baseball history, bat acceleration, bat design, Deadball Era, footwork in the box, general health, hand use in hitting, mental approach, opposite-field hitting, Uncategorized, weight transfer

Putting New Patches on Old Wineskins: Seldom a Good Idea


My son sent me a link to Instagram footage of Ronald Acuna, Jr., mashing a few pitches at batting practice.  I though it might be instructive to do this week what I did last week with Yogi Berra: isolate a few frames and discuss what’s happening.  At least the technology of 2020 allows me to freeze on an instant without getting a complete blur everywhere: that wasn’t true of our 1952 newsreel!

By way of preface, I’ll share that a few viewers of my video contrasting the Deadball swing (a composite of tendencies, to be accurate) with what I called the Twenty-First Century Swing asked if I didn’t think some elements of both strokes might produce an effective hybrid swing.  In a manner of speaking, this has already happened in the TFCS.  The steep forward leg pump in the load forces a strong weight shift onto that leg, and front-foot hitting is indeed one of the signatures of yesteryear’s style.  Yet at the same time, the Charley Lau/Walt Hriniak teaching that dominated hitting instruction of the Seventies and Eighties (I refer to the twentieth century here!) allowed for weight to shift farther forward than gurus of the Fifties and Sixties would have liked.  So New School and Old School already have that much in common.

I don’t think you can do much integrating of the two beyond that point, however.  The main reason for the roadblock is the bat.  Watching Ronald, I understand this more powerfully than ever before.  Junior doesn’t cock his rear elbow steeply above his shoulder, unlike most of today’s sluggers—and that should give him a better chance of taking barrel to ball in a smooth plane rather than in a sweeping dip.  BUT… despite hugging the handle closer to his torso than most of our time’s hitters and transferring his weight emphatically forward, he nevertheless manages to put a severe dip into his cut.  As in severe!  This has to be because of the bat, as far as I can make out.  Rocket Ronny’s thumbs are locked around the super-skinny handle, and the bludgeon-like barrel burdening the short stick’s end wants to dive-bomb into the pitch.  As a result, he uses his weight shift merely to rock back in the most undercutting fashion possible, putting such an arc in his spine during the high finish that my own recently injured vertebrae cry out in pain.

The heavily planted front foot has become a launching pad for channeling energy upward and rearward.  It’s not a smoothly planted rest channeling the energy’s vector along the pitch’s flight corridor.  The barrel is a sort of reverse trebuchet or ferociously heaving shovel: it’s not an arrow traveling over a long span straight toward the target’s heart.

Now, the complete forward weight shift and the relatively low-held hands during the load do allow Ronald to stay inside the pitch much better than most hitters today can manage.  We’ve all heard commentators marveling over his power to the opposite field.  I hope the kid can play past thirty—that his back doesn’t give out somewhere between now and then.  Again, I blame the bat; and I blame it for inducing similar outcomes in a two generations of ballplayers at all levels.  You just can’t help gripping the metal club with locked thumbs and hurling it steeply down into the ball: it practically won’t let you do anything else.  And professional players today are all graduating to wood after using metal models, which they try to replicate in birch and ash as much as possible.  The resulting stroke is nothing approaching Charlie Gehringer’s, let alone Ginger Beaumont’s.

So, no, I don’t see many opportunities for productive collaboration.

Okay: to the photos.  Here’s the load over the back foot, with the front knee pumping.  Observe that the rear elbow, as noted above, doesn’t have a steep cock.  The hands, rather, are gathered near the rear armpit in something much closer to yesteryear’s fashion.

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Now three frames of the barrel shooting through the zone.  Ronald has rushed his weight fully to the front foot, and is indeed fairly upright on the lead leg.  But his hands are drawing the bat in a kind of whiplash down through the ball’s path rather than moving directly to the ball.  The final frame shows a white blur either about to contact the barrel or having just contacted it.  The trajectory is low: this is a line drive.

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The finish, or follow-through, reminds me of a golfer’s.  You simply couldn’t whip a 35” stick of lumber through this kind of gyration and stay out of traction.

