Professional Documents
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Mental ABCs of Pitching, The - H. A. Dorfman
Mental ABCs of Pitching, The - H. A. Dorfman
H. A. DORFMAN
Guilford, Connecticut
An imprint of Globe Pequot
Trade Division of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
Introduction
Adjustments
Adversity
Aggressiveness
Analysis
Anger
Anxiety
Approach
Arousal
Attitude
Balance
Behavior
Belief
Big Inning
Body Language
Breathing
Catchers
Character
Closers
Coaching Self
Competitor
Concentration
Confidence
Consistency
Contact
Control
Count
Courage
Dedication
Discipline
Emotions
Excuses
Execution
Fear of Failure
Fifth Inning
Finishing Hitters
First Inning
Gathering
Giving In
Goals
Habits
Hitters
Intelligence
Intensity
Joy
K’s
Learning
Mantra
Negativism
Nice Guys
Outs
Perspective
Poise
Positivism
Preparation
Pressure
Quitting
Relaxation
Relentlessness
Response
Responsibility
Results
Rubber
Selection
Self-esteem
Self-fulfilling Prophecy
Self-talk
Shut-down Innings
Simplicity
Strikes
Target
Task at Hand
Tempo
Umpires
Urgency
Visualization
Warrior
Will
“X”
Yesterday
Zeros
Appendix A
Appendix B
Dedicated to Karl Kuehl,
Who saw the trail, built the wagon,
And put me in the driver’s seat.
FOREWORD
By Rick Wolff
When Harvey Dorfman passed away in 2011 at the age of 75,
major league baseball lost one of its all-time greats.
Over the last 30 years, just about every major league player,
general manager, field manager, and agent either knew Harvey or
certainly had heard of his impact. They all knew of the mental magic
he worked on talented ballplayers.
Harvey was indeed a singular individual, certainly one of a kind.
So . . . who was Harvey Dorfman?
In short, he introduced the world of major league baseball to the
wonders of sports psychology. And he did it in a most unique and
unusual way.
You know the old Yogi Berra expression that “half of this game is
90 percent mental”? I don’t know if Dorfman ever met Yogi, but trust
me on this: Harvey certainly agreed with Yogi. Baseball, which is a
game based upon constant failure and daily disappointment, is
pockmarked by all sorts of mental distractions, obsessions,
anxieties, and even superstitions. Harvey knew all of this, inhaled it
all, and helped pro players of all stripes come to terms with their
fears.
A man of apparent contradictions, Harvey was a most educated
and literate gentleman. He was a man of letters, a true scholar. Yet
to better communicate with ballplayers, he could swear like a
drunken sailor with enough profanity mixed in to peel paint off a wall.
Harvey offered no apology for this approach; he just knew that
ballplayers would feel more comfortable with him if he spoke the
language of dugouts.
But Harvey was indeed a lifelong lover of books. When I first met
him and his lovely wife, Anita, at their home in Prescott, Arizona, an
entire side of their living room wall was stacked from floor to ceiling
with books and more books. Originally trained as a high school
English teacher, Dorfman consumed the New York Times Book
Review each week in much the same way he would go over the daily
baseball box scores.
Back in the 1970s Harvey, Anita, and their two kids resided in
Vermont, where Dorfman taught in a small private school and wrote
newspaper columns. He was very proud that he coached the
school’s girls’ basketball team to great success. But during the
summer months Dorfman would attend Vermont Expos minor league
games, and it was there that he befriended Karl Kuehl, who oversaw
the Expos minor league system.
Over the course of that summer, Kuehl became so impressed
with Dorfman’s approach to baseball that when Kuehl left the Expos
to join the Oakland Athletics, he made sure to hire Harvey as a kind
of mental skills coach.
This was a totally new concept. Understand that this was
unprecedented in organized baseball. For example, when I was
playing in the Detroit Tigers organization in the early 1970s, after
having studied psychology as an undergraduate at Harvard, the
prevailing attitude in pro baseball was that “any player who needs to
talk to a shrink needs to have his head examined.”
As such, when Dorfman was hired by Oakland, this was a
monumental breakthrough for sports psychology. But in truth, Harvey
was never trained as a psychologist; he was a schoolteacher and
coach. He never had a doctorate in psychology.
But he possessed one amazing skill: He knew how to
communicate with ballplayers. He knew how to get them to open up
about their fears, worries, and insecurities.
