baseball history, bunting, low line drives, mental approach, opposite-field hitting, productive outs, strike zone

My Strategic Line-Up: Moneyball + Situational IQ

I haven’t gotten used to Mike Trout and Manny Machado batting second… and then Snitker decides to slide Freddie Freeman into the Number Two slot.  It’s insane!  Or is it?

Proponents of the new line-up claim that you should want your best hitters to have the most plate appearances in the course of the afternoon.  As far as I know, no skipper has yet advanced Brian Harper or Cody Bellinger into the lead-off spot… but I grasp the general principle.  It is said (not always accurately) that yesteryear’s manager wanted a scrappy get-on-base hitter to lead off, a good bunter to follow who would sacrifice him over, and then the team’s best all-round hitter coming third.  The big bruisers wait to get their licks in the fourth and fifth positions, Six has some power but a rather anemic average, and then the bottom third… well, with the pitcher occupying Nine, the only remaining decision is the difficult Eight assignment.  You need somebody there who’s aggressive enough to go out of the zone successfully and do damage in front of the pitcher, but not so aggressive that he’s getting himself out with the same consistency as the .035-batting Slim Moundsman.

To cut to the chase, the old-school system pretty much conceded that one third of the line-up was virtually good for nothing.  Weak hitters were concentrated there.  Better to go three-up-and-three-down every second or third inning than to have rally-killers stitched throughout the batting order.

Yet even with the jettisoning of the pitcher’s turn at bat (and I suspect that the DH is now here to stay in both leagues: might as well be, since pitchers take no interest whatever in offensive preparation today), the New Way doesn’t seem to me all that different.  It may even magnify the effect I just identified: best hitters crowded toward the top, weaker hitters—elbowed to the bottom—told to take a lot of pitches in hopes of copping a walk or at least elevating pitch count.  Or stroke a homer.  Everybody now strokes homers… once in a while.  Even the humblest big-league second baseman hit 22 last year in Triple A, while batting .231.

So… what do you think of all this?  Again, the claim made by the talking heads is that the classic strategy played for single runs here and there, whereas today’s strategy is to keep betting Seven because you enjoy such a big payday if the bead stops at just the right place in the dish.  Is that really a fair statement of the contrast: playing for one run in the first, third, fifth, and seventh vs. tallying six runs in single innings every third game?  How many of those four-run games are losses?  How many losses are nestled between those nine-or-ten-run victories?

The sabermetrics guys could answer such questions with minute precision.  The problem is that we have no control group—no team legitimately going Old School to compare with the overhauled offensive strategies.  Even if a manager tried to resist the trend (and I don’t watch enough baseball now to propose a specific example… the Cardinals, maybe?), he would still inherit Emiliano at second base with his 22 taters, .231 BA, and .294 OBP.  You can’t play any hand but the one you’re dealt.

If I were granted king-for-a-year powers, there are lots of things in our confused, decaying society that I’d attempt to mend before undertaking to manage a ball club; but were I to be given carte blanche as a GM/manager, I’d strive to produce Moneyball, Part II.  That is, I’d select role-players rather than guys with eye-popping but contextless stats.  My roster would be filled with Tommy La Stellas and Bryan Reynoldses.  And here are some of the criteria which I would apply in making my selections.

Lead-Off: takes a lot of pitches, at least early in the game.  Lets everyone in the dugout see what Fireball Frank has today.  Hits to all fields, and keeps his drives low.  Good speed; can steal a base when needed.

Two Hole: very similar to lead-off, in that he takes close pitches before two strikes, hits to all fields, and doesn’t elevate his contacts.  Left-handed, so that he can exploit the gap when the lead-off man reaches and also give himself a better chance of frustrating a double-play attempt.  Notice I say nothing here about bunting.  Moving a runner from first to second with a sacrifice has a rather low probability of producing a run later, even when the bunt comes with no outs.

