The photo above was taken for Yogi Berra’s 1962 Topps Baseball Card. (The stats on the flip side actually belong to the ‘61 season, but the card was of course published the following year: the dates can be kind of confusing at first.) At this historical point, cameras were not yet accurately freezing players’ swings or throws in mid-flight. You’d therefore see a fellow posing with bat or glove in some relatively neutral, waiting position, or at most crouching as if about to field a ground ball.
So I mustn’t make too much of Yogi’s position on this card. Nevertheless, it’s suggestive. Notice that his top hand is secured somewhat more firmly on the handle, while his bottom one shows rather loose middle and index fingers. Yog was a natural right-hander; it couldn’t have been that he just didn’t want to use that bottom hand as much in the swing. Indeed, I think we may infer that he intended to use it more smartly, if not more explosively. The fingers are loose because he needs his wrist flexible in order to pull the knob in and down, tight to the body. The top hand has the “dumber” job of simply punching straight down into the pitch (and Yogi, by the way, was a pretty good amateur boxer as a kid.) Both hands are somewhat projected from the torso, which frees them to deliver this collaborative “pull-push” attack on the ball.
If all of this sounds like a page from one of my books about Deadball hitters… well, that association of ideas struck me squarely between the eyes as I was reading Allen Barra’s (no relation) excellent biography, Yogi Berra: The Eternal Yankee. I’d always heard that Yogi was a notorious bad-ball hitter, but Barra offered details that made me sit up: how Yog could drive the ball to all fields, how he could pull outside pitches, how he could tomahawk balls coming in at head-level. How does one do such things with a bat? Joe DiMaggio didn’t know. Ted Williams didn’t know. All the uppercutting power-hitters of the Fifties were mystified. It seemed to me, however—based upon all the research that I’d done into the Deadball Era—that I was reading about a Joe Jackson or a Sam Crawford: someone who walked seldom and struck out yet more seldom, who aggressively attacked pitches that his barrel could reach rather than pinning himself within the legal strike zone… who really loved to swing the bat.
Okay… so what evidence could I find that Berra was a throwback hitter whose “swing down on the ball” style had begun looking alien after World War II? Online footage wasn’t helpful in reconstructing where Yogi’s hands rested before the load, or even where they went during the load. I’ve seen extensive outtakes of the televised 1952 World Series (Game 6), however, that establish that Berra definitely didn’t rock back in a far-rear load, hugging his hands into the armpit as his teammates Mickey Mantle and Johnny Mize (and his frequent October adversary Duke Snider) did, and then spin his hips open and roll his shoulders back to generate that Fifties uppercut. The camera was very far away from the action, and I wasn’t quite sure exactly what Yog was doing… but I knew it wasn’t this.
Unfortunately, the convention in editing highlight reels was to focus on the pitcher’s delivery until the ball was released, then switch to the hitter’s swing; and at that point, naturally, you’ve already cut out a lot of preparatory activity in the batter’s box. As weak and tendentious a prop as it is, I again recur to the 1961 baseball card. As I’ve just stressed, the hands are held somewhat away from the torso, not tucked in tight in the Mantle/Mize fashion characteristic of the times; nor are they far aloft, like Roger Maris’s high cock that almost anticipated our boppers of the Nineties. In my experience of trying to squeeze every clue from dubious hints, it’s rare for a guy to strike a position like Yogi’s in the card just to freeze for the camera—rare, unless it approximates what he truly does in action. If the hitter is just offering the photographer his mug, he’ll simply rest the bat on his shoulder in a patient kind of “on deck” mode.
I’m inclined to conclude that Yogi never actually drew his hands very far above or back from his rear armpit. That would imply that the hands followed the front foot’s touchdown closely into the pitch… which would further imply, all but irresistibly, that this was a front-foot hitter—a guy who didn’t stay back after his stride to elevate, but rather shifted his weight forward virtually 100 percent. Again, that’s what I’ve been seeing for years as I researched hitters before the wars. There would have been many an exemplar, either on the Cardinals or the Browns, that Larry Berra could have seen practicing the Old School stroke when he was growing up in St. Louis.
Could I confirm some of these further assumptions, at least, from the video record available to me? See for yourself. These shots are frozen from a home-run stroke that Yogi uncorked in the 1956 World Series (the second of two homers, in fact, that he clubbed in the same game). You can find the short video from which I culled them on YouTube here. They’re grainy and blurry, as I warned you to expect of the time’s technology; but I still think we see a lot of confirmatory evidence.
I’ve made a video recently about the error of expecting a front-foot hitter to shoot erectly up on his forward leg. This might happen if the batsman arrived a little early: I’ve seen shots of a tall, lean Stan Musial finishing very erectly. But Stan (a possible model for the young Berra) would more often catapult himself onto a bent forward knee—as would Tris Speaker, to name only one great Deadballer. I’d say that Yogi is in the process of doing that in these two frames as he launches into the pitch. Notice that his hands are not particularly trailing in the stride: they’re already following the weight transfer forward. The bent back leg isn’t bearing any weight: it’s dragging as the front knee catches all of the rear-to-fore thrust.
Contact is about to be made/has just been made in the next two blurry shots. I can only keep stressing the same points. The front knee isn’t locked as the opened hip cycles weight up and back in an uppercut: it’s bending more than ever. Some observers would call the attack a “lunge”. (Comments from coaches of the day about how Yogi “did everything wrong” to get the right results are too numerous to count.) The barrel, never carried very far back, appears now to descend straight into the pitch like a club on a hunter’s quarry. I have discussed dozens of times in videos and publications how the “parallel-reverse” motion of the hands—bottom one levering the handle down and in, top one punching the barrel down and out—can drive through the heart of the ball with just the right touch of backspin. The forward weight shift allows that driving plane to be very straight and long. My theory is that this accounts for how Yogi could smack so many pitches so hard in such diverse locations around the zone—and, specifically, how he might have pulled an outside pitch if he arrived early, just by staying on it. That appears to be what has happened here.
The high finish tight over the front shoulder—not high as in the whirlybirding one-handed finish so common today, but two-handed and tight—seals the deal for me. You can find the same profile in photos of hitters pretty much until the eve of World War II. The weight has carried far forward instead of rocking back, so the torso scoots under the barrel’s abrupt, parabolic about-face rather than drawing it into the huge backward wrap that we see in classic shots of Mantle and Ted Williams. There’s more than a bit of Babe Ruth in this follow-through.
I’d like to study Yogi Berra further, though I don’t have the resources to do much beyond what is offered here. My considered opinion is that, when Berra stepped to the plate, fans of the Fifties were peering through a window in time and seeing what a Rogers Hornsby or a Chuck Klein might have been doing before the war… but most wouldn’t have known what they were seeing. The war had snapped a lot of threads. Few men who were in their prime in 1941 returned to the game in 1945 with much gas in the tank; and, perhaps even more importantly, few boys who grew up in the Forties had any word-of-mouth or “heritage of wisdom” contact with the game of the Thirties. I was a kid in the Fifties and Sixties: I know I never suspected that there was any other way to swing a bat than the way Mickey did (and Ted: but I was too young to have seen Ted).
I’m glad that I appear to have unearthed in Yogi an ambassador for many of our SmallBallSuccess lessons. He’s always been one of my favorite players, because he’s always been one of my favorite human beings. Faithful to his wife and family, meeting constant derision with good humor, accepting caricature with the philosophical shrug of a man who knows that true adversity goes far beyond bad jokes and caustic comments, Yogi Berra was a Hall of Fame person. Whether or not he is a surprise model for front-foot hitting, I am grateful for his example in other things. May he rest in eternal peace and glory.