Something took me by surprise last Thursday that probably would have left me dead by Friday if I had lived a century ago. Without going into gruesome detail, poisonous fluids would have backed up into my kidneys within hours—and I imagine that I would have flipped off my own switch soon thereafter, for the exit route provided by a purely biological meltdown would have been incredibly unpleasant.
At any rate, I won’t be doing any more baseball videos in the immediate future. I’ll need a couple of weeks, anyway… and then I’ll see what amplitude God has given me to play about with bat and ball. When I began writing these words, Their Lordships of the medical establishment were still consulting their busy schedules to decide whether I might be granted an appointment within the next month to supply a permanent fix for the Emergency Room’s temporary rigging. (The latest flash is that I’ve been penciled in for next week… hallelujah!) Those of you who long for socialized medicine had better hope that your prayers aren’t heard. Believe me, the waiting and waiting in our present system is already almost beyond endurance.
Ironically, I’ve just begun reading David King’s book about Ross Youngs, the Hall of Fame right fielder who died of Bright’s Disease (a rare and mysterious kidney ailment). I may have more to say about Ross later. Turns out that he stood a mere five-foot-six, so he’s a natural for us to study at SmallBallSuccess.com.
In the meantime, inactivity has placed me in a perfect position (though it’s hard to think of anything about this position as perfect) to upgrade our humble website. I’m working on a new page that will break down what is currently my favorite version of the Deadball swing. I’m convinced that small players (and big players) everywhere could use it with devastating effectiveness. They probably wouldn’t drive many pitches over the fence—but they’d likely be driving more than their fair share to the fence. It’s a line-drive stroke, of course, with a high probability of contact. It also has several features that would allow the hitter to be physically more protected from wild pitches and provide more time for appropriate reaction to any pitch.
Now, I know we aren’t supposed to let fear of the ball enter our psyche. Even though it’s surely there somewhere (unless you’re as revved up on adrenaline and drugs as Lenny Dykstra), you mustn’t admit its presence to yourself. That’s the old “be a man” school of coaching. My son had one of those blowhards during a particularly forgettable Little League season. The boy very nearly quit baseball at the age of nine, because the pompous ass to whose genius I’d surrendered him had all the kids who weren’t already explosive hitters (i.e., all who weren’t big for their age) stand on top of the plate in a bid to get a hit-by-pitch free pass. Be a man… according to an idiot’s definition of manhood.
I’ve had many occasions to think about “mindset” at the plate (Coach Blowhard being only the most obvious). Obviously, you want to carry a certain aggression into the box. That doesn’t necessarily mean, however, that you’re seeking to attack the ball in a fearless, spherocidal rage. A dead-pull hitter, granted, might inch up to the black and then prepare to wallop anything that moves. I should think a clever pitcher would be very happy to see a guy like that step in. If I didn’t have confidence in my breaking ball that day, I’d feed him some slow stuff that he could majestically pull foul, then chance some of my mediocre but collar-high fastballs. I could readily devise a promising plan for Bruno.
Now let’s picture a smaller lad who has been taught nothing by his coaches except to keep the stick on his shoulder until he has two strikes… or maybe he can crowd the plate like Big Bruno and get himself hit. Speaking of confidence, this boy has not a shred, does he? He’s been given no useful map to success, no tools for making good contact. Instead, his batsmanship has been denigrated to the point that he believes an HBP—or a four-pitch walk, if the pitcher’s radar is crossed up by plate-crowding—should be the objective of every trip to the dish; and in pursuit of that objective, he needs to silence any “unmanly” peep of apprehension about thrusting knee and elbow into the strike zone. In a nutshell, his only chance of escaping “automatic out” futility is to fight down the vile inward surge of cowardice.
Gee… why wouldn’t that kid want to sign up for baseball every time a new season rolls around?
Let us now redirect this self-sabotaging mindset so that it becomes an offensive weapon. I’m going to step into the box, not imagining that the baseball killed my parents and burned our house down, but that it’s a determined little rider galloping from A to B through Home Plate Pass. And me? I’m a highwayman, a stick-up artist just waiting to swoop down on the arrogant traveler—you know, the way Robin Hood would swing out of Sherwood Forest on a festoon and unseat the coach driver. (Okay, my pop-cultural references are really dating me… I’d better stop right there.) In other words, my design is not to meet blunt, rude force with blunter, ruder force: it’s to snipe at the unsuspecting mark and pick him off. I’m no longer trying to deny to myself that he carries serious firepower. I’m just denying him the opportunity to deploy it against me.
How can I do that? By standing well back from the plate—not on top of it, for the love of Pete, but so far off that the pitcher will suppose that I’m scared of his fastball and will quickly decide to hum some hard ones over the vacated outside corner. He’ll rush right into my ambush. I actually want to swing at pitches far away from me, for three reasons: 1) I have more time to react when deliberately “swinging late”, 2) I can get my arms extended into an outside pitch (though the desired point of contact is really just before the back elbow locks—certainly before the wrists begin to roll over), and 3) I can drive an outside pitch hard to the opposite field.
And how, you ask, am I going to make said contact from so deep in the box? For the answer, you’ll have to wait until I finish and post the page, “My Favorite Deadball Swing”. Or you can go to YouTube right now and watch a video titled, Why (and How) Deadball Batsmen Swung Down on the Pitch. That title, of course, transmits a clue. I’ll just stress for now the importance of following the forward foot’s stride very closely with the hands. You do not “get the foot down early” with this stroke, contrary to the refrain of countless well-paid batting instructors and TV color commentators. You get it down very late—you shift your weight onto it as fully as you can, with your hands pursuing it straight (and slightly downward) into the pitch. That’s how they did it over a century ago, and pretty much until World War Two. That’s how Ross Youngs did it, for sure. I can tell by photos of his tight-over-the-front-shoulder finish, with rear leg dragging.
Let the big guys lean back and hack. You little dynamos, stand back from the plate and shoot the pitch the other way. Don’t try to bully it, and don’t make a ball magnet of your forward shoulder. Pick it off just as it’s about to nestle in the catcher’s mitt. Play your own special game: don’t listen to Coach Blowhard, who doesn’t really even want you in the line-up or on the team. In fact, if you’re on his team… find another team.
When I pass through the Big Door, I hope I’ll get to shake Ross Youngs’ hand. He’s from my grandfather’s stomping grounds—they may have played against each other in central Texas. In the meantime, and for whatever time I have left on this earth, I’ll always devote a few minutes a day to baseball. It makes heaven seem a little more familiar.