baseball history, Deadball Era, Hall of Fame, Performance-Enhancing Drugs, Uncategorized

Trying Too Hard for Too Long: Baseball’s Peculiar Penalty

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I honestly don’t pay much attention to the Hall of Fame these days.  On the one hand, political concerns (and I mean “political” as in “woke”) are starting to play far too large a role in the unstated criteria for admission; and on the other, new and somewhat controversial metrics like WAR are beginning to nudge aside common sense as a robotic generation of nerds insists that everything can be reduced to numbers.

In my relative indifference, then, I’m afraid that the selection of Ted Simmons to Cooperstown this past fall blew past me like a quick-pitched fastball.  There I was, getting sucked into discussions about Larry Walker… and the committee finally did right by one of the most all-around productive players of the rather unglamorous Seventies and Eighties.  Maybe there’s some use to Wins Above Replacement, after all (or maybe not: Ted’s WAR is almost identical to Fred McGriff’s, who is supposed to be a mere also-ran).

I mean, a switch-hitting catcher who hits for both average and power… how much versatility can you ask for?  Of course, power stats in those lackluster years would soon be eclipsed by the emergence of Steroids Superstars.  In the long, dark shadow of the Nineties, nobody remembers slugger Steve Balboni, who topped 30 home runs only once in his career; and scarcely more fans will recall Tony Armas (Senior), who reached that plateau just three times.  Ted’s comparatively modest average of 15 homers over a span of 14 seasons might fly under the radar; but the decade-and-a-half figure is highly significant.  Balboni and Armas both did their damage over about half a decade… and I could mention, say, Jeff Burroughs or Reggie Smith, who had more protracted and successful careers, but who likewise didn’t regularly log seasonal home runs in the thirties.

Ted’s 2,472 hits especially catch the eye.  His .285 career batting average matches Yogi’s—but Berra, surprisingly, had over 300 fewer safeties.  Johnny Bench is over a hundred behind Yogi, and his average trails that of the other two by almost twenty points.  Now, Johnny fought hard and bravely against injuries and ill health.  He was also the premier defensive catcher of his generation.  Yet there’s something—indeed, much—to be said for durability, particularly at the backstop position.  Ted had that in spades.

I’m sure that the sabermetricians are aware of such intangibles, and also of the relevance of “the times”… but the essence of such things is that you can’t really quantify them.  I respect anyone who tries, up to a point.  I may begin to grow a little disgusted, though, when Dexter Sliderule forgets that he’s only approximating, and shifts into a more insistent mode.  The numbers are helpful.  They’re indispensable, even.  Yet they cannot be considered as the first and last word, with nothing in between.

I’ll devote the final half of today’s ramble to a thought that first struck me when I was viewing the career of Sam Rice.  The lifetime .322 hitter accumulated 2,987 career hits—yes, a puny thirteen shy of 3.000.  Any fan of today would wonder immediately why Rice didn’t polish off such a superhuman accomplishment.  Did he lose his eyesight?  Was his hand destroyed in an off-season accident?  Nothing so dramatic: he simply hadn’t realized that he was within a sneeze of turning over the “thousands” counter!

Now consider how many later players (Sam hung it up in 1934) desperately plod along just to reach some magic number that almost assures admission to the corridors of Mount Olympus: 400 homers (now 500), 3,000 hits or strikeouts, 300 wins.  Because these somewhat arbitrary figures came to achieve canonical status as the game aged, chasing after one of them often grew to be the obsession of the individual player and—with all the publicizing made possible by television—the prime marketing strategy of many a franchise.

The obsession can be fatal.  In wasn’t to Pete Rose: he found other ways to shoot himself in the foot.  But his career average very nearly dipped under .300 (.303) as he stumbled after Ty Cobb’s all-time hits record.  During his final seven seasons on the active roster, Pete topped .300 only once (and .271 only once more).  His official at-bats over that period ranged between a part-time 365 and a nearly invisible 26.  Anything to get Number 4,190!