Third Spot: yes, my best all-round hitter.  High average, also show power (especially up the alleys for extra-base hits), can go out of the zone—especially on the outside corner—effectively and drive the ball; very high contact ratio; very confident in his abilities.  Again, I stress doubles and not home runs.

Clean-Up: Mighty Casey steps to the plate.  I’m certainly not waging war on four-baggers—we need Casey to hit his 35 per season.  But we need other, more subtle contributions from him, as well.  Hold on to your chairs: I’d like Casey, even more than the first or second hitters, to know how to bunt!  There will be many late-inning situations during the year when two outs have already been recorded against us and the Great One simply needs to get that one run home from third, or when no outs have yet been logged and the tying or winning run is on second.  Sure, I’m paying Casey a Cadillac salary (as Fritz Ostermueller would say) because he hits bombs… but at just this moment, a bomb is statistically improbable, whereas the infield is playing so deep that a bunt hit should be a given.  I don’t need a clean-up T-Rex who also kays twice a game and pops up when he isn’t clearing the fences.  I need a little humility and common sense to go with that energizing confidence.  I need Mike Schmidt, not Bye-Bye Balboni.

Fifth Hole: Here is where I turn everything conventional on its ear.  I know the accepted wisdom well: you have to protect your best hitters.  Maris is protecting Mantle, so you have to protect Roger with Elston Howard or Moose Skowron.  Tony Kubek was a fine hitter, but… protection means a power threat.  McGwire protects Canseco; so, to keep the chain of protection strong, you have to follow Mark not with Carney Lansford—who, while a one-time batting champ, was no heavy-weight—with Dave Parker or Dave Henderson.  Yet I say, give me Lansford in Slot Five.  Give me Kubek.  Essentially, I want to repeat the previous cycle: I want a lead-off hitter batting fifth.  Why?  Well, if my clean-up hitter is pitched around, then it’s probably because runners before him have reached base.  If he has the discipline that I need of him, he accepts the walk.  Now several base-runners are waiting to come home—and I send a guy to the plate who makes the pitcher throw strikes and hits low liners.  So let the pitcher, with runners all over the place, choose to work to this fellow instead of another who’s not quite strong enough and dependable enough to bat fourth.  Would you rather deliver the situation into the hands of a .241 hitter who bags 28 homers a season, or into those of a .312 hitter whose on-base percentage is over .400?  I’ll take the latter, or whoever is as close to him as I can get.  To be sure, in a given season, Elston Howard would likely bat higher than Kubek and Dave Parker higher than Lansford… but you follow my intent, hopefully.  Most teams aren’t loaded with superstars, and I would like my fifth hitter to have a high OBP and three homers rather than a high home run total and a .298 OBP.

Sixth Spot: Just as few teams would have a fifth-slot hitter of Dave Parker’s quality, so too would few have a sixth-place hitter as good at working counts and putting the ball in play as their Number Two hitter.  Still, this is ideally the kind of guy I’d like: knows the strike zone, doesn’t strike out or pop up, possesses the potential of moving along whatever base-runners he inherits.  The tradition has the Punch-and-Judy types rounding out the line-up at seventh and eighth, preceded by fellows with a little more sting in their bat.  I would flip-flop those selections.  Put guys at Five and Six who get on base (and will move up those who have preceded them on base).  Let the higher-caliber guns who haven’t yet learned to hit a target reliably make their noise farther toward the bottom.

Seven and Eight… and Ninth?: If we’re going to assume the presence of a Designated Hitter, then I would have the same little speech prepared for all three of these bottom-dwellers; viz., “You guys are in the line-up mostly because of your gloves, but also because you show promise with the bat.  Offensively, you’re works-in-progress… and I hope you get there sooner rather than later.  You have potential, but you’ve displayed too little situational sense.  You roll over low breaking balls when you know the pitcher is looking for a double play.  You can’t get out of the habit of pulling everything.  Then, to snap your slump, you take the first pitch right down the middle… or you start guessing, and give up on a two-strike pitch that’s not exactly where you expected it… or you chase something at the letters because it looks very pullable.  Sometimes you’ll hit me a solo home run.  Thanks.  But I need for you to be thinking about why you’re so low in the order, and what you need to do to climb higher.”

