TEDDY BALLGAME-FENWAY DREAMS

TEDDY BALLGAME

 

In a chapter on baseball in a book about legends and triumphs, we must include Ted Williams and his fabled career. Fenway Dreams, the firsthand story that follows the introduction is the first we’ve read that combines descriptions of Williams’s temperament with his methods in the batter’s box, and it’s engrossing.

But let’s set the stage by quickly reviewing some career highlights. There is so much: 1941, for example, when the U.S. was about to enter World War Two and Joe DiMaggio hit safely in 56 straight games; and Williams lifted a .399 average to .406 by going six-for-eight in a final-day doubleheader against the Philadelphia Athletics at Shibe Park. (The last hit of Williams’s red-letter day was a ringing double that splintered a loudspeaker horn on the right-field fence.)

Again in 1941, Williams’s game-winning, bottom-of-the-ninth, three-run shot off Claude Passeau of the Cubs became one of the memorable clutch hits in all-star history. The homer rebounded off the upper-deck façade in the cozy right field of Detroit’s Briggs (later Tiger) Stadium (read about another Tiger Stadium all-star blast in the story “Fall Classic” in this chapter).

Williams loved to hit in Detroit, and his career numbers would have been unmatched had it been his home city. (Yankee Stadium also has a short right field. But because of the light, shadows, and background, Williams didn’t like to hit there. And his numbers, especially in determining games, reflected it.)

In the 1946 all-star game at Fenway Park, Ted Williams hit the strangest home run of his career off Pittsburgh Pirates’ veteran right-hander Rip Sewell’s eephus pitch. Williams probably hadn’t faced Sewell before, but he had seen a similar blooper thrown by Bobo Newsom, a colorful, American League journeyman pitcher.

      Sewell’s eephus resembled a humpbacked lob about 15-20 feet in height, sort of a weak pop-up traveling in reverse from the mound to home plate. Hitters had time to adjust their chaw, hitch their pants, knock dirt out of their spikes, and check out the action in the stands while waiting for it arrive. When the eephus finally descended into the hitting zone most batters couldn’t lay off it and usually popped up, fouled it off, or missed. Stan Musial once doubled off Sewell’s eephus, but no one had homered.

The National League was in full rout, and Williams already had a home run and two singles when he came up against Rip Sewell late in the game. The mood was light, and the million-bee buzz that preceded Williams’s at bats was louder then usual since everyone in the ballpark knew what was coming. Williams shifted under Sewell’s first eephus, and the fans groaned when he fouled it into the third-base stands. Could he get a hit off this pitch? Sewell then floated a magnificent eephus into the late-afternoon sunlight. Williams shuffled forward gazing up at the arching baseball. Although he set himself well beyond the front end of the batter’s box, no umpire would dare nullify the phenomenal piece of hitting that followed. Arching his long neck toward the descending ball, Williams’s extreme uppercut swing nailed it in the same plane as the descent. It appeared at first that he generated a high infield pop-up. But quickly it developed into a towering fly ball that kept going and going until to everyone’s surprise and delight, including the laughing, base-circling Williams, it landed in the right-field bullpen over 380 feet from home plate. The eephus home run demonstrated an extraordinary of blend of skills and panache that only a Ted Williams could fashion.

Even with the deep right field fence at Fenway Park, there’s no telling the records Williams might have broken had he not missed three years while serving in World War Two and most of the 1952 and 1953 seasons during the Korean War. He still played in four decades (1939-1960), hit 521 homers, won two MVP’s, and the rare triple crown in 1942 and 1947. Williams is the only American Leaguer to win two Triple Crowns. Regrettably, he didn’t win the MVP either year because of vindictive sportswriters voting against him because he didn’t kowtow to them.

Williams had a career on-base percentage of nearly .500, a .344 lifetime batting average, ⁴⁴ and he homered in his last time at bat. (Elegantly captured in John Updike’s New Yorker story, “Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu.”)

Never getting up there again must have been very tough on Williams. As former star player and Red Sox general manager Eddie Collins said, “Ted lives for his next at-bat.” (Eddie Collins negotiated the rights to minor leaguers Ted Williams and future Hall-of-Fame second baseman Bobby Doerr on the same West Coast scouting trip. In the ongoing baseball story, it ranks as the most productive scouting trip to date.)