Craig Biggio at least registered full seasons right to the end, with his seasonal batting average dipping below .250 just once (by four points).  Why the HOF electors treated him like a pathetic nag toppling over the 3,000-hit finish line on three legs, I’ll never understand.

I mentioned Fred McGriff parenthetically above.  Having come short of 500 home runs by a paltry seven, Fred perhaps damaged more than helped his case by hanging around for a final 410 AB’s only to grind out fifteen more dingers.  His average over this span dipped well under the .250 mediocrity mark.

Duke Snider, likewise, may have rubbed more luster off his career than he added by hanging around long enough to tally 407 round-trippers.  Very similar to McGriff, Duke had a bit over 500 AB’s in his final two seasons, hitting well under .250 during the span.  The trade-off was an additional 18 homers.

You could say that Snider at least found his happy ending (though he had to wait sixteen years for the Sportswriters’ approval).  His teammate Gil Hodges suffered what has been the fate—so far—of Fred McGriff.  The cornerstone of the champion Brooklyn Dodgers’ defense, said to have the surest hands of any first-sacker in his generation, Gil sadly ran out of offensive gas in his bid to reach 400 home runs.  Hodges was already at 298 after his first ten full years of service.  You had to figure that he could round up another 102 within three of four years… certainly within five.  But the Dodgers moved from Brooklyn to LA at just that point, and the shift to a track-and-field stadium ridiculously rehabilitated as a baseball quasi-diamond favored neither his style nor Snider’s.  Gil’s offensive totals plunged across the board; he eked out a mere 25 home runs over his last four seasons—which, to be sure, represented scarcely over 500 AB’s.  Two of these seasons saw Hodges returning to New York (again, like Snider) on the expansion-formed Mets in a clever marketing scheme to capture some of the old Ebbets Field enthusiasm.  Like Jackie Robinson, Gil should probably have said “no” to the original West Coast move; he should certainly have declined to be humiliated over those final four seasons (during one of which—1960—he batted .198).

What shall we say, then, of players who were perennial All Stars for a decade, had probably stacked enough lumber over that period to achieve serious consideration for Cooperstown… and then stayed year after frustrating year trying to seal the deal?  Albert Pujols won’t damage his legacy, or even his first-round election… but he should have retired two or three years ago.  Barry Bonds would not be cooling his heels in Pete Rose and Shoeless Joe Limbo if he hadn’t allowed majestic numbers to woo him beyond the parameters set by Mother Nature.

Numbers.  They’re too much in our heads, with too little context.  WAR is apparently an attempt to supply context and to substitute a more legitimate number. How, though, do you factor in an allowance for a player who would have been among your elite few if you hadn’t distracted him with other magical numbers?

baseball history, Deadball Era, hand use in hitting, hitter reaction time, mental approach, Uncategorized

Switch-Hitting and Small Ball: Not an Obvious Pairing

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George Davis, Hall of Famer: formally inducted in 1998, almost a century to the year after his retirement.  As someone wrote lately, the best ballplayer you’ve never heard of.  Okay, I admit that I’d never heard of him, either, before delving into the history of switch-hitting.  George was that rarest of animals, a “bats both” from the nineteenth century.  During the Deadball Era and in the years preceding it, such artists were probably less common than cross-wristed hitters like Dave Bancroft.  It’s not hard to imagine why.  Power-hitting as we know it didn’t exist, so one of the two great motive forces for switch-hitting wasn’t in play.  We think readily of sluggers like Mantle, Murray, Reggie Smith… and more recently, Mark Texeira, Chipper Jones, and Lance Berkman.  They didn’t have to worry about the breaking ball dipping under and away from their bat: they could enter the box with the intent of pulling almost everything.

Slightly less glorified as superheroes, on-base machines like Tim Raines, Ozzie Smith, and the almost-immortal Pete Rose are a bit more of an enigma.  Primarily concerned with contact than power, they hit the ball where it was pitched and—like their mightier brethren—were difficult to neutralize with the slider.  A few batsmen of this category (and I don’t know the story of the three just named) seem to have taken up switching because their career from the right side was going absolutely nowhere.  Maury Wills springs to mind.  I half-believe that Nellie Fox may have adapted to batting south so well that he simply gave up on the right side; I’ve seen him listed both as a lefty hitter and a switcher.