Again, the misery of the manager’s job today is that the cards in his hand are all a bunch of One-Eyed Jacks.  They all look the same, and they all have the same objective.  The game has made them so, in the process of greatly impoverishing itself… and I doubt that a big-league manager, paradoxically, has as much ability to reshape his material as a Single A skipper.  Once you’ve made it to the top by pulling hangers over the left-field wall, why should you listen to this mother hen who’ll be replaced by next spring?

So… yeah, why not just let Goldschmidt lead off?

baseball history, bunting, Deadball Era, footwork in the box, hand use in hitting, hand-spreading, mental approach, opposite-field hitting, Uncategorized, weight transfer

Ty Cobb, Hitting Instructor (Part Two)

File:1900 Fred Clarke.jpeg - Wikimedia Commons

If I hadn’t already committed myself to the title above by calling last week’s blog “Part One”, I’d definitely rechristen this piece. The subject I want to explore now isn’t so much Cobb’s hitting advice to the world as the world’s confusion over certain aspects of his hitting. If only he had left us a little more direction in the matter of his hand-spreading, the controversy would evaporate.

But instead… well, let me get more specific by sharing a passage that I lately blundered upon in F.C. Lane’s 1925 classic, Batting—a wide-ranging series of reflections on baseball topics enlightened by Lane’s dozens (perhaps hundreds) of interviews with the game’s greats. As well as I recall, by the way, the book is available as a Kindle download for practically nothing. Anyway, the chapter that snapped me to attention was “Pulling the Unexpected”, and the particular passage was the following paragraph:

That this alert, original attitude may be an important factor in a batter’s success is indicated by Urban Shocker. He said, “The secret of Ty Cobb’s success as a batter was the fact that he always established a mental hazard. He was always on the offensive and you never knew exactly how to guard against him. Sometimes he would choke up on the bat and punch a hit through the infield. Sometimes he would swing from the handle and slug. Sometimes he would bunt. The only thing you could depend upon in his case was the fact that he would give you something that you weren’t expecting.”

Now, Shocker doesn’t say that Cobb would only take a full swing after making one of the two manual adjustments mentioned: i.e., sliding the bottom hand up to meet the top so as to “punch” or sliding the top hand down on the bottom one so as to “slug”. Yet this is precisely what Charles Leehrsen claims in his superior book, Cobb: A Terrible Beauty. I’ve tried to contact Mr. Leehrsen and learn the source of his claim, since he doesn’t document it. Not having ever received a reply, I’m inclined to conclude that the paragraph I just cited is that source, and that Leehrsen excessively generalized its contents. Shocker’s point is that you never knew what the Georgia Peach might try next: bunting, shooting his hands up and slapping at the pitch, slipping both hands down and hacking away, etc., etc. But Mr. Leehrsen, I believe, takes this invaluable eye-witness testimony out of context by ignoring the unstated “et cetera”. To him, if Ty were not bunting but taking a full cut, then either one hand would slide up or the other would slide down. Cobb supposedly would never make contact with his distinctively spread hands preserving their distance apart.

I don’t really know why observers of yesteryear’s game—of what relics it has left behind—find hand-spacing so hard to accept as a straightforward advantage.  When I was a small boy, Leon Wagner was spreading his hands almost as wide as Cobb (having learned his ball in the Negro Leagues, where Deadball was still alive in the Fifties). Daddy Wags clearly wasn’t spreading his large mitts to fake out the infield.  I recall being fascinated by his special grip as I thumbed through my baseball cards.  Leon logged 173 home runs (if my quick math isn’t off) from the 1961 through the 1966 seasons.  Spreading the hands need not create a power deficit if you do it right: on the contrary!

