I’m almost afraid to raise my voice in a peep, having heard both Trevor Bauer and Paul LoDuca taking Rob Manfred to the woodshed… and their venting was powerful. In the matter of the Commissioner’s brutal chiropraxis on the ailing playoffs, the critics seem spot-on to me. I’ve long ago aired my own plan for post-seasonal baseball: create a third league, so that you have the East Coast, the West Coast, and flyover America all covered; make all regular play intra-league and shorten the season (eleven teams playing sixteen—or even fifteen—games against each league rival); ditch the All Star Game for the Home Run Derby and other “fan favorites” (place-hitting contest?) to celebrate mid-season, which now has major significance (see following); have a season-ending championship round between first-half and second-half winners of all three leagues; then stage a tournament of five games between the surviving three teams, reverting to a double-elimination format if no clear victor emerges after the scuffle.
The World Series Tournament, by the way, could feature every game in a ballpark familiar to neither of the two participants. One of them, naturally, would be designated “home”; but the Yankees and the Dodgers would fight it out in Kansas City, while the Cubs and the Yanks would go to Seattle. This “Super Bowl” approach to venue would draw spectators to the event whose hometown clubs suffered disappointing seasons. It would also minimize the possibility of some extraordinary home-field advantage (such as doomed-stadium blowers that rev to full blast in the bottom of each inning) producing a warped outcome. Wouldn’t that all be cool?
Instead, we now have… I don’t know. I haven’t been able to figure it out yet. I don’t think Rob Manfred has, either.
But as far as other changes are concerned… the “face three hitters” rule for relief pitchers doesn’t bother me at all. There’s nothing more tedious than watching Aaron Boone or Joe Madden come strolling back out to the mound with an arm in the air just after a new pitcher has induced a fly ball. By the way, that particular alteration in the rules isn’t undermining the historical game, either. On the contrary, the manager’s yoyoing between dugout and mound during the late innings is something you’d never have seen before about 2000, or even later. It most emphatically does slow the game down; but more to the point, it creates a contest of technicians and specialists. It drains versatility and individual heroics from the performance.
Was it Jesse Orosco and Roger McDowell whom the Mets would alternately nudge off the mound into the outfield during big games, swapping one for the other as righty and lefty hitters stepped into the box? I’m not talking about a formally “two-position player”, something also covered (rather needlessly, it seems) by this season’s rule changes; I mean literally putting your neck on the block, as manager, by allowing a pitcher to serve in left field or at first base during an at-bat, then switching him (no warm-up tosses allowed) with the hurler who just fanned Rusty. That was fun to watch—and it was also always perfectly legal, though few skippers had the guts to try it. The better bet is the pitcher who can frustrate hitters on both sides of the plate.
What really slows the game down, however, continues not to be addressed, or even (in most quarters) recognized. Maybe it’s so obvious that we fail to see by looking too hard… or maybe the passage of time has produced a smokescreen. My wife and I were both virtually put to sleep last week by watching a 2019 inter-league match-up between the Phillies and the Indians that should have been critical for both teams. The Phils were fighting mathematical elimination, and the Indians began the day a half-game out of the second wildcard spot. I wondered why the whole thing was so dull. As an experiment, I dug out the first game of the 1975 Reds/Red Sox Series: Gullett vs. Tiant, hard-throwing lefty against Satchel Paige Redux. Yeah, it was fun watching El Tiante’s gyrations and contortions… but a lot more was involved. The tempo was entirely different. Hitters stayed in the box, or stepped out just long enough to study the third-base coach. Pitchers got their sign and went to work. (Gullett actually balked at just about every delivery with runners on base, though it was Luis who was famously called for balking—by the other league’s umpire—during one whirlybird wind-up.)
Compared to those innings, the crucial Phillies/Indians contest was a sleeper. Hitters seemed reluctant to step up and hit, pitchers to toe the rubber and throw. Everyone was so touchy, so prissy. “Wait, I have to redo the Velcro on my gloves.” “Wait, I don’t think I want to repeat that pitch so soon.” Damn, guys! Just play the game!
As far as I know (though I haven’t seen confirmation), the rule requiring pitchers to discharge an offering within twenty seconds is now in full effect… but why do we need such regulations? Why don’t players want to play—because it almost seems that they don’t. Or, to say it better (because I know that’s not the explanation), they seem focused on an excessively narrow objective rather than on the composite endeavor. You don’t need a perfect pitch: you just need a pitch that produces an out. You don’t need a jack: you just need to put the ball in play somewhere. Instead, due to what appears a kind of over-analysis or misplaced emphasis, pitchers end up surrendering huge tallies of walks on borderline calls, while hitters help them out with huge tallies of strikeouts on those same calls. Of course, the umpire catches grief from one party or the other, every time.
I particularly noticed that batsmen, in the 2019 game, were swinging from the heels whenever they did decide to offer. All or nothing, every cut. Instead of Pete Rose setting up far back from the plate and trying to go the other way, Francisco Lindor was putting a sweet but vicious uppercut stroke on everything within his red zone. I wonder… could the sheer vigor that goes into these all-out swings require more recovery time? I’m sure the approach must induce more hitters to let more pitches go by—not because they’re balls, but because they’re not home-run suitable. It appears to me, as well, that more pitches are fouled in such not-so-precise attacks… which, naturally, runs more time off the clock as a new ball is tossed to the mound and must undergo an introductory scrub. And I can’t really blame pitchers for trying to hit an exact spot each time, since it’s clear that their adversary intends to punish any mistake to the maximum.
Are umpires, too, not placed more in the spotlight when so many pitches are taken and so much rides on the close call? I know they don’t always get it right: I’m sitting before the tube fuming at them along with every other Braves fan when slow-mo replay proves that Nick Markakis got burned on something three inches off the plate. (For some reason, that happens a lot to Nick.) But Markakis is a superior two-strike hitter; like Pete Rose, he likes the opposite field. For every one of him, there are twenty others whose afternoon will be ruined if they can’t browbeat the Man in the Iron Mask into relaxing his standards.
Bats are shorter by a good four or five inches than they typically were when I was growing up, and they also carry nothing above the trademark that stands a chance of fisting a pitch over the infield. So the stubborn wait for a mistake-pitch right in the wheelhouse is understandable, I guess. Sure, you could warn the managers as they bring out their line-ups that you’re not calling Velcro time-outs today; and if other umpires emulate you, and if the trend continues throughout the season, game times would unquestionably diminish. But would “action” increase, when premier players are already trading forty home runs for a .228 average?
In my opinion, the dynamics of hitting have to change if the game is both to speed up and also recover its old excitement. I don’t expect Nomar Mazara or Hunter Renfroe to start taking more concise swings and bid for a batting title… but why are Ozzie Albies and Rugned Odor trying to pump everything over the pull-side fence? The game is slow because offense is two-dimensional. Pitchers get hitters out because hitters have made themselves easy to get out. Nobody has yet explained to my satisfaction how you get away with leaving a single infielder on one side of the diamond against hitter after Major League hitter and win games… yet such is our contemporary sport.
If batsmen occupying a few key slots in the line-up would adopt the approach that we recommend at SmallBallSuccess.com, you’d have a very different—and much more enjoyable—experience from your couch or seat in Row 15.