Steve Dalkowski met Roger Maris once. It did not take long -- 'three straight pitches,' Dalkowski recalled, through the blur of 46 very hard years. They were legends when they met under the lights at a minor league stadium in Miami on March 22, 1963. Maris was a legend for having hit a record 61 homers in 1961; Dalkowski was a legend for being perhaps the fastest pitcher ever. When they met, Maris was theoretically standing near home plate in Miami, but his fanny was more or less in the Bahamas. Take it from somebody who was there that night; after the game, the Yankees stars all yukked it up in the clubhouse, imitating each other's bailout moves. The legends of Dalkowski and Maris will meet again Sunday at the induction ceremony for the Shrine of the Eternals, part of the Baseball Reliquary, an alternate hall of fame based in Pasadena, Calif. The Reliquary, founded by Terry Cannon, is a haven for legends like Marvin Miller and Spaceman Lee, umpires like Emmett Ashford and Pam Postema, and even Henry WiggIn, the free-thinking hero of Mark Harris's marvelous novel 'The Southpaw' -- mostly renegades who did not meet the precise standards of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Maris, who died in 1985, and Dalkowski, 70, will be inducted along with Jim Eisenreich, 50, who had a decent career despite the impediment of Tourette's syndrome. After decades of alcohol abuse, Dalkowski lives in Walnut Hill Care Center in New Britain, Conn., a block from the park where he was a high school star and a bonus baby in the mid-1950s. Batters in the minors spoke with wonder of pitches they could hear but could not see. One poor guy in Kingsport, Tenn., took a fastball -- 'right in back of his ear, right on the hairline,' Dalkowski recalled. The legend is that the man was never the same. Ted Williams, who had heard of this Dalkowski fellow, invited himself into the cage before a spring exhibition but promptly disinvited himself after listening to a whoosh or two. The Baltimore Orioles' organization took Dalkowski to a military base to time his fastball -- over 100 miles per hour seems to be the conservative figure for his peak speed. Before long, Dalkowski was a legend, for his fastball as well as his tumblers of vodka for breakfast. Ron Shelton, an Orioles farmhand six years younger than Dalkowski, rarely heard Brooks Robinson stories or Frank Robinson stories from the managers in the organization, but everybody had Dalkowski stories. Cal Ripken Sr., who had been Dalkowski's catcher, said he was relatively easy to handle because he was wild high and low but did not pitch inside too often. Joe Altobelli told how Dalkowski came to the ballpark thoroughly hung over, and never worked out, but was a good teammate -- 'not a mean bone in his body,' Shelton quoted Altobelli saying. The organization decided to have the young flame thrower room with the old player, figuring Dalkowski might learn something. But it was hard for Altobelli to teach a roomie who was never in the room. Years later, while writing a screenplay, Shelton remembered the relationship between a brash young pitcher and a wise old head. The movie was named 'Bull Durham,' with Tim Robbins as the speedballer who was all over the place. 'In the minors, you'd see guys who had these amazing gifts,' Shelton said the other day. 'It would drive you nuts.' Shelton has never met Dalkowski but will introduce him Sunday night -- a couple of former farmhands who never reached what the movie memorably called the Show. Dalkowski came close, after a year at Elmira under patient tutelage from Earl Weaver, of all people. 'He let me pitch,' Dalkowski said. 'He sort of called the pitches. He'd whistle or move to one end of the dugout or the other, or he'd hit his hand against the wall.' Weaver had him primed for the majors in the spring of 1963, when Dalkowski blew down the Yankees for a few innings under the lights in Miami. Pitching to Phil Linz, 'I felt something pop,' Dalkowski said. It was a ligament in his elbow, and he was never the same. He hung on for a few more years, and finished with an amazing 1,396 strikeouts and 1,354 walks in only 995 innings. Before long, Dalkowski was going through a couple of marriages, picking vegetables in California and showing up at clubhouse doors asking old friends for a few bucks. In 1994, his sister, Patricia Cain, helped get him back to Connecticut, and she has cared for him since, the epitome of a loving sibling. 'He's come a long way,' said Cain, an administrator in a nearby hospital. 'He knows he drank way too much. It's a known fact. That's what defines his career, but he thinks he made it. He should be proud, but I don't know if he is.' Dr. Donald Driggs, the chief executive of Walnut Hill, says Dalkowski enjoys playing bingo, Wii and gin rummy, and watches ballgames on television. Some of the residents have a sense of whom Dalkowski was, or might have been. A few years ago, the Orioles invited a contingent from the home to visit Camden Yards, and everybody ate barbecue served by Boog Powell, Dalkowski's old teammate. Dalkowski can never regain those years but is pleased to be flying to California, to be honored in a hall of fame that was created for legendary figures like the one he has become. 