baseball ethics, baseball history, coaches and trust, Uncategorized

Size as Well as Race Has Been a Source of Bigotry in Baseball

I was almost twenty years in writing Key to a Cold City.  I should clarify that the work began about twenty years ago, and then the project was pushed aside for a long time.  Now that I’ve retired from teaching, I’m paying renewed attention to some of those undertakings that never quite got off the ground.  This was the most challenging of them all.

The book had its origin in a lazy day of looking through the first baseball cards I ever collected: sets clipped with scissors off the backs of Post Cereal boxes in 1962 and 1963.  Believe me, there was a lot of pleasant nostalgia in revisiting those days of early childhood.  Yet as an adult, I found myself puzzled that so many young players with brilliant stats had simply dropped off the radar in the intervening years.  Even today, kids know (more or less) who Willie Mays and Hank Aaron are… but Vada Pinson?  George Altman?  The statistics in the latter cases could have come from the cards of the former two: Pinson and Altman were that good in the early Sixties.  What happened?

I wondered, as I compiled more and more such cases, if racial prejudice had not utterly disappeared after Jackie Robinson’s arrival on the big-league scene in 1947.  The book began in the hypothesis that it had passed somewhat underground without actually evaporating.  Oh, there were white players who raised similar questions.  Why didn’t Don Demeter blossom as his stats promised?  Why did two-time batting champ Pete Runnels seem to spiral into oblivion in the middle of a brilliant career?  These cases, however, were fewer and also less severe most of the time.  I mean, Pistol Pete did have enough of a chance that he carried home two batting titles!

I’m not offering a review of my own book here.  I’ve made access to it available through these links: Amazon Kindle and Amazon paperback.  (I managed to ratchet the cost of the latter way down by ditching the little bit of red ink used in four graphs; the graphs themselves are relatively unimportant, the red letters should remain distinct as a lighter gray, and the price reduction was an incredible $30!)  I will only say further here of the book’s contents that I find racial issues to be immensely complex.  I’ve developed a real dislike—even a kind of smoldering fury—at how the “r” word is tossed about every time a person of color is caught in a sleazy act.  Real racism shouldn’t be deflated in this manner: its existence shouldn’t validate a “get out of jail” card for grafters and shysters.  Guys in the Sally League were having to dodge bottles and batteries as they tried to follow play from left field.  Their ordeal was nothing remotely like that of a corrupt city mayor who gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

The specific reason I bring the issue of racial prejudice in the Fifties up here is that I truly believe skin color to have been a secondary factor in the discrimination I researched—a kind of ready-made “yellow star” for front-office dopes who couldn’t express their more abstract concerns.  White owners and managers at that time wanted machine-like offenses powered primarily by the home run.  The black players who were filtered to them through the Negro Leagues were well versed in bunting, chopping, hitting to all fields, base-stealing… all things that the MLB brain trust associated with a sloppy, silly, out-of-control game.  I’m sure that the association fed right into the stereotype of the kid of African descent as wild, fun-loving, and disorderly.  Here’s the point, though: the stereotype didn’t produce the distaste for creative, unpredictable baseball—the distaste came first, and (what do you know?) the young black players on trial were prime offenders.

Now, some of the recruits learned to adjust their game.  These are the household names: Mays, Aaron, Banks, Robinson.  Jackie was actually never a slugger of this caliber: I concluded the study very much convinced that Branch Rickey would have used his Negro League style as an excuse to send him back down if “the experiment” had damaged ticket sales.  It was Rickey who ruined George Altman’s prospects by pressuring him to pull the ball over the fence.  A great many other players who had dropped off history’s radar apparently had the same trouble.  Guys like Curt Flood and Floyd Robinson who could have been the next Pete Runnels were instead trying to muscle up and emulate the young Willie McCovey.  Another Willie by the last name of Kirkland was in fact given a very long leash, considering his series of miserable batting averages, because he showed promise in generating “jacks”.