As I say, though, the earliest switch-hitters were certainly not trying to compete with Babe Ruth.  Before stumbling upon Davis (and it took me some stumbling: try Googling “first switch-hitter in MLB” and notice how evasive the search engine becomes), I couldn’t dredge up anyone from my memory earlier than Max Carey and, a bit later, Frankie Frisch.  Now, these two logged plenty of extra-base hits… but that’s what you would expect of any speedy hitter before World War II, when ballparks often had very generous alleys.  Most skilled practitioners of the batsman’s craft would bat left exclusively for the benefit of the step or two they would gain toward first base.  Perhaps Carey and Frisch flat-out couldn’t hit the pitch that broke away from them.  I’m sure neither was trying to be Mark Texeira and ding the foul pole every time they possibly could.

Cobb, Speaker, Collins… all righties who batted left.  (Yes, Speaker: he grew up throwing left only because of a badly broken right arm during his formative years.)  I doubt that the typical big-league striker of the Deadball Era—and these three were far beyond typical—would have objected either to being clipped by a tight pitch or to dribbling it the other way and racing the third baseman’s throw.  Hence the extreme rarity of the switch-hitter in the game’s distant past.

George Davis, then, presents an oddity, to say the least.  At five-foot-nine, he profiles as the kind of batsman we like to study at SmallBallSuccess.com; and yet, his true utility for the New York Giants appears to have been as an RBI-producer.  His homers are pretty impressive for the 1890’s: seven seasons in double digits from 1891 to 1904.  At the same time, however, his seasonal tally of two-baggers (usually in the mid-twenties) stacks up to about half of Speaker’s monumental totals, and his triples are also fairly mediocre for a star batsman of the time.  With 2665 hits in 9045 at-bats, then, George presumably legged out plenty of singles.  So the mystery remains: was he switching to magnify his pull-power or just to put the ball in play more often?

After I made a rather hasty video about switch-hitting last weekend (hasty because our Georgia weather keeps turning on a dime), I confronted the necessity of having to re-do it.  The result wasn’t all that bad… but why would a site post it that claimed to specialize in the Deadball Era?  Or if the point was precisely that batsmen of the glorious past were almost never switchers, then why hadn’t the video explained the crucial ground of distinction?  What exactly was I trying to accomplish for my viewers in those ten minutes?

What, indeed?  The claim I made repeatedly before the camera was that young switch-hitters should stop trying to mirror the stroke from their natural side in the side they’re trying to learn.  Almost nobody on earth is truly, fully ambidextrous.  That failing, you have one hand which is stronger and “smarter” than the other; and when the dominant hand is driving the bat like a piston, it has an effect very different from when it’s steering the bat down near the knob.  Allowances must be made for shifting points of emphatic power or precision.

Except that they don’t—or not nearly so much—when you’re simply hurling the barrel down into the zone from high above your rear shoulder.  What the Deadball approach teaches us, then, is transmitted through its active enlistment of feet, knees, hips, core muscles, shoulders, elbows, wrists, fingers… everything in the body is so ingeniously, harmoniously integrated into the Old School stroke that you’re much more apt to notice a cog along the edges getting out of sync.  I genuinely believe this.  I believe, in other words, that our contemporary passion for hurling blunt force at the pitch permits us to ignore a lot of energy leaking out along the way.  If you have a ten-ton tractor to do a job, you don’t care that it belches fumes and spins its treads before the burden attached to it gives way.  But if you have ten men with crowbars trying to budge the same mass, you can’t afford to waste a drop of sweat in the process.  Deadball hitting is the precision attack of a samurai, not the screaming onslaught of a claymore-wielding Rob Roy.  (Pardon the analogy’s inaccuracies: yesteryear’s bat, of course, was actually much more like a claymore—so the lighter, smaller player had to be especially clever about how to exploit the weapon’s imposing mass.)