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Now, visitors to will know that we love line drives… and a lot of the contact in this BP session produced just such low bullets.  So… what’s wrong with that?  The problem for me is one of percentages.  With the barrel entering the zone in such a dipping, hyperbolic fashion, the chances of solid contact for most hitters would be greatly reduced.  Acuna’s rockets in the cage are topspun: he’s actually clipping the ball as his barrel is in the ascent.  That’s not necessarily a bad thing, especially since he stays inside the pitch so well and can take it up the middle.  Many hitters, however, will find that getting the barrel out too early will just result in a roll-over ground ball to their pull side.  That’s generally not a productive outcome.

And remember that this is batting practice.  On game-caliber fastballs, most hitters attempting to use Ronald’s method (i.e., to employ the forward weight shift as a way of lifting up and back in a great sweep) are apt to clip the pitch as the bat is still descending and before its very brief leveling off.  The outcome in such cases might be a foul straight back, or maybe a high pop-up on the infield: no more productive than a roll-over.

I love watching Ronald Acuna, Jr., play, and especially swing the bat.  Who wouldn’t?  I’m not saying that he should break everything down and reconstruct what he does by my specifications.  I’m saying, rather, that young players probably shouldn’t try to copy him.  Shorter players, in particular, should not count on being able to muscle their way into the line-up by reproducing Ronald’s power stroke.  A much better bet is to send the barrel on a straight, slightly downward plane (leveled off by the forward weight shift) into the ball’s heart, with the intended result of modest backspin that puts a little charge into contact.  That’s Old School.  Sweeping the barrel down and up again in a breathtaking swoosh not only would sabotage the batting average of most young hitters: it would jeopardize the long-term health of their back.  Ask Juan Gonzalez, or Mark McGwire, or Arod.

baseball history, bat acceleration, Deadball Era, footwork in the box, hand use in hitting, low line drives, opposite-field hitting, strike zone, Uncategorized

A Comparison of Barrel Paths: Vague Results, But One Strong Conclusion

Below is an excerpt from the utterly new Chapter Fifteen of Landing Safeties, Second Edition, which I hope to have available on Amazon before the end of May.  Please do not mistake the copy of the book currently advertised at the right of this page for that update: it will clearly read “Second Edition” on the cover.  Yet if you’ve bought the first edition in the past, I believe you’re eligible to receive a free Kindle update when the next edition appears.  (It will be in both Kindle format and hard copy.).

The first edition of Landing Safeties contained nothing whatever that would correspond to this chapter.  In fact, I’d thought that I was done with the second edition when the idea struck me for including a graphic breakdown of various swings.  I had made claims at two or three points earlier in the book about how the forward weight shift reaches places in the zone that more “approved” swings today can’t touch—and reaches them from a productive, line-drive angle.  But could I show that visually to be true?  And how should I show it?  Should I sketch the outlines of hitters swinging their sticks from various angles?  Would that be convincing?  After all, a sketch can be squeezed or stretched to illustrate “facts” that aren’t valid in the real world.

But if I shot live footage of actual swings and then froze certain critical frames, would the features I wanted to emphasize come clear?  I don’t have the resources to film myself in a dark studio with a luminescent bat (the like of which Walt Hriniak did for his classic manual).  Could I make the barrel stand out sufficiently in black and white to sell my propositions?

Well, in my own low-tech manner, I fashioned a couple of pretty good demonstrations.  A white sock was duck-taped to the end of each of three bats.  That sock stands out well enough to emphasize the bat path in the isolated frames.  One sequence of swings, furthermore, was shot from directly overhead (itself no mean technical feat: but my trusty duck tape permitted me to extend the camera’s mounting several feet from an upstairs balcony).  The horizontal view was relatively easy, and was captured against an L-screen draped in a dark tarp.  I wish I hadn’t chosen to wear a white-topped cap throughout the filming… but I never said I was Steven Spielberg.