I know I will irritate some people if I say that this situation comes very close to many we see at SmallBallSuccess.com.  Racial prejudice is supposed to be the ultimate misery that anyone may suffer… but to a boy or young man whose whole life is playing ball, not getting a fair chance to play ball is the ultimate misery.  Kids like Jake Wood and Ted Savage, though they were obviously five-tool players, were benched or demoted because, it was said, they struck out too much—but they were striking out too much because management was telling them to pull the hell out of everything!  That’s the precise situation in which my son found himself during his senior year in high school.  He eventually became a successful college pitcher; not every boy of smaller build has that kind of versatility.  Albie Pearson and Dick Hauser scored tons of runs during the brief time they were given to audition in the big leagues.  Though white lads, however, they seemed to be simply reserving a slot in the line-up until a taller prospect arrived at their position.  A promising Georgia boy called “Coot” Veal was taught four or five different batting styles by the “experts” until he didn’t know up from down, all because he came up as that most loathsome of creatures, a front-foot hitter.  Veal, too, was Caucasian; but I found case after case of young black prospects having to submit to precisely the same “lean back and hack” brainwashing that destroyed their success at the plate.

Well, hitting off the front foot happens to be one of the techniques we preach on this site.  The Negro Leagues, in fact, were a veritable repository of Deadball Era tactics that white baseball had consigned to the dustbin of history.  Funny how, half a century later, the game still seems to be waging that war against smaller players who employ offbeat styles to get on base.  They’re not welcome.  The 6’8” slugger who strikes out once a game and can do nothing to thwart a radical shift is on every GM’s Christmas list.

Let’s keep up the fight.  You can’t argue with winning—and eventually even the densest of coaching know-it-alls will have to give you playing time if you’re always on base.

coaches and trust, footwork in the box, hand use in hitting, Uncategorized

My Take-Away From the MLB in October

A confession: I have watched very little of the play-offs or the World Series (the “World’s Series”, as they called it a century ago).  I could plead that the chore of getting resettled in a new house and a new state has monopolized my time… but the truth is that contemporary baseball just isn’t quite the game I loved as a child.  Even my son, whose tastes are pretty current in most things, winced at Manny Machado’s inability to cut down on his swing with two strikes.  In my own very brief glimpses at the games in Boston, I saw a hitter stride to the plate with runners on first and third, one out, and proceed to take his usual full cuts, eventually hitting into the shift for an easy double play and leaving that precious run to wilt on the vine.

Now, even a seasoned professional cannot always execute his intention, especially against one of the game’s best mound artists.  But is it asking too much that the hitter come to bat with a drag bunt in mind?  Maybe he can’t drag a bunt.  Why not, if he’s a lefty batsman?  Because he has never practiced it.  Yes, but why has he never practiced it?

Or what about simply directing a slow roller to the vacated shortstop position, or even toward third base?  The objective isn’t to reach first safely, but merely to move the runners up–one of whom will touch home plate.  I know it’s too much these days to ask for a Baltimore chop: I’m sure that nobody practices that!  The ground in freezing Bean Town must have been pretty hard, though–and directing a pitch straight down into it would not have been so very difficult, especially when the pitcher was trying to get lefties out by throwing stuff that broke down and away.

Something I did see that pleasantly shocked me, however, was Chris Taylor’s footwork in the box.  He actually lifts his rear foot and then quickly re-plants it as a way of loading up to swing: Nolan Arenado with a vengeance!  I prefer Nolan’s linear cut straight into the pitch over Chris’s more conventional down-and-up rotational swish… but to see any back-foot movement whatever these days is like spotting a unicorn on your front lawn.  I love the creativity.  I’m glad that two decades of mind-numbing, cookie-cutting instruction haven’t made of this young man another baseball clone.

Yesterday I filmed and posted another of my amateurish (but, I think, improving) videos about Old School hitting.  I titled it, “The Bottom Hand and the ‘Mobile Back Foot'”.  Strikers of the Deadball Era didn’t prep for their stroke by edging the back foot forward only to put the idea of a bunt in the defenders’ heads.  Primarily, they used this load to get their momentum going directly into the pitch.  It works–it works awfully darn well!  But it’s most effective with a very linear cut into the ball (minimal back-loading of the hands involved) and a hundred-percent forward weight shift.  These are all things–all of them: the restless back foot, the projected bottom hand, the heavy shift to front foot–that would make contemporary coaches howl and clasp their aching heads.  You do them at your peril during a tryout… unless, that is, they end each time with an impressive crack of the bat.

That’s the most distressing thing about the methods we teach: not that they don’t work, but that you have to learn them close to perfection before trotting them out in front of a professional coach.  The only way you’ll overcome his prejudices is by producing clear, positive results–then and only then will he let you continue to take your highly kinky swing on his respectable playing field.