Ted Williams had many nicknames: “The Kid,” “The Splendid Splinter,” and “The Thumper.” He was delighted when the small child of a friend dubbed him “Teddy Ballgame.”

When Williams was called back into the Marine Corps early in the 1952 season many people didn’t believe he would be able to come back and play at all, never mind at the same level. (Williams’s answer to this was a home run at Fenway in his last at bat before leaving to serve in the Korean War.) And back he came at age 35 in late 1953 to hit .407 in 37 games. And he hit .345 in the full season of 1954.

Pitcher Gene Conley (the only player to win a championship in both the Major Leagues and the NBA) said about Williams, “Confidence oozed out of him. He took something away from you even before you threw a pitch.” ⁴⁵

Next to his .406 average in 1941, Ted Williams’s second greatest single-season, batting-average accomplishment came 16 years later in 1957. He was 39, slow on the bases, and batted .388, only a short hot streak away from another .400 season. Williams later said something like: I may not be the best hitter of all time, but I’m probably the best old hitter of all time. (Some observers would counter that Barry Bonds in his late thirties and early forties was more productive. However, it must be noted that Williams’s only vice was chocolate frappes.)

Beyond the God-given talents, including binocular 20-10 eyesight, how did he do it all? Was it indomitable will, the 500¾yes, 500¾pushups a day, or all those chocolate frappes from Brigham’s, his favorite Boston ice cream store? Or maybe it was dedication in the batting cage.

A few years ago, an older friend wrote a diary-based story for this book, and some excerpts based on that memoir follow. As a local 18-year-old high school and semipro pitcher, our friend was selected by the Boston Red Sox to attend a baseball school at Fenway Park in the spring of 1950. The school was run by Hugh Duffy, who hit .438 in 1894, a Major League record. Hugh was then in his eighties and a respected teacher. Our friend was signed by the Red Sox and played minor league baseball until drafted into the Army during the Korean War.

He said that during his four weeks at the school Ted Williams came out nearly every morning of home games to hit in the cage. No other Red Sox or visiting player ever came out for extra hitting, which explains a lot. The writing and keen observations give full flavor to Williams’s expansive personality and love of hitting. Here also is the only description I’ve read that details his matchless system, and how those methods made him the greatest hitter of them all, a legend who is thought of with unusual reverence. ⁴⁶

 FENWAY DREAMS

He bolted up out of the dugout runway and stormed onto the field larger than life. When Williams arrived we didn’t look at or see much else for as long as he was out there.

It appeared that Williams was used to the awestruck gawking and didn’t think much about it. The world operated in terms of Ted Williams, not the other way around. I didn’t detect any arrogance, it was the way he was.

Williams and his batting-practice pitcher of the day warmed up along the sideline while keeping up a steady stream of rollicking, cuss-filled banter as they fired back and forth with increasing velocity. All of Ted’s motions were big, throwing the ball with a raring back hop and letting it fly, claiming great stuff, and no one could have hit that one. He even caught the ball with enthusiasm, gathering it in with a huge embrace and firing it back with a laugh and a roar.

The batting practice pitcher said he was loose. Williams nodded and strode eagerly to the three bats he had brought out. He hovered over them, testing the feel of each, completely absorbed, almost listening to the bats. He settled on one and moved quickly to the cage, bat on left shoulder, head inclined toward the bat. He was so glad to be there, jiggling like a skittish thoroughbred.

Williams paused near the cage and took several of his classically fluid wraparound swings. The bat seemed to be part of him. You could hear the whoosh 25 feet away. Then he ducked his six-three frame into the batting cage moving fast and loose and looking like he had just gotten home after being released from jail. He was in a state of total absorption and absolute delight. I never saw a man so happy in his work. Bursting with animation, booming comments to the pitcher, Williams got himself arranged at the plate. I hustled to get a place opposite him, nose to the netting.

This was no straight balls at 75-mph batting practice session. The big pitcher combined a little wildness with a wicked slider and a fastball that sounded like a hornet zipping by. Williams stood in and only leaned away when pitches were tight. Whether hit or taken, the location of marginal pitches was discussed and often debated, but always in kidding terms and in language that a master sergeant would appreciate.