Frankly, the overhead view was disappointing, to the extent that I thought it would be very revealing.  It licenses several insights, but not as clearly as I’d hoped.  The details must be analyzed very finely.  To complicate matters, my three bats were of different sizes.  I suppose I should have used a single bat throughout: that way I would not have had to qualify my conclusions about how much of the zone was being covered by allowing for different lengths of stick.  Yet I was between a rock and a hard place on that one.  You really can’t use a single bat for all three strokes—not if you want to reproduce them with their peculiar effects highlighted.  Variation in bat is indeed part of the reason why swings have changed so much over the past century.  A Deadball swing doesn’t mix well with a short, top-heavy club; a Juan Gonzalez/Alex Rodriguez type of swing isn’t something you’d want to try with a yard of timber (not if you value your spine).

So, with those caveats acknowledged, let me proceed to describe how the demo’s below are organized.  The three swings I have chosen to model are the following.  First I start in the present.  I call this paradigm the Twenty-First Century Swing (or TFCS).  I noticed it becoming all the rage back in the Nineties of the previous century.  We’ve discussed it lengthily before, and I’m sure you know it by heart: bat cocked high to the rear, back elbow pointed up restlessly, big leg kick, foot down early, lower the boom into the zone, early release of top hand, high finish with bottom hand.  It’s an ideal stroke for the metal bat, though more risky with wood.  Even the shortest wooden bats carry enough weight to place a lot of strain on the back when put through such gyrations.  The two home-run superstars I mentioned in the previous paragraph both suffered from chronic back pain.  I myself thought I was having kidney failure as I tried to crawl out of bed the morning after I took these videos!

I used a 33” Tony Gwynn model in executing the TFCS.  I believe Tony himself actually employed a shorter stick.  The barrel is quite broad compared to the handle.  Obviously, a lot of flare brings the two ends together.  Gwynn was one of the first big-league hitters to insist that his wooden tools be engineered as closely as possible to resemble the metal ones he had know in high school and college.

Moving back in time (though, of course, the boundaries aren’t rigid), I replicate what I call the Golden Age Swing (GAS). Williams—both Ted and Billy, in fact—Mize, Mantle, Musial, Mathews, Snider, Kaline, Killebrew, McCovey… all of them operated within these parameters, some more narrowly than others.  The Fifties have been dubbed baseball’s “golden age” because they produced this new generation of uppercutting power-hitters who, it is said, made the game more exciting than it has ever been.  The GAS begins in a backward glide rather than a leg kick, with hands gathered in at the rear armpit.  The backward coil of the loading knee is often synchronized with a slight dip or roll of the hands (some call it a hitch; I don’t think it’s pronounced enough to justify that label).  Then the front foot strides out as about half the weight spills immediately back onto the rear leg.  The barrel rushes off the shoulder into its descent in no time and continues to trace most of its path through a faint but steady rise—a long, sweeping rise that typically ends with the bat wrapped around beside (not above) the front shoulder.  It is indeed a powerful swing.  Most of its practitioners were dead-pull hitters.  With so much emphasis on staying back (what I sometimes call “lean back and hack”), their only possible adjustment to an outside pitch was to undercut it severely and hope that the opposite-field defender was caught off guard by the bloop.

My lumber for this round was a 34” Fred Lynn model that fits my hands very well for the kind of load required.  The bat’s flare isn’t as abrupt as the Gwynn model’s, but the stick remains formidably massive.

And this brings us to our Deadball Swing (DS).  I essentially took the approach outlined at the end of Chapter 12: load the barrel almost straight up and not far back, use that load to catalyze a stiff lift of the forward leg, drop down on the leg heavily in a movement that draws the barrel directly after it, carry the cut down and through the pitch as far as possible, and finally follow through with a parabolic sweep that sends the barrel far over the front shoulder.  The weight shift, as we have stressed, should be as complete as reaction time will allow. Since I wasn’t swinging at an actual pitch during any of these exercises, my shift showed no evidence of being interrupted.

I used a 35” Robin Ventura model in this third round of demonstrations.  Robin wasn’t even born when Ty Cobb died; but the slim, moderate design of this sweet bat is remarkably similar to what I can make out of Cobb’s weapon.

Since I devoted Chapter 13 exclusively to the shuffling load, and since I’m so delighted with that forgotten tactic, I tossed in a few additional photos in my DS discussions that underscore how shuffling enhances the best elements of yesteryear’s stroke.