Of course, our site is intended for aspiring players who won’t be allowed on that field, anyway, because of their unpromising size.  So if the coaches are going to look right past you because of your height, you have to get them to readjust their vision with hard evidence that they can’t ignore.  Old School hitting is one way to achieve that result.

coaches and trust, fathers and sons, low arm angle, pitchers of short stature, pitching, Uncategorized

Listen to Established Coaches… But Also to Your Body

I’ve been repeating two things in my pitching videos (including one I made yesterday—the first after a six-month layoff): 1) I do not pretend to be a pitching coach or to have been an effective pitcher at any level of competition; and 2) I know more than most pitching coaches about living in a relatively short, broad-framed body.  Because of the first fact, I wouldn’t dream of trying to countermand the advice of a Paul Reddick, a Brent Strom, or the gurus at Sidearm Nation.  Yet because of the second fact, I don’t allow the coaching fraternity to shut me up entirely on the subject of pitching.

A lot of what I say about hitting (where I do profess some degree of knowledge, thanks to decades of research and experimentation) applies here.  Today’s pitching instruction is mostly fashioned for tall, slender body types that enjoy several natural advantages when it comes to achieving high velocity.  Since those types will fill about 90 percent of any high school or college pitching roster, why be concerned about the 5’7” walk-on who throws a mean slider?  Yeah, you trot him out there once in a while to eat up some innings.  He gets people out.  But you also know that he has already hit his low ceiling. Coaches at the next level are not going to woo him with scholarship money, and scouts are not going to blow him away with a signing bonus.  Statistically, he doesn’t exist.

I’ve actually written before, if only in making a brief reference, about Coach Reddick’s public advice to a dad who queried about his kid’s becoming a submariner.  The word Paul chose to use was “gimmick”—this was his estimate of the sidewinding delivery and other low arm angles.  The advice was essentially, “Don’t do it.  Persist with tried-and-true methods.  Don’t fall for some gimmicky quick fix.”

Now, I’ve seen many a boy slinging pitches from down under in tournaments who was cruising a direct course for serious elbow damage.  Odd angles can be effective because the hitter never sees them in ordinary play; and, because they don’t appear in ordinary play, coaches don’t know what to teach about them.  Advice can be very bad, if any advice at all is offered.  So “stay away” is certainly not the worst thing you could tell a parent who’s looking to lower his boy’s release point radically.

At the same time, some of us are so designed by Mother Nature that slopping the ball from belt-high or lower just seems right.  We don’t need minute instruction—and we’re less likely to hurt our arm sidearming than we are by trying to come straight over the top.  I was always that way.  I could imitate Willie Mays’s underhand flick of the ball back to the infield without any particular rehearsal.  (The basket catch was another matter: I never could carry my Willie impersonation that far.)  I’m convinced that the reason for this was simply my broad frame.  Look at any photo of Mays and you can tell that he, too, was very broad-shouldered.  Wide-framed people actually have to work at coming over the top more than “normal people”, whereas coming around the body can often be a very fluid motion for them.

I don’t recommend, however, doing what coaches call “throwing over your body”: typically vague coach-speak for cutting off your straight path toward the plate by landing with your front foot angled toward third base (for a righty).  This is another recipe for arm problems.  Even I, pitching-coach interloper that I am, grow shocked at the number of ex-Major Leaguer color commentators who extol how Jake Arrieta or some other horse enhances his effectiveness by slinging the ball over his body.  I’d never recommend that.

But in trying to work out the ideal sidearming motion for broad-framed guys, I encountered a terrific amount of trouble removing the “over the body” approach from the equation.  Especially for a low submariner, landing on a front foot that goes straight to the plate almost means landing in a face plant.

I still think that the low angle is specially suited to wide frames, which also tend to be shorter than average.  I would dare to disagree with my son (who threw sidearm-submarine very successfully for a D2 university) that his build really wasn’t best fitted to the motion.  Yes, the lanky guys can make up for some of the velo lost through “over the body” motion when they slingshot with their gangly arms… but they’re also, I continue to maintain, taking the quick route to joint damage. Shorter, broader frames appear to me to execute these movements more naturally and less riskily. Just last month, I saw a short submariner on the Single A Rome Braves look very smooth and effective.