The photo at this article’s masthead isn’t actually of Cobb, but of his Hall of Fame forerunner, Fred Clarke (who coached that other Wagner early in the twentieth century and taught him, among other things, hand-spreading).  If you look very closely, you can tell that too much of Fred’s bottom hand is visible for the top hand to be clamped down hard on top of it.  Even though the bat’s head is nearly pointing into the camera, the bottom hand’s knuckles remain suspiciously clear.  This signals us that the top paw would finish pressed against the bottom one in batters who used the technique because the follow-through would bring the two together.

How on earth, for that matter, would you suddenly slam top hand on bottom just before you swing, as Leehrsen pictures Cobb doing?  Would you do this just before beginning your attack on the ball?  Wouldn’t it disrupt timing and concentration to be messing around with grip at the critical moment?  Or if you made the adjustment sooner, then… then there would be no point in doing it.  You would have tipped off the infield sufficiently to give them a headstart moving to your pull side (since anyone who “slugs” from down on the knob is trying to pull).  If the essence of Cobb’s strategies was trickery, then this trick would have neutralized itself.  The rabbit’s tail would be showing before the magician could get his hat off.

Last week I created two videos that attempt to explain what I think might have been happening.  (They were going to be a single video, but the material kept mushrooming on me.)  In the second video—the actual demonstration—I try to show how Ty’s top hand would inevitably have ended up snugged against his bottom one if he were putting a full swing on the pitch so as to pull it.  The first video explains my objectives pretty much as I’ve laid them out here, complete with a reading of the Shocker paragraph from Lane.

To tell the truth, I find replication of Cobb’s contorted, awkward stroke quite a challenge.  I produced better results in a follow-up sequence where I shuffle off the back foot toward the plate in my load, then fly open.  And Cobb, by the way, may have done this, too!  We know from testimony as solid as Shocker’s (some of it appearing elsewhere in Lane’s book) that Tyrus would occasionally skip around in the box during his load, like Tris Speaker.  You have to believe that versatility carried to such degree would have driven corner infielders crazy.

As for the second piece of this two-part puzzle—the slipping of the bottom hand up to the top—I had little success demonstrating it either from a stationary set-up or a more mobile load.  Yet I feel confident that the intent here would have been to go the other way (for why would you want to hit the ball lightly to your pull side?).  The problem of giving away that intent too early may evaporate if we consider that a slide of the bottom hand up the barrel as the pitcher winds up would telegraph a bunt, bringing the third baseman (in Ty’s case) charging in… and to follow up that feint by pushing the barrel into the ball with both hands might well shove a scratch hit to the outfield grass.  Today we’d call it a “slap bunt”.

Ty Cobb didn’t exactly clarion his masterful use of deceptive techniques while he was an active player, and one can understand why.  In later years, however, he dispensed plenty of advice to those who would lend an ear (it could be argued, for instance, that he prepared Charlie Gehringer for a Hall of Fame career).  It’s a shame—no, it’s an outrage—that this generous side of Cobb’s character has been not just ignored, but erased by the slanders in Al Stumpf’s phony scribbles and purveyed far and wide by elite media types (looking at you, Ken Burns) who needed a “white Southern racist” to play Satan beside their cherubic Babe Ruth.

The real obstacle to unearthing instruction from Cobb’s legacy isn’t that he tried to bury his nuggets ten feet underground.  I think, rather, it’s simply that the game has changed too much for us to grasp certain principles that he would have assumed as givens.  Why explain the virtues of hand-spreading when approximately half the game’s hitters had been doing it since the mid-nineteenth century?  For that matter, why make a big noise about Tris Speaker’s skipping around in the box when, as Willie Mays tells us, Bobby Richardson had inherited enough of this wisdom to fade back from the plate suddenly if he wanted to advance a runner with a grounder to the right side?  In 1925, wouldn’t you suppose that everybody knew such things?  Jeez… do you have to tell a young driver where the ignition is?  Do you have to tell him to open the door before trying to sit down?