I was pleasantly surprised by how much I learned from isolating particular instants of each swing and then comparing them, even though (as I’ve confessed) the overhead sequences needed a lot more analyzing than I would have supposed necessary.  All of us have become accustomed to viewing video in the twenty-first century—perhaps too much so.  Stopping and freezing on certain moments that rush past too quickly in live time can unveil a hidden world to the careful observer.

The Overhead View

I begin with the overhead view because it turns out to be a little less revealing—and I prefer to finish with the angle that drives home the important lessons better.  I have to believe now that so much significant up-and-down motion (visible only from a lateral angle) is going on in any swing as to make the overhead angle almost uninteresting.

Nevertheless, we can obtain some useful insights if we break up the swing into three parts and then look at Part One in all of our strokes, followed by Part Two and then Part Three.  That’s exactly what I have done.

The first part consists of three frames. These bring the barrel from its fully loaded position (I saw no reason to represent anything previous to the full-cock moment) forward to the instant when it’s about to enter the hitting zone. The TFCS and the GAS are so similar as to be indistinguishable: you could almost suppose yourself to be looking at the same three shots. The only real contrast we have going here, then, is between the two more contemporary paradigms and the Deadball Swing—and there’s little enough difference, even between the upper pair of sequences and the bottom one.

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Now, let’s acknowledge a couple of compromising deficiencies right off the bat (so to speak).  I’ve already noted that the length of my sticks varied, from 33” to 35”.  A close look at the frames will also reveal that the shots are not reduced to the same exact scale.  (In some positions, my bat trailed so far to one side or another that matching three perfectly scaled frames would never have fit a page—or else would have required too much shrinking for details to be visible.)  That said, I nevertheless think we see plain evidence of the barrel’s trailing farther to the rear in TFCS and GAS than in DS.  Instead of trying to measure how much bat extends rearward in the bottom photos versus how much does so in the two upper tiers, pay attention to the barrel’s distance from my cap or my rear shoulder in individual frames.  That is, orient yourself to points within the frame in order to arrive at an accurate sense of how much the bat is circling the zone.  The newer swings appear to be more hyperbolic: there’s a generous curve in how they wheel away from the back shoulder.  The Deadball cut travels more directly into the zone.

If this is hard to make out (and I know it is), the reason is mostly because the 35” bat I use in the bottom sequence appears to claim a much longer slice of the photo.  In fact, its being an inch or two longer than the bats above it can’t account for how far its thin, pale line extends.  Two things here: again, notice that the bat head doesn’t trail my rear shoulder in the DS by more than (or I would say as much as) it does in the other two swings. Secondly—and very importantly—understand that the bat creates such a long line in these overhead shots because it has already come relatively flat in its straight, linear passage through the zone.  Even during the full load (the first frame of each sequence), DS shows the barrel more inclined toward the rear.  TFCS has the bat’s head veering forward, coiled like a spring to sweep in a swooshing dive at the ball.  GAS dips the barrel more toward the plate (in the fashion so reminiscent of Ted Williams), because—as we shall see later from the lateral angle—it plummets down into the trough of its dip with a single-minded quickness.

The Deadball Swing, however, puts the barrel in the plane of productive, backspinning contact almost at once.  That, and not the extra inch or two, is why the bat looks so very long in these initial instants.  Were a high-inside fastball to surprise a hitter using one of the other two strokes, it would likely slip right over that steeply circling barrel.  The DS would stand the best chance of fouling off such a pitch, and maybe even of pushing it the other way over the infielders’ gloves.

I’ll be posting two videos of these experiments (from which I drew my still photos) on YouTube later today.  I’ll nip back in tomorrow and add links for the Overhead Angle and the Lateral Angle, if all goes well.

baseball history, bat acceleration, coaches and trust, Deadball Era, footwork in the box, hand use in hitting, hitter reaction time, Uncategorized, weight transfer

Charley Lau vs. Ted Williams: The Art and Science of Coaching


As the end of the year closes in, many of us find ourselves pressed for time.  I have a little more today than I’d expected because I managed to stump my toe severely while jogging up and down my half-mile rural driveway.  (The autumn leaves do a great job of concealing stones embedded in this hard red Georgia clay.)  No more exercise of that kind for me.  I can work back and forth in the back yard while shadow-boxing: my lower body will be shuffling and weaving, and my upper body (whose activity is where real cardio-vascular benefit occurs) will be much more involved than in an ordinary run.  Sayonara, jogging!