Nevertheless, my son Owen was convincing enough that I decided to dedicate my next experiments to lifting the arm angle just above sidearm—to what might be called the 9:30 slot (where sidearm is 9:00 and an impossibly perfect overhand would be high noon).  This plan seemed the more logical in that my review of yesteryear’s best pitchers, brief though it has been so far, shows many of them using exactly the 9:30 slot and avoiding the true sidearm position.  I had downplayed the evidence for a while that was staring me in the face through the examples of Dickie Kerr (5’7”), Dolf Luque (5’7”), Art Nehf (5’9”), Bobby Shantz (5’6”), and others…. but I always end up regretting any act of brushing evidence under the rug.  I did that occasionally when I was analyzing Deadball Era swings: “Ah, that can’t mean anything, and it looks so awkward… let’s just ignore it.”  Always a bad idea.

So… in future months, as I get settled in my new home, look for me to investigate the 9:30 angle with much greater thoroughness.  It has a pedigree of success from the old days, it was popular with pitchers who “weren’t allowed” to have sore arms and had to grind away like huskies in the traces, and I persist in thinking that it must work especially well for broad body types.  These are the coordinates of my newly corrected course.

baseball ethics, fathers and sons, Uncategorized

Faith, Reality, and Baseball

One of the enterprises I wanted to pursue in retirement was my work on involving boys of short stature in baseball.  The game itself, and the instruction surrounding it, has turned as regimented and mechanical as everything else in our digitally obsessed society—yet learning complex games is no small part of a young person’s education.  The child learns fast and hard rules, he realizes that certain rules put him at a disadvantage to other players, he figures out how to turn a liability into an asset, and he emerges from it all—with honest, sustained effort—in a triumph of self-discovery and successful adjustment.  These moral lessons are terrifically important.

Football and basketball virtually require extraordinary natural endowments: skills there are an adorning cornice, not a foundation.  By no accident, these latter two sports are also much the most popular with spectators on college campuses.  As spectators, we seem to be growing ever more distant from the spectacle’s participants.  They almost represent a different species; and perhaps, with the aid of hormones and nanobot supplementation, they will soon become precisely that.

I think it well worthwhile, then, to persuade young people that they can excel at a game by identifying their particular (if not spectacular) strengths, perfecting these through practice, and offering a significant contribution to the team’s effort that draws more upon reflection and self-discipline than upon raw sinew.  That’s where baseball comes in—and where boys, especially, come in.  Contemporary Ivory Tower propaganda (which quickly filters all the way down to kindergarten, make no mistake) wails about “toxic masculinity”, labels all males as rapists-in-waiting, and applauds only the gender-uncertain who cede decisions, authority, and initiative to the Nurturing Mother. Now, mothers are great, as we all know; but boys, if they are to become independent and upright young men, need to learn a regimen that introduces them to self-control and vigorous persistence.

Unfortunately, the history of baseball has almost always garbled this hygienic message with incidental static, at least in the United States.  (In Japan and Korea, the game appears to have followed an educational trajectory more like what I should like to see.)  In America’s late nineteenth century, professional players were viewed as rowdies who shirked the productive labor of farm and factory.  Early in the next century, its practices were submitted to a considerable clean-up before any pay-at-the-gate contest was thought fit for ladies to attend. Even as figures like Babe Ruth (and Ty Cobb, too, before Fake News claimed him as one of its early victims) ushered in a heroic era, baseball’s practical and commercial parameters continued to gravitate against a positive moral message.  Games were played almost daily in numerous far-flung venues, so the players’ normal Circadian rhythms—eating habits, sleeping habits, and other bodily demands that needn’t be specified—were forever being nudged hither and yon.  As a result, late-night frolics and heavy drinking became associated with the pro athlete’s life.

Mill teams or municipal squads that squared off on Saturdays (never on Sundays!) somewhat counterpoised this unflattering image; but on the whole, women even of my mother’s generation did not wish to see their sons inking a professional contract.

Today the interference with the constructive message comes primarily from different sources.   The obvious one is the professional game’s saturation in money (following the demise of the nefarious Reserve Clause, which legally classed players as virtual slaves of their owners).  Fathers are so eager to see their sons get the free scholarship ride through college—with a shot at being professionally drafted—that, in a couple of cases I have seen personally, they start the boys on the syringe at the age of ten or eleven.  Even in less depraved cases, dads push their sons too hard to succeed in Little League, thinking that they are helping the boys get a huge headstart on money-making and all the happiness supposed to come with it.  But, Dad, if you will stop and think about that oath that the kids are uttering before each contest, it’s not drawn from the Gospel of Mammon.  On the contrary… search your Bible for the verse, “Love of money is the root of all evil.”

