They couldn't look or pitch or, frankly, be more different. Halladay is more likely to have some self-help books-on-tape in his car than the wacky tabacky Lincecum was cited for last year. Halladay's nickname, "Doc," suggests the cool, clinical professional who inspires confidence. Lincecum's, "The Freak," is self-explanatory.
"It's a great part about this game," Halladay said. "You don't have to be 6-9 and 280 to be a defensive lineman. You can take all different shapes and sizes and do the job."
So the question is what common thread runs through these two very different pitching aces? And the answer may have to do with airplanes - or at least fathers who understand aerodynamics.
Halladay's father, Roy Jr., is a commercial pilot. When the family moved to the Denver suburb of Arvada, he built a pitcher's mound in the basement for his only son to practice on. Roy III was taken to see elite pitching coaches as a teen and never got off that track.
Lincecum's father, Chris, works for Boeing, which has been credited (or blamed) for the loud, don't-call-it-grunge rock scene that exploded in Seattle when Tim was in elementary school. Chris famously taught Tim the quirky pitching motion that confounds hitters and pitching coaches alike.
Pushed along by their fathers, Halladay and Lincecum followed the paths that led them to this epic Game 1 showdown. Both have dominated in the major leagues. One of them, however, got desperately lost along the way and needed help to find himself.
Ironically, it wasn't the kid with the X Games demeanor and crazy windup. It was Halladay. Before he became Doc, he had to spend some time with the doctor.
