It was probably around 1959 when Burwin “Swat” Erickson and his lovely wife, Phyllis, came from their beautiful Jamestown area home for a visit.

Burwin was a former minor league baseball player and the son of former major league pitcher Eric “Swat” Erickson.

He and his wife were two of the nicest people I ever met.

He towered over my dad in the backyard and crushed my hand in the introductory handshake. His arms and especially hands were massive.

Holding the knuckleball. Throwing it effectively is extremely difficult.

We started to play catch, him taking turns soft tossing to me and my equally eager younger brother Tom.

After a while my dad whispered in Swat’s ear and my introduction to the knuckleball was airmailed to me.

It was hard not to notice the pitch. It didn’t move. No spin. Mesmerizing.

At least that’s how I felt right before the pitch hopped over my glove and struck me in the throat.

Shrugging off the pain, I immediately approached Swat and begged him to teach me how to throw the knuckler. I was hooked and hooked good.

A vintage Dave Criscione model Hillerich & Bradsby Louisville Slugger baseball bat, similar to the one he used to smash my knuckleball into Dunkirk High School back in the late 1960s.

He demonstrated and I learned the basics. It would take me a couple of years to throw a good one.

Fingertips, not knuckles, rest on the laces to start the fluttering knuckleball. Throw the pitch with a stiff arm without bending your wrist.

New balls were the best to use when tossing the knuckleball. Less friction. They performed far better than our beat-up practice balls.

That was really part of the problem with being a knuckleball pitcher. I rarely practiced with a new ball and my knucklers suffered as a result.

Growing up I had a strong arm and could throw hard. My curveball didn’t really curve. It usually just spun. Not good.

Short fingers prevented me from snapping off a decent curveball, so knuckleball it was.

I realized early on that I needed an effective second pitch. Batters eventually catch up to fastballs, especially when they know the pitcher has a one-pitch repertoire.

The majority of my baseball managers weren’t fans of my gimmicky pitch. Some players refused to play catch with me because the knuckleball could be dangerous and elusive to catch.

On the Fredonia State baseball team, I often played catch with Dunkirk High standout Rich Bartkowiak. He had a dandy forkball that few liked to catch. We were a natural fit.

I enjoyed decent pitching success in Babe Ruth League play, but made the all-star team as a first baseman.

I then lost my singular starting pitching assignments for Cardinal Mindszenty and Fredonia State.

I was tapped by Coach Bob Muscato to start against Bishop Gibbons in North Tonawanda as a high school senior. Our two staff aces, Terry Leja and Dan Wolfe, would be pitching the next day in a crucial league doubleheader.

I gave up a few runs and was later relieved by batterymate John Kirst in what was a competitive loss.

My single start for the collegiate Blue Devils was much, much worse.

We were playing a nonleague Pennsylvania college my sophomore season.

In the top of the very first inning, I bashed a two-out hit to left field and ended up on second base.

There was only one problem, in my excitement, I clearly missed first base and was promptly called out on appeal.

It was a long, slow embarrassing walk from second base back to the team bench to grab my glove and trudge back out to pitch.

Minutes later, my manager came out to mercifully remove me from the game. I had recorded two outs and allowed eight runs. My knuckleball wasn’t fooling anyone. Neither was my alleged fastball.

The final straw was a routine fly ball to centerfield that should have ended the dreadful inning.

Unfortunately, my brother Tom, an all-star infielder, was out of position in center field and lost the ball in the sun.

The bases were loaded at the time so all three runners scored on the play.

Coach Tom Prevet asked for the ball upon visiting the mound.

“When your own brother can’t help you, it’s obvious this is just not your day,” he said.

I had to agree. End of my career as a pitcher.

The personal pinnacle of my knuckleball-throwing career had actually come during a late ’60s Mindszenty-Dunkirk scrimmage on Veterans Field, current site of the DHS softball field.

I faced the city’s all-time best baseball player, future major league catcher Dave Criscione.

First time up, I delivered a dandy knuckleball and Criscione popped it up to shallow left field where our shortstop backed up and caught it. I’m pretty sure that was the only time I ever got Dave out.

I tried the same pitch an inning later and Criscione crushed it so far to straightaway center field it hit the high school. Not on a bounce. It hit near the top of the high school. On the fly.

No one had ever seen that done before and I’d be surprised if anyone ever matched the feat.

I guess I should have quit while I was ahead. What a knucklehead.

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DO YOU have a favorite, funny, weird, best or worst memory of amateur sports refereeing, playing or spectating? Drop me a line at mandpp@hotmail.com and let’s reminisce.

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Bill Hammond is a former EVENING OBSERVER sports editor.