I’d heard that he could be a difficult person but never saw it. The Ted Williams I saw on many occasions was good-natured in the batter’s box. His temperament allowed him to remain the incredibly intense perfectionist while also maintaining good humor. He didn’t seem to take himself seriously. Rather, he took the hitting seriously, but didn’t play it out as tension on others.

For example, if the pitcher thought he had a corner and Williams disagreed, it was never in a vociferous tone, and after the usual arguing and kidding back and forth, he would often say something like, “OK, I guess you got lucky and snuck one in on me.” Usually, though, the batting practice pitcher and Williams agreed on location. I never sensed the pitcher was a panderer. Williams was obviously likable, and the disputes were never personal in a harsh sense. It appeared to be all about the hitting which seemed to lodge in every fiber of his being.

His head was aligned so that both of his eyes faced directly toward the pitcher. Williams’s cap was tipped up on the right side to afford better visibility. His stance was moderately closed and the knees slightly flexed. I never saw a player who looked as hitterish.

at the plate.

Williams held the bat vertically near the launch point, choked about a half inch. The only movement while waiting for the pitch was a continuous wringing of the bat handle. He certainly wasn’t worried about keeping the label up or facing the pitcher.

Williams’s swing mechanics were perfectly balanced: Slight front-leg and hip cock, and a small pop or pump of the hands as the bat moved back about six inches to the launch position in rhythm with a short, flat stride. He stayed back and down on a dipping rear leg, with the ball of the foot firmly planted, as the hips snapped through followed by the trunk, shoulders, arms and wrists. The balanced follow through ended directly opposite the start point of the swing.

The repeatable process was grooved and flawless; and the lightning-quick bat was short to the baseball. Williams’s slightly uppercut swing was so explosive that on each one he grunted and saliva shot out of his mouth. The drives into the outfield either took off like well-hit tee shots that rattled the seats in the distant right-field stands and center-field bleachers or sank like stones from the topspin. The swing was incomparable, and the results were astonishing.

Williams hit low liners so hard that you lost sight of them off the bat as they screamed out of the batting cage. You could only pick them up as they crossed, pea-size, over the near cut of the infield dirt. Nelson Fox, the able and resourceful White Sox second baseman, took many hits away from Williams by situating in short right field 50-60 feet beyond the outside cut of the infield. First basemen were out on the grass, but not as far back as they would have liked because they needed to reach the bag ahead of the surprisingly quick Williams. Shortstops who shifted to the right side of the infield also played Williams deep, especially without runners on first or second. It was mostly strategy, but self-defense was a definite factor in the positioning.

I had a tryout with the Dodgers at Braves Field around this time and had an up-close chance to see Gil Hodges and Duke Snider hit in the cage. They both hit tracers very hard and far, but the velocity of the baseball off Williams’s bat was another order of magnitude.

I stood riveted opposite him listening to the harmony of the bat hitting the ball. It was a consistent tone since everything was hit on the sweet spot. Wherever the strike-zone location: up, down, inside or outside, the distinctive, pleasing crack rang out as the ball jumped off his bat like a rocket off its sled. Talk about smoking the ball; I thought I could smell smoke.

Williams waited on pitches, and his hands stayed back so long, and the swing came so late, it always looked like the ball was on top of him and he was going to take. Then rip, the bat lashed out, and whack the ball was punished in a stupefying display of single-minded ferocity.

I also noticed that Williams was constantly inventing situations and discussing them with himself: ”O.K., three and two, two outs, bases loaded, two runs down, need a double over the first baseman’s head.” The ball would usually be driven to the spot he was talking about.

Williams not only hit everything hard, his supernatural eye-hand coordination gave him the ability to make impact as necessary below, above, and in the middle of the baseball. Incredibly, most of the drives that stayed in the field looked like they would have been hits, despite the shift. Put another way, Williams could not only tattoo the baseball, he could place the line drives where they were unlikely to be caught.

The hard throwing, batting-practice pitcher mopped some sweat and gathered up baseballs. When he was ready Williams bellowed at him, “OK, Bush, (most everyone was Bush, as in bush league) five minutes more, mix it up, and use that nickel curve (slider).” I moved behind the cage to check out the location of the pitches and quickly confirmed what I had heard: Williams rarely swung at a pitch outside the strike zone. If the baseball was a fraction off the plate he would take it. If the ball touched the strike zone he would usually lace it. Fouls or ground balls were rare. Because of the deep right field at Fenway, several of the long drives that didn’t go out would have been home runs in most other ballparks.