In Donald Rumsfeld’s immortal words, we don’t know what we don’t know.  My video’s very limited success at replication certainly taught me humility.  You can’t just pick up a bat and start doing what Cobb or Speaker did.  They must have put hundreds, perhaps thousands of reps into their signature moves.  Few of us can comprehend how those moves worked because, among other things, we can’t convince ourselves that spending time to master them would be a good investment.

baseball history, bunting, Deadball Era, hand use in hitting, Uncategorized

Butcher Boys, Bunts, and Bingles: Sorting Through Antiques in the Attic

I’ve almost completed a lightning-quick video series on bunting.  (The one subject I have yet to cover is drag- and push-bunting, which may be two subjects and two videos: not sure yet.)  Perhaps I feel a bit guilty about rushing through the project so quickly.  I certainly didn’t mean to imply any contempt for it.  I think the bunting game can become a very real and effective dimension of play, I think it’s exciting when executed well, and I think current play at all levels miserably neglects it.

But since I have nothing more than a Personal Pitcher that spits out golf-sized Wiffle balls to assist me in my experiments, I feel that there’s only so much I can learn and pass along.  Unlike routine hitting, which can be adequately simulated whenever you have an object in lateral motion to swing at, the bunt can be refined into so many distinct kinds of non- or semi-swing that a real pitcher throwing real baseballs on a regulation-sized field would be required to reach confident conclusions.  My series, then, is just intended to draw attention to this important subject and to offer aspiring “stick artists” a few ideas.  I believe the videos work if viewed in that context.

The one I completed yesterday and posted just today—“The Baltimore Chop, a.k.a. “Butcher Boy”—put me into such uncomfortable contortions that I actually ended up on camera advising against its use.  We know that Deadball hitters did precisely this sort of thing, beating the pitch so directly into the dirt around home plate that it leapt high in the air and allowed the crafty batsman time to leg out a bingle.  (I don’t know why they called them “bingles”… but that’s not a typo.)  It’s well worth retrieving some of the history of our game, but perhaps not all of what we dig up is still usable.

One question that took me by surprise in filming the series was this: what exactly is a bunt?  The official rule book offers the following terse definition:

Rule 2.00
A BUNT is a batted ball not swung at, but intentionally met with the bat and tapped slowly within the infield.

Okay.  Well, it’s obvious that if you attempt to drag or push a bunt with two strikes and it rolls foul, you’re out on strike three.  The ball was “not swung at”.  But what about what I called in my third video the Fake-and-Throw-Down?  This is something very like a slap bunt (I suppose you could say it’s a species of slap bunt)—and the slap is a swing; so if that one goes foul, you’re still alive.  But what, then, about the maneuver which I gave no name in the fourth video, but which might be called a Trail-the-Barrel?  This differs from a push bunt in that both hands slide to the extreme end of the bat, with the bottom one indeed clutching the knob… yet a very weak swing is also going on.  You’re not so much pushing the pitch toward third (from a lefty’s perspective) as you are raking it anemically toward short.  As long as you get the ball past pitcher and third baseman, you’re likely to reach first safely.  Ty Cobb did this sort of thing a lot.  So did Ichiro.

That’s not a bunt, is it?  The swing is faint… but the barrel does cross the plate and move toward the pitcher, even though you want your body to be exiting the box before it finishes its sweep.  So a foul ball with two strikes would be… just a foul ball.

As far as I can tell, yesteryear’s hitters had so many tricks like these in their bag that they probably strained the boundaries of many official definitions.  More than anything about them, I admire that willingness to experiment with new approaches—to take the defense wholly by surprise.  In an era when computer printouts are telling defenders exactly where to stand and where one hard-hit ball after another goes right to a glove, you’d think that our cleverest performers might be willing to recover some of these neglected tactics.

bunting, coaches and trust, Deadball Era, footwork in the box, hand use in hitting, umpires, Uncategorized

More on the Bunt: Practice Can Be Painful!