When I take my favorite Deadball swing from the left side and try to replicate it from the right, I discover that major adjustments are necessary to stay somewhere close to the same paradigm.  That’s what I’ll stress when I remake the video—because I do like switch-hitting, at least when it’s done with a Cobb/Collins, “get on base” mentality.  It has to tie into an approach, a mental projection of the at-bat (and my earlier version just couldn’t have been squeezed under the “approach” rubric on our website).  The switch-hitter should be thinking “opposite field” most of the time, for it’s much easier to stay inside a pitch breaking into you (I find) than it is to be productively late on a pitch that breaks away and just keeps breaking and breaking.  In the latter case, you can outsmart yourself, chasing something far off the plate that—you thought—was right between your crosshairs.

Is this how George Davis hit?  I’ve no idea.  What about the ill-starred Pete Reeser, who couldn’t keep himself form colliding with the concrete walls of Ebbets Field?  I rather doubt it: subtlety wasn’t Pistol Pete’s game.  But I wish it could be more of our present game.  Among other things, standing off the plate to put a late swing on a pitch greatly diminishes the young hitter’s chances of getting hit by today’s flame-throwers who are trying to light up the scout’s JUGS gun.  Not having to guard against the fade-away allows you to frustrate the hurler’s plans more effectively without letting his homicidal wildness bully its way into the back of your mind.  That’s a winning strategy for a five-foot-niner.

Anyway… congratulations, George.  Very, very belated congratulations.

baseball ethics, baseball history, coaches and trust, Deadball Era, footwork in the box, hand use in hitting, mental approach, Performance-Enhancing Drugs, Uncategorized

Cheating: Always Wrong… and Always With Us

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First of all, cheating is wrong.  It was really wrong as the Minnesota Twins practiced it in the 1991 World Series: turning on the blowers when their guys were at bat to assist outward-bound fly balls.  (Recall that Kirby Puckett’s critical homer off of Charlie Leibrandt barely cleared the screen.)  It was wrong in 1954, when the New York Giants won most of their final forty games after positioning a spy with binoculars in the Polo Grounds clubhouse beyond the center field fence and running a telegraph wire to the third-base coach’s box.  (Bobby “The Giants win the pennant!” Thompson always swore that he wasn’t tipped to Ralph Branca’s pitch… but we’ll never know for sure.)  Yet the verdict of neither of those series was overturned.  So I’d like all the people who want the Astros and the Red Sox stripped of their titles to pipe down.  Should we dethrone the ’89 Athletics because a bulked-up Canseco and his new disciple, Mark McGwire, anchored their line-up?  How about retroactively awarding all trophies in the Nineties to last-place teams, on the assumption that their players were shooting up the least?

No, I’m not in any way condoning foul play.  On the contrary, I’m encouraging those who are most enraged at the current sign-stealing scandal to grow up a little and recognize that we who play fair have always contended with such issues—and have usually done so with little support from governing bodies.  The last formal ball game my son ever played was in a “Christian” college tournament whose participants, for the most part, had discovered a lost Beatitude: “Blessed are they who win at any cost, for nice guys finish last.”  I watched the whole team in the opposing dugout hang on the chain-link fence and howl like apes at the zoo with all the Red Bull running in their veins; I watched their pitcher drill our best hitter twice in an obvious attempt to knock him out of the game (and just as obviously on orders); then I heard one of their coaches tell a player, “We won—that’s all that matters,” as we exited the park. Did I give up on the game after that night? No more than I gave up on my religious faith.

Cheating… yeah, it stinks.  My first experience of coaching was when I was told that my seven-year-old wouldn’t have a team if I didn’t consent to manage it, because more kids were signing up than the league could handle.  A much-recycled line, that, as I would learn later.  Every season needed a couple of “punching bag” teams to provide easy W’s.  My fellow punching-bag nominee that spring told me later that he skipped draft night, assuming that the vultures would leave him better scraps just to cover up their scheme than if he showed up and tried to pick from a list of two or three hundred unknown names.  He at least knew what he was getting into.