If I’d been able to put weight on my right foot, I would have made the second half of “The Lau/Hriniak Hitting System” yesterday.  (See Part One here. ) I’m feeling much better as the week wears on… but the weather today isn’t going to cooperate with videoing any demonstration.  Charley Lau, I should say, is one of my baseball heroes.  He managed to hang around the Big Leagues for parts of several seasons as a back-up catcher, but he never put together as much as a single full season of plate appearances in all that time.  As a hitter, he was… okay.  Sort of.  And therein lies his great virtue: thanks to having no purely natural gift for batsmanship, he had to grind everything out and piece one lesson laboriously onto another.  In the process of struggling to hit passably well, he was preparing himself to become one of the game’s greatest hitting instructors.

In more ways than the obvious ones, Charley was the antithesis of Ted Williams.  It’s not just a superstar-vs.-benchwarmer contrast: Charley’s whole system differed starkly from the Splendid Splinter’s.  Ted’s manual was titled The Science of Hitting, Charley’s The Art of Hitting .300.  (Therein lies an irony, by the way; for Charley’s “absolutes” are fully, comprehensibly explained, whereas Ted’s pronouncements are predicated largely on the art of being Ted Williams.) Ted wasn’t really adding anything much to the techniques that had dominated post-World War II ball, with his emphasis on throwing the front hip open and pulling the pitch.  Charley was all about fluidity and contact, with a tolerance of forward weight shift that echoed (unconsciously, I’m sure) the wisdom of the Deadball Era and the Negro Leagues.  Where Ted’s teaching seems to be full of tight circles, Charley’s has curves that tend toward the linear.

And speaking of teaching, while Ted was pretty much of a “do it my way” guy who never really imparted anything to his protégés except patience in waiting for a good pitch, Charley was a beloved instructor who helped his students refine whatever they brought to the table.  If that contrast seems unfair, read John Roseboro’s account of how Manager Williams (of the Washington Senators) once ordered him to keep signaling for curveballs even when a rookie pitcher was hanging every one of them and getting hammered.  Williams thought that the rookie would learn something if placed under this kind of pressure; Roseboro thought that he would lose whatever little bit of confidence he had brought to the mound.  Finally Johnny called for a fastball and got the kid out of trouble.  Furious, Ted benched his veteran catcher permanently: Roseboro never caught another Major League pitch.

And Charley?  Well, his tutelage helped along a fellow by the name of George Brett, along with several other Kansas City Royals of the championship Seventies teams.  Charley’s most famous coaching disciple, Walt Hriniak, went on to assist Wade Boggs, Dwight Evans, Bill Buckner, Carlton Fisk, and a big kid named Frank Thomas.  Of course, as the premier Red Sox alumnus, Williams was quite vocal in his criticism of Hriniak’s power-sapping, namby-pamby strategies.  Gee… you have to wonder how many homers the Big Hurt would have clubbed for Chicago if Walt hadn’t messed him up!

Now, as I explain in Part One of the video, I suppose that spreading the feet far apart probably does reduce power.  I had my young son spread out, as per the Lau/Hriniak method, when he was first learning to hit, for I knew he would never be the biggest kid on any team.  (He was often the smallest.)  After all the research I’ve done into Deadball hitters, I now wish that I could take that instruction back—not because a more active lower body can generate more raw power, but because it can increase bat speed if properly tapped.  Of course, more bat speed means more power; but it also, and primarily as far as I’m concerned, means better ability to wait on pitches and handle good fastballs.

In other words, I’m no longer as sold on Charley’s system as I was twenty years ago.  Much as I like to see hands emphasized in the swing, a cleverly operated lower body gives the hands more energy to tap.  (Frank Thomas, by the way, did not spread out in the box like Tim Raines, Wade Boggs, and other players whom I loved to follow but whose many extra-base hits were a product of foot speed, in one case, and the Green Monster, in the other.)

