Picture Randy Johnson. What do you see? The mullet, the mustache, the electric arm. A snarling oak tree planted atop a mound. Lefthanded batters would sooner take the day off than risk a 100-mph gust of wind behind the ear. Even righties never dug in too deep. He was an icon at the last moment baseball players could be icons. But here comes Randy Johnson, 15 minutes early, striding towards the double doors of the Scottsdale Center for the Performing Arts. He wears a short-sleeved button down,... Read this story
