MAKING AN IMPRESSION

Other than the fact that a baseball leaves his hand around 100 mph, there is little to recommend Nolan Ryan's mound style for entertainment value. He looks at the catcher. He coils into something approaching a fetal position. He lets it go.

A grunt, maybe. Some occasional pacing. Nothing theatrical.

He doesn't talk to the ball, doesn't pat the mound, doesn't massage his temples through his hat, as his teammate, Todd Burns, does. Ryan never does anything eccentric.

Not anymore, anyway.

He did an impersonation of The Animal in 1982 and received such rave reviews he retired the routine.

Ryan's style is minimalist and structured. He believes it is the only way he can maintain some rhythm and concentration, not to mention decorum. He generally is not impressed by baseball's free spirits. Over the years, he has done some ad-libbing, though. He got into a couple of nothing-but-fastball confrontations with Reggie Jackson and Dick Allen, handicapping it by telling them what was coming.

He once explained the duels, saying that, on a bad team, a player occasionally needs to do something interesting "to pass the season."

He apparently hit one of those lulls on Sept. 26, 1982, in a game against the Cincinnati Reds. The Astros and Reds were long out of the race, in fifth and sixth place in the National League West. The Astros were 73-81 and 12 games out. The Reds, still going through withdrawal pains from the loss of their great '70s teams, were 57- 97, 28 games out.

The Astros' collapse began at mid-season, when left-handed reliever Joe Sambito ruptured a ligament in his elbow. As soon as Sambito went on the disabled list, starter Don Sutton made plans to leave Houston. Sutton, closing in on the 300 victories he thought he needed to make the Hall of Fame, figured he couldn't get them without Sambito, Ryan said. Sutton worked out a deal with Milwaukee. The Brewers gave the Astros outfielder Kevin Bass and pitchers Frank DiPino and Mike Madden in return, players who would play well for the Astros in the years to come.

But the loss of Sutton, Ryan said, did no good for the Astros in 1982. The performance cost the job of Bill Virdon, whose seven-plus seasons were the most of any manager in club history. He was fired with 51 games left and replaced with Bob Lillis.

The Astros muddled along in mediocrity under Lillis, eventually finishing fifth in the NL West at 77-85. There was not much to note about their games until a week or so before they played the Reds in the last series of the season between the clubs. The Reds put some life in their games by calling up relief pitcher Brad Lesley.

Lesley, 24, was 6-6 and 230 pounds and went by the nickname of The Animal, and not because he was as big as a bear. The Animal had a distinctive habit of puffing his chest after a strikeout. He would pound a paw into his glove and stalk off the mound into his private little hell, trailing a long blue streak of invectives.

Ryan clearly was amazed by the performance, for a couple of reasons. First, there was Lesley's experience. He just got here, didn't he? For all Ryan could tell, Lesley might make just as quick an exit.

Ryan has pitched in four decades. He came from an era in which players did as little as possible to call attention to their deeds, good or bad.

Ryan, for that matter, was having one of his better seasons in 1982. He went 16-12, which would be his most victories with the Astros. He had more strikeouts (245) and pitched more innings (250.1) than he had in at least four years. He even won his 200th game, on July 27th against Cincinnati.

He apparently was bored on Sept. 26, though. He was on his way to a 4-0 victory over the Reds when, after a bit of a struggle, he struck out Duane Walker on a 3-2 pitch.

He celebrated by doing the Animal.

"I don't even know what possessed me to do that," Ryan said last week, smiling. "It was just a reaction. But everybody started cracking up on both benches."

He once had a better explanation.

"Let's face it," he said in 1982. "When you're the two worst teams in your division, you have to have some fun."

Even Lesley was appreciative.

"It was a very good impression, and it took everyone off-guard," Lesley told reporters. "It was really funny."

The impression also may have been intended as instruction.

Ryan didn't mind pitchers who were eccentric. He liked Mark Fidrych, who talked to the ball and repaired the mound by hand before an arm injury ended his career prematurely. But Ryan didn't like people showing up each other, whether they be pitchers or batters.

Al Hrabosky, who went by the nickname of the Mad Hungarian, had a routine similar to that of Lesley's.

"His act didn't last so long, either," said Ryan, to whom 13 seasons might not seem very long.

Other acts would follow. Ryan credits - or blames - Reggie Jackson. Ryan said Jackson was the first player he knew of that would stand at the plate and admire the flight of the ball as it left the park, a fairly common practice now.

"You never saw Willie Mays or Hank Aaron doing something like that," Ryan said. "We used to say Reggie watched it because he was so amazed he made contact after striking out so much."

Jackson was one of Ryan's favorite foes, though. He knew he could strike him out if he made his pitches. If not, he paid.

Ryan once increased the risk factor in 1979, when he was with the Angels and Jackson was playing for the Yankees. He called his catcher, Ellie Rodriguez, to the mound for a conference. "Tell Reggie I'm throwing nothing but heat," Ryan said. Rodriguez delivered the message, which was received with some surprise.

Ryan got Jackson out on a fly ball to left field, a rather mundane end to the challenge. The results were no more thrilling on another occasion, when Ryan made a similar offer to Dick Allen of the Chicago White Sox.

Ryan hasn't made any on-field propositions since. He is not likely to do it again, judging by his conversation.

He seemed almost embarrassed as he talked about challenging Jackson and Allen and the mimickry of Lesley.

"The season gets real old sometimes and it's hard to keep your intensity," he said. "You can't always do it for the team because everyone starts to go his own way. You have to do it on a personal basis.

"I don't know. Sometimes it was the state of mind we were in. 'What difference does this game make?'"

They made a difference to Brad Lesley. He appeared in only 26 more games over the next three years. The Animal was out of baseball by 1986, at 27.