Thanks to a pair of sore heels that Father Time keeps stepping on, I find that I can’t rehearse certain experimental procedures as much as I would like before cutting a video.  A measure of proficiency is always desirable… but I reach the point of diminishing returns when my rising skill and my stiffening feet pass each other going in opposite directions.

This proved especially true over the weekend as I tried to master a very difficult type of bunt—a fake bunt, really, that involves dropping down as if to sacrifice and then launching toward first base while lowering the barrel into the pitch so as to loop it (hopefully) over a charging third baseman.  When I finally produced a demonstration video that I thought satisfactory, I had already worked through seven or eight takes.  In the process, I discovered that I was forcing the barrel into the pitch too hard—that I really shouldn’t be trying to drive a three-quarters swing through it, as with the conventional slap-bunt.  (Not that slap-bunts are part of any team’s conventions any longer.)  Somewhere in all these do-overs, I also realized that the beginning of a break toward first base would help me trail the barrel and hence direct the pitch more toward third.  Practice makes perfect… but perfection was in no danger of being captured by my practices over the past few days.

As I say in the video that I finally allowed to pass muster, I’m not trying to impress anyone with my skill: I’m only trying to give you things to think about.  I’ve already reached the conclusion that really proficient bunting (including bunt-fakes) would require far more rehearsal than standard swing-away hitting.  I guess it’s no wonder, then, that professionals have grown so very weak in bunting skills.  So much of the contemporary game depends upon power, and so much of the “small” game would demand hundreds and hundreds of reps, that the numbers just don’t balance out.  Honestly, I get it.  I still believe that small ball wins close games, and I know as a fan that games played with such a high degree of skill in the fine arts are the most exciting to watch… but today, with such narrow windows of time and such whopping dollar amounts involved, the Big Club wants its products to come out of the package already nine-tenths assembled.

That’s all the more reason, though, why you need to assemble yourself if you’re not built like a superhuman machine.  Your coaches probably aren’t going to teach you many of those “fine arts”, even in high school—and you certainly won’t learn them during the few practices that your travel or summer-ball team schedules.  Take some of the ideas that you can find on this and other sites, and get to work on your own.

To wrap up this brief update: one of the things that disturbs me about the Fake-and-Throw-Down (as I call it) is that, even though it’s a bid for a hit built upon a bluffed sacrifice, the ump will probably consider a fouled attempt Strike Three.  You can argue till you’re blue in the face with Blue: he’s most likely to notice that you didn’t take a full swing, and to base his decision on that observation.

The next type of bunt I plan to explore has the same liability: the attempt to ground the pitch weakly toward shortstop so that the pitcher can’t reach it and 6 arrives too late to make a play.  I suspect Cobb and Collins did this sort of thing all the time, and did it to almost to perfection.  Their strikeouts were minimal, and the fouled bunt with two strikes was already being logged as a K in 1909.  If the top hand doesn’t slide up the handle on this one (as I suspect it doesn’t—that’s going to be my initial assumption), will the Supreme Arbiter still think that it looks like a bunt attempt when he sees a stationary barrel run up on the ball rather than a swing?

That’s a consideration worth bearing in mind.  Maybe most of these techniques should be tried early in the count unless you’re really confident in your ability.

baseball history, bunting, Deadball Era, hand use in hitting, mental approach, Uncategorized

The Fine (and Lost?) Art of Bunting

As I was browsing through the pages of our latest book publication, Metal Ropes, I happened upon the very brief section about bunting.  And then it struck me: why has SmallBallSuccess never made a bunting video?  Anybody would naturally suppose that the “stickers” of yesteryear would be masters of putting that “dead ball” down.  They were considered the ultimate “place hitters” (i.e., artists capable of placing the ball in whatever part of the field they desired).  I should really look into this….