     These were breathtaking shows of batting science, artistry, and mastery I will never forget, and a special gift to be able to watch hitting genius from just a few feet away.⁴⁷

           

Postscript. When my friend saw Williams hit in the summer of 1950, it’s likely that at 31 Ted was at the peak of his hitting powers. The once gangling stripling, formerly known as The Splendid Splinter, had developed himself into a physically mature man with heavily muscled arms and shoulders. In July, Williams played in the all-star game at Comiskey Park in Chicago. While attempting to catch a Ralph Kiner drive, he crashed into the left field wall and fractured his elbow in several places. His two-month absence knocked the Red Sox out of playoff contention. Williams claimed that he was never the same hitter again. It’s unlikely that American League pitchers supported that notion.

Korea. We mentioned at the opening of this story that Ted Williams served in Korea in 1952-1953. He was a Marine fighter pilot who flew combat missions, and was nearly killed by hostile fire on one of them. Another friend of ours was a Marine control tower operator in Korea at the same time and told us the following story:

“I was on duty when a panther jet with the radio out and the wheels up made a fast low approach smoking badly and showing some flames. When it crash-landed and skidded down the runway on its belly I thought it would blow up for sure. When the plane finally stopped and the canopy opened, this lanky guy crawls out, jumps to the ground, races across the tarmac, tears around the corner of a building and drops his drawers. I didn’t find out until I talked to the ground crew in the mess hall that the pilot was Ted Williams.”⁴⁸

As said above, Williams was the last player to hit .400, and with a .388 average in 1957, he came close to doing it again. Since 1941, three other Hall-of-Famers have flirted with .400 over a full season: Rod Carew, .388 in 1977, and George Brett, .390 in 1980. (Tony Gwynn batted .394 in 1994, but it was a strike-shortened season that ended in mid-August.)

SOURCES

TEDDY BALLGAME  FENWAY DREAMS

44 Courtesy of the National Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown, NY,http://www.baseballhalloffame.org/hofers_and_honorees/hofer_bios/williams_ted.htm, available as of 7/21/05

45 Baseball Hall of Fame, Williams

46 Baseball Hall of Fame, Williams    

47 Told by a Friend of the Authors

48 Told by a Friend of the Authors

ARTICLES

Updike, J., “Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu,” The New Yorker, October 22, 1960

Richard J. Noyes coaches pitchers and hitters individually, at all levels. He was formerly Associate Director of the Center for Advanced Engineering Study at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Elements of this article have been excerpted from the print and e-Book: Guts in the Clutch: 84 Legendary Triumphs, Heartbreaks, and Wild Finishes in 12 Sports, with a Foreword by Drew Olson of ESPN.   AMAZON: http://amzn.to/eaACDW       NOOK: http://bit.ly/L2W4t0

Also by Richard J. Noyes, Larceny of Love, a print and e-Book novel in which one of the main characters is a professional baseball pitcher who suffers from sudden, extreme, unexplained throwing wildness. 

AMAZON:  http://amzn.to/N76VRC         NOOK: http://bit.ly/M7uOWh

Both books were co-authored by Pamela J. Robertson

Also see new World War Two novel by Richard J. Noyes, Soldier Flier Prisoner Partisan: Missing in Action and Presumed Dead, inspired by the experiences of a B-17 pilot who fought the Nazis with Polish partisans near Auschwitz.   http://amzn.to/19QmSVh

Other Baseball  and Sports Articles By Richard J. Noyes:

Only in Baseball, The One-Arm Follow Through

Extreme Throwing Wildness: Stories of Heartbreak and Hope

Winners Need Long Ball and Small Ball

Myths and Mechanics of the Flow

Clyde, Jackie, Burt, Preacher and Me

Knack is Crucial in Sports

The Enduring Benefits of a Deep Follow Through

Moving Targets Make Pitching Harder

Crew Knack

Knack for the Life Aquatic

Knack of Being a Lefty

Knack of the Loose Huddle

Richard J. Noyes

email: rnoyes285@gmail.com

email: rnoyes100@yahoo.com

@rnoyes1