitchers for the Big Red Machine were good, even very good, but they weren’t great: the Reds’ won the ’75 world championship with a front line of Gary Nolan, Jack Billingham, Fred Norman and Don Gullett. None of them won over fifteen games and the best of them, Billingham, had a very good but (again) not great career. The Big Red Machine was not a pitching machine.

We’re left with this: not counting Rixey (and I’m not counting Rixey) either Bucky Walters (who came from somewhere else) or Tom Browning are the best pitchers in Reds’ history, with Jim Maloney, Don Gullett, Noodles Hahn and Johnny Vander Meer third to sixth. Then you have to search. Of course, Reds’ fans will tell you that Tom Seaver was great in Cincinnati, but he went into Cooperstown as a Met. Don’t kid yourself, when Tom Terrific went to Cincinnati people (except in Cincinnati) stopped paying attention. He was terrific — in New York. Which is to say: we can look forever through the endless pages of Cincinnati baseball history and never come across a Sandy Koufax (Dodgers), Mordecai Brown (Cubs), Pud Galvin (Pirates) Christy Mathewson (Giants) Warren Spahn (Braves), Robin Roberts (Phillies) or Walter Johnson – Senators. That’s seven teams, all from the original senior circuit of the original eight and all of them with great pitchers. Some of them, by golly, even have two.  But not the Reds. Looking for great Reds’ pitching is like looking for blue food. There isn’t any. 

This year isn’t any different, of course, but at least one thing has changed. The Reds front office has been transformed into a pitcher-hunting development hit squad that understands there’s no way to win this game without some arms — and they’ve done their best to get some. True, Bronson Arroyo and Aaron Harang aren’t the long-term answers, but Homer Bailey and Johnny Cueto might be. (If Dusty doesn’t throw out their arms first.)  But even with that (even with that) there’s a sense, a whisper almost, that like so many other traditions in baseball (the Cubs aren’t going to win this thing, are they — and the Marlins may win it, but only by accident), this one is so deeply rooted that it may last forever. Cincinnati has never had pitching and they never will. Cincinnati is where pitchers’ arms go to die.