Yet when you pause to weigh the issue, Deadball bunting isn’t really very easy to research.  Besides the usual problems of having virtually no video and no live shots taken at lightning shutter-speed (which didn’t exist), we have to confront the fact that yesteryear’s batsmen didn’t really use the sacrifice as we do.  There wasn’t even a category for “sac bunt” or “sac fly”.  The assumption in both of those cases was always that the batter was attempting to reach base and “productively failed”, creating an out that happily managed to move the runner up.  It’s hardly a twisted way of thinking: ours today may well be more so.  We don’t have a “sacrifice grounder”, do we?  Yet Roger Maris once told Mike Shannon that he could collect fifteen or twenty RBI’s a season by deliberately rolling over on a pitch and grounding to the right side with a runner on third.  A lot of sabermetricians among us don’t even consider the RBI a legitimate achievement—pretty much the same guys who consider all of Roger’s RBI’s to have been accidents and the man himself to have represented mediocrity that caught fire for one season.  (We’ll never know what Maris could have done if the Yankee front office hadn’t suckered him into playing with a broken hamate bone in 1966 that never healed properly thereafter.)

Anyway, my original point (I can never resist defending Roger Maris) was that there’s no clear reason why you should ever give yourself up completely in dropping a bunt: I feel that the oldtimers had that right.  Even in Major League games, I see guys square up literally five seconds—or more—before the pitch is ever delivered, and nobody in the stadium has any illusions about their drawing the bat back at the last instant.  Then, if they somehow manage to dribble an effective sacrifice, they lope down the line, veering already toward the dugout: never a thought in their satisfied head about putting additional pressure on the defense.  No, I don’t know exactly how Willie Keeler, Eddie Collins, or Elmer Flick would have done it… but I know they wouldn’t have done it that way!

I’m actually going to have to devote quite a bit of experimentation to some of the subject’s subtler aspects.  I have a few ideas, based upon what I’ve read: that Ty Cobb, for instance, was not averse to faking a bunt and then slapping the ball rather more vigorously—but still not full force—through some vacated quadrant of the infield.  This is very fertile territory for a new video series, and I think many older baseball enthusiasts would like to see a return to such play at all levels.  It’s no secret that scrappy players who make contact and bat .343 at Double A are less interesting to the Bigs than lumbering Goliaths who get a jack every third game and bat .241… but that may be changing, even among Major League brain trusts.  Just look at the success of the Tampa Bay Rays this year!

I’ve already posted (rushed? I hope not) two introductory videos to YouTube.  The first is a mere review of the issues, and particularly a contrast of the way bunting is practiced today versus a more Old School approach.  The second is my best stab at instruction in sacrifice bunting (yes, the kind that Deadball hitters didn’t admit existed).  I have no particular historical record to draw upon, as I’ve said—and I certainly have no personal résumé of achievement on the diamond to establish my authority.  The most interesting and promising suggestion I float, I would say, is that players who are struggling at the plate and ready to try anything should consider batting left-handed.  At the very least, if you’re equally bad mechanically from the left and right sides, you’ll be closer to first base from the former and thus bound to beat out a few more scratch hits.  Maury Wills was going nowhere in the Minors before he tried switch-hitting: a few years later, he broke Ty Cobb’s stolen base record.  I’m not even recommending a switcher approach.  If you’re fast, just bat left exclusively.  Learn to put the ball in play on the left side, where throws to first are longer, and exploit that good break out of the box.  This was essentially Ichiro’s game in his best years.

We’ll try to promote various ways of getting the pitch into play on that side in forthcoming videos: the straight bunt isn’t the only tactic, by any means.  Some alternatives range between a bunt and a full swing—and these were precisely what Collins, Cobb, et al. had honed to perfection, in my opinion.  At any rate, I’m pretty sure that you’ll break into any line-up hitting .400, even if 90 percent of your safeties are singles—and even if 50 percent of those are infield hits!