That our boys need a moral lifeline of some sort thrown to them has been underscored for me during the past two weeks by the grotesque volleys exchanged over a Supreme Court nomination.  I have my own very strong opinions about where the truth lies; but in the context of this discussion, I will say no more than that the addiction of both men and women to alcohol and sex as a routine path to social integration on elite college campuses is a national disgrace—and even more: an epidemic of moral degeneracy such as no nation can survive. To the extent that my own son was able to steer clear of debauchery during his college years, I believe his devotion to baseball was the cause.  I would like to write, “his devotion to the Christian faith”… but the organized Church, as represented by most mainstream denominations, is itself in vital need of an infusion of backbone.  St. Paul was fond of comparing the spiritual life to the athlete’s rigorous program of training—but I’m afraid that today’s Church more resembles the party-animal superstar whose contract guarantees him a fortune whether he stays in shape or not.

I posted a very sophomoric video a few days ago (which became 1st part and 2nd part when I overshot YouTube’s time restrictions) entitled “Faith, Reality, and Baseball”.  I truly hate addressing cameras… but I attempted to speak on these issues with what eloquence I could muster off the cuff.  Young men, I find, will actually watch such a presentation with infinitely higher probability than they will read an essay like the one before you; and some of them, even, will be quite generous to the stammering old fool trying to reach them through their generation’s preferred avenue.  It’s clearly not the singer: it has to be the song.  Let’s sing it louder.

low arm angle, pitching, Uncategorized

I Love Paul Reddick, BUT…

I first encountered Paul Reddick through his online 90 mph Club.  My son was about twelve years old at the time, as I recall.  Reddick was so devoted, not just to growing his business, but to helping young people that one could actually book a free online counseling session with him after sending a video.  My son did so.  I think he learned a few things.  As the years passed, he probably soaked up a lot more from SidearmNation.com and other sources because of his unique motion.  Mr. Reddick never had much use for sidewinders or submariners.  I recall his writing very publicly to one dad that the submarine pitch was a “gimmick”.

This, I’m afraid, is one of the weaknesses “that flesh is heir to” (in Hamlet’s phrase).  We start out small and fight bravely.  Perhaps we prevail and begin to grow large… but we still carry the scars of those earlier skirmishes.  We perceive challenges to our triumphant method (hey, it’s selling, isn’t it?) as renewed attempts to pull us down, so we ignore them.  We develop a thick hide.  Criticism is all lumped together into a black plastic bag and hauled to the landfill.  I’ve lately heard and read a lot of talk from Mr. Reddick that follows the pattern, “I can hear the screams from coaches right now over what I’m about to say… believe me, they’ve called me every name in the book….”  A bit of persecution complex there, don’t you think?

I must have landed permanently in the Reddick doghouse when I lately broke the rules—which I didn’t know at the time—with an attempted post on one of his discussion groups.  There’s that voice within me which wants to respond, “Heck with you, Jack!  I’ve been in classier doghouses than this one!”  I’m very much a small guy, of course, and one who sees no convincing signs that he’s on the way up.  You can easily get defensive, and even combative, in this game of trying to teach a game.

I’ve retained enough sense, though, to say this: if you ever see a recommendation about pitching on my site and a counter-recommendation on Reddick’s, follow Paul’s advice.  Despite his offhand dismissal of submarining (which isn’t really sound empirically: the altered arm angle, besides being tough for hitters to pick up, puts different spin on the ball), he’s the expert.  The things I volunteer on any mound topic are mere suggestions, and all come with the urgent caveat to cease and desist what you’re doing the first time it feels uncomfortable.  Always listen to what Mother Nature’s telling you through your body.

The video (or videos) that I’m planning to cut soon under the title, “I Love Paul Reddick, BUT…” are all going to address hitting topics.  Mr. Reddick has categorically condemned a whole list of ideas and practices: swinging down on the ball, using hitting tees, relying on pitching machines in the cage, etc.  I actually agree with him on most of these issues… up to a point.  But what disappoints me is the sweeping condemnation.  “Never do this!”  Um… don’t you mean don’t do this in a certain way or in certain circumstances?  I’m sure that the “categorical imperative” approach markets better over the Internet.  I’m also sure that it doesn’t serve the cause of truth.

But then, I don’t really believe that Reddick uses this formula because it markets well.  As I said before, I think he just can’t sheath his sword and trade a few prisoners.  The en gaile of the Old Irish heroic epics is fluttering about his chariot and filling his ears with her shrieks.  “Never… always… never!  Attack, attack, attack!”