Am I taking Ted Williams’ side in this debate?  Maybe I am, just a bit.  But I prefer to think that I’m upholding the Cobb/Speaker position.  After all, nobody would ever have gotten away with putting a shift on those guys!

baseball history, bat acceleration, coaches and trust, hand use in hitting, low arm angle, low line drives, metal bat use, pitching, submarine pitching, Uncategorized, weight transfer

High Strikes: Nothing New Under the Sun

I was both delighted and dismayed to hear Jessica Mendoza remark on Sunday Night Baseball that pitching up in the strike zone—even with a mediocre fastball—has suddenly become the go-to strategy in the game’s upper echelons.  I was delighted because we’ve essentially been preaching this gospel from the reverse angle on for years.  In fact, I personally was preaching it long before I had any idea of founding the site.  The metal bat, with its massive barrel and skinny handle, invites the hitter to hurl down on the ball, cocking the rear elbow and then unloading so steeply that the top hand slips off immediately upon contact.  The hefty leg kick and the “foot down early” imperatives (how often I’ve heard Jessica praise that dogma!) are part of the same stroke.

But none of it belongs to yesteryear’s game—and the reason is pretty obvious.  The bat path is too “dippy”.  If a tall guy collides with the pitch just as it passes over the plate (i.e., as his divebombing barrel is beginning to pull back on the joystick), then he may well impart so much backspin in the process that the resultant buzzard-beater carries over a fence.  Yet not only do smaller body types not have the equipment needed to accelerate the barrel sufficiently for this result: they, along with the big guys, risk a complete miss or a pitiful roll-over.  The barrel, that is, spends too much time on its long transit being nowhere near the plane of the ball’s flight.  It’s likely to descend too late or come up too early.  For big fellows, the frequent K’s and ground-outs are considered an acceptable trade-off for a homer every third game.  For smaller guys, useless pop-ups and dribblers are terminal.

And the high strike, of course, is the pitcher’s best option for exploiting this stroke’s big holes.  A barrel starting from well above the shoulder simply cannot come at a letter-high fastball productively.  (It does stand a good chance of clobbering a lazy hanger as it sweeps back upward: then the only question is… will the drive stay fair?)  Since the strike zone was particularly high in the Deadball Era and even well after World War II, hitters knew better than to take that steep hack and then, immediately, roll back with lifting, opening shoulders.  They kept their cut straight through the ball for as long as they could, usually finishing with their weight mostly or completely on the front foot.  I have a feeling that the Fifties were the pivotal period of change, as the home run once again captivated the public and the uppercut swing (your grandad’s version of Launch Angle) was all that hitting instructors talked about.

I tried to get my son, who was a dandy little submarine pitcher, to shoot some of his 0-2 and 1-2 pitches way up in the zone.  Even with his very modest velocity, I don’t think the chesty boppers that squared off against him in high school could have done him much harm there, especially since the pitch would literally be gaining altitude (the only pitch that truly does so).  No, they would have chased it all the way to the roots of their hair! But his coach absolutely nixed the idea.  Stay low, always low.  Never change the incoming vertical angle.  And today Ms. Mendoza is crowing, “Wow!  We hadn’t thought that this could work! Now it’s the very latest thing.”

“Late” is right.  Too late to help my son or to hit Coach Donkey between the ears.  And that, naturally, is the source of my dismay.  It’s flattering to be voted right, for a change, by the professional establishment… but it came too late to help my son—and, of course, none of the establishment is remotely aware of having given this independently publishing dad a thumbs-up.  The game will move right along at its standard glacial pace, its elite patting themselves on the back every time they figure out something that others of us knew a decade or two earlier.  (The uppercut swing, by the way, would eventually lead to the Year of the Pitcher and the lowering of the mound after the coaching brain trust had thoroughly ruined a generation of hitters with it.)  Well, you know… so it is in all human affairs.  There’s nothing new under the sun.