I could go on and on about how imbalanced the MLB pay scale is… but I’ve never believed the premise of that particular gripe.  The Washington Nationals finally unload their superstar, Bryce Harper, who goes to a Phillies club with a “win or die” approach to check-writing… and the Nats win the Series, while the Phils stumble across the finish line just ahead of the Marlins.  Coaching, chemistry, luck—a lot of variables besides salary must be factored into the equation.

And, in any case… yes, I’ll say it: how do we know that the Nats weren’t stealing signs, as well?  And the Dodgers?  And the Yankees?  If two or three teams are doing it, why would we suppose that every squad in both leagues isn’t doing it?  Maybe the teams that get caught are the ones that are really bad—really clumsy, stupid—cheaters.  Come on, now!  If I’m a struggling 23-year-old, why wouldn’t I buy my girlfriend an iPhone and season tickets behind the plate?  She watches the broadcast, sees the signs from the center-field camera, and gives me a, “Let’s go, Rusty!” every time a fastball is coming… a, “Let’s go, Sixteen!” for the slider… a, “You can do it, Rusty!” for the change.  Do you really think ballplayers, individually and collectively, didn’t figure out a long time ago what electronics can do for them in this area?  Remember the Polo Grounds?

Some players don’t even want to know what’s coming.  I think it was John Roseboro who wrote that he used to drive Orlando Cepeda crazy by tipping him to the pitches.  Baby Bull would turn around and whine, “Stop that!”—but Rosie would keep it up, because it worked.  For that matter, I find it hard to believe that Jose Altuve gives a tinker’s damn (as they used to say in Ireland) about knowing the pitch in advance.  The man who has been baseball’s premier hitter in many categories over the past five years swings at pretty much everything, just like most of the .400 hitters of the Deadball Era.  How on earth did those oldtimers get away with that?  Because, like Cepeda, they were front-foot hitters.  Their default approach was to inside-out everything served up to them, dragging the barrel well behind the hands—which gave them more time to track the ball; and, if the pitch happened to break in on them, causing them to get out in front… well, they were “fooled” into pulling the ball, and the result was often a fouled-up defense and extra bases.

This is how guys used to approach at-bats, I’m convinced: get the barrel on the ball.  Wherever it’s pitched, get the barrel to it, even if you end up on your face or your back.  Some ugly, awkward swings… and some very confused defenses and very high averages.  Of course, those stickers and strikers of a century ago weren’t carrying 31-inch Little League shillelaghs to the plate.  The typical bat of our era almost requires that you single out a certain pitch in a certain spot while taking everything else.  Since all of our hitters today are guess-hitters, anyway… well, why not look for a little confirmation of your best guess?

How many pitchers, even at the Big League level, can consistently get three pitches over on any given outing?  Most of them are throwing two pitches 75 percent of the time.  And how many, besides, dare cross up the hitter’s expectations and throw a 3/2 breaking ball or an 0/2 fastball over the plate?  Realistically, pitch-stealing would provide one of today’s professional hitters little more information than he’s already figured out on his own (with the massive aid of far better scouting reports and video than you could get from Homeland Security).  The Astros, so the stats suggest, have become very good two-strike hitters.  So… how many hitters don’t know what they’re likely to get with two strikes from a given pitcher in a given count and in a given situation?

I’m sorry… but considering our day’s penchant for playing the victim and demanding that bullies be crucified up and down every highway and byway, I can’t find a lot of outrage to vent over this particular scandal.  We’re always on the lookout for another occasion to scream, “Unfair!”  And the MLB, of course (like the NFL, the NBA, and all other multi-billion-dollar industries), is always quick to do damage control when it can’t keep every detail of its sausage-making from leaking out before a gullible public.  If you “cheat smart”, then we up here in the penthouse see nothing; if you get caught… oh, boy, are we going to be outraged with you!  You’re fired!  You’re banned for life!  How dare you soil our sport!

Yeah, okay.  Okay.  Meanwhile… how about young hitters learn to hit something besides a single pitch that they know is coming?

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

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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, 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.