But the good news, if you have a teachable youngster, is that you don’t have to wait for baseball’s magnetosphere to reverse its polarities.  Get your boy (or girl) swinging like Cobb and Speaker—and Oscar Charleston, and Martin Dihigo—right now!  The coaches may want to jump right out of their cleats and shout, “What in… blazes are you doing?”  But when they see one line drive after another after another rolling to the fence, that shout is likely to catch in their throat.

baseball history, bat acceleration, coaches and trust, footwork in the box, hand use in hitting, low line drives, Uncategorized, weight transfer

Beware of Where You Begin: It Determines All That Follows


As the summer—a long, hot summer—finally settles into fall, I look back with considerable satisfaction on Metal Ropes, the book I’ve just published through Amazon that imports Deadball Era lessons to our age of alloy bats.  Writing the book (like writing anything on any subject) was itself educational: I mean, I learned a lot just by setting down what I had learned.  One of my most painful lessons was realizing that the first thing I had my son do in a batter’s box when he was a little tyke was wrong.  I had him spread his feet wide.  I reasoned… well, I’m no longer sure just what I reasoned.  The tactic was vintage Charley Lau, so I could blame it on my great mentor, author of The Art or Hitting .300.  The widespread stance must have seemed sensible for a short kid, at any rate, because it emphasized a firm base that would allow the hands to go straight at the ball.  A contact hitter: that’s what we wanted.

But there are two erroneous assumptions in this theory.  One is that minimizing lower-body movement and focusing on the hands will make the attack quicker.  It won’t.  It actually slows the attack down.  The hands are quickest to the ball when they tap into energy that has already been generated in the lower body.  Reduce or remove that energy… and you have nothing but hands, all on their own: that translates into a slow swing.

The second error is that widespread feet create a level stroke that keeps the barrel in the hitting zone for a long time.  Intuitively, you would want to approve this connection.  If someone asked you to take a yardstick and describe as flat and broad a plane as you could in thin air, you’d spread your legs to stabilize and then rake the stick from side to side.  But no one is asking you to accelerate the stick at this moment; and once you try to add speed to the equation, the feet (as noted in the previous paragraph) have to get involved.  The most obvious and, I suppose, natural way for them to do so is for the front knee to coil in the load and the front hip to flip back open as the attack begins.  Now, however, your beautiful plane has scattered to the winds.  As the knee coils, the hands load up and back… and as the hip opens, the shoulders rotate out and up.  In other words, you’re leading the bat into a pronounced dip.  You’re likely to cut under the bull’s eye and pop the pitch up if the dip is still descending; or, if you catch the ball as the barrel begins to rise, you’ll topspin or “roll over” the pitch.

Of course, starting with the feet close together can create an even more extreme—much more extreme—undercut/uppercut dynamic.  (Look at Cody Bellinger: he may well be this year’s MVP, but he has cooled off, and he’s not 5”7’ tall. His pop-ups and roll-overs assume his own epic proportions.)  A relatively long, easy stride into the pitch can also produce the most level of swings, though.  Yesteryear’s great stickers knew this.  They knew, to be precise, that if they 1) didn’t load their hands far up and back, and 2) followed the striding foot very closely with those hands down into the pitch, the barrel would hold a straight, slightly descending line into the ball’s center all the way to the front of the batter’s box.  Then the bat would come up over the forward shoulder in a tight parabola with the head still pointing directly at the mound.  You can find that very finish in thousands of photos from before the Fifties (though in very few after then, thanks to the Age of the Uppercut).

A full forward weight shift, in short (also known as front-foot hitting), is the key to keeping a quick, linear stroke on target into the pitch and producing a line drive.  Aaron did it.  Clemente did it.  A lot of the players who entered the MLB through the Negro Leagues brought the Old School technique right along with them, though many were subsequently destroyed as hitters when “instructors” insisted that they lean back and hack.

I don’t want to rewrite Metal Ropes in this spot.  Just beware of what you’re telling your child—understand that the thigh bone’s connected to the hip bone.  When you have a boy assume a certain position in the box, that is to say, you’re already confining him to a narrow sequence of moves that can work fluidly with that position.  Think it all through.  Don’t start at a point that just happens to be what everyone else is doing… and therefore must be right.  Make every element of the swing contribute to the effect you want.

In my case, I wanted my son to hit low line drives—and I sabotaged my endeavor right out of the gate.  I wish I could take back those initial mistakes, but instead, I’ll have to live with them.  One way I’ve made my peace is to create