And then, once the superstar millionaire ballplayer would confide
in Harvey about his batting slump or how he can’t throw strikes any
more, Harvey would actively listen. But he didn’t offer sympathy or
offer a kindly smile.
Rather, just the opposite. Harv would roar at the player and
demand in a loud voice: “Okay, hot shot, you’re hitting under the
Mendoza line. . . . Tell me—what are you going to do about it? How
are you going to make the appropriate adjustments?”
In other words, Harvey was very big on getting players to
confront their shortcomings and failings. Harvey would often tell me
that he saw his job to “hold a mirror to these guys” so they could deal
with their issues. “Hey,” Harvey would bark at me, “somebody has to
tell these guys the truth! That’s my job!”
Trust me, Harvey was not big on telling major leaguers to “just
take a deep breath” or to “just think positive thoughts.” Harvey didn’t
put any stock in those approaches. Ironically, these days it seems
that lots of sports psychologists who work for major league teams do
offer that kind of Pollyanna advice. Harvey would scoff, “Don’t give
me any of that hold hands and sing Kumbaya BS! That’s not going to
get you to hit better!”
Harvey once told me that he felt that too many stars today are
surrounded by so many sycophants and “yes-men” that very few of
these players ever hear the truth. Dorfman saw his role as providing
a sharp contrast—being the loud voice of reality. And once the player
heard what Dorfman was saying, he would begin to get a sense of
what was holding him back. That was the key.
Take Jamie Moyer. The oldest pitcher to ever win a game in the
big leagues at age 49, Moyer writes in his autobiography, Just Tell
Me I Can’t, that he owes his entire major league career to Dorfman.
If you recall, Moyer didn’t throw hard enough to break a pane of
glass. But he pitched in the bigs for 25 years and came close to
winning 300 games.
As is written on the cover of his book: “Moyer was just about
finished as a big leaguer at 29 until he fatefully encountered a
gravel-voiced, highly confrontational mental skills coach named
Harvey Dorfman. Listening to the ‘in-your-face’ provocations of
Dorfman, Moyer began to re-invent and re-construct his mental
approach to the game.”
But there were a lot more followers than just Jamie Moyer.
Dozens more. I once visited Harvey’s home when he moved to North
Carolina later in his life. His office walls were covered with personally
autographed photos of major league stars, all with inscriptions like:
“Harvey—I owe my career to you” or “If you weren’t for you, Harv, I
wouldn’t still be in the big leagues.”
The list of players who sought out Dorfman? Names like Roy
Halladay . . . Brad Lidge . . . Greg Maddux . . . Jim Abbott . . . Al
Leiter . . . Kevin Brown . . . Mike Pelfrey . . . Rick Ankiel . . . Bob
Welch . . . and on and on. All sorts of big name stars, all of whom
had worked with and listened to Harvey.
Harvey would always blush when the top players referred to him
as “baseball’s best kept secret.” They would lovingly refer to him as
“baseball’s shrink.” But Harvey would laugh in protest and say, “I’m
not a shrink. . . . I’m a stretch! I’m trying to get these guys to stretch
their minds!”
***
The year was 1989. The phone rang in my Manhattan office, and a
man I didn’t know was telling me how much he enjoyed my book The
Psychology of Winning Baseball. He said he knew I had played pro
ball and had studied psychology. Flattered by such an unexpected
call, I was eager to get the caller’s name.
He said his name was Harvey Dorfman.
But there was more. Harvey explained that he worked for the
Oakland Athletics as their sports psychology coach, and that he was
always being approached by other major league teams to jump ship
to their club. He said he was very happy working for Oakland and
asked whether it would be okay if he gave my name to other major
league teams if they were looking for a sports psychology coach.
“Sure, that’s more than fine with me,” I told Harvey. I was very
flattered. But deep down, I really didn’t expect much to happen.
But something did happen. Within the next few days, I started to
receive phone calls from no fewer than six major league general
managers. Hank Peters of the Indians; Roland Hemond from the
Orioles; Jerry Reinsdorf, the owner of the White Sox; and so forth.
They were all calling me at the suggestion of Harvey Dorfman.
Suddenly I found myself being courted like a college recruit as
each GM was offering me a deal to come and work with their
players. I ended up signing with the Indians because I was
impressed with Hank Peters and his soon-to-become successor
John Hart. A young Dan O’Dowd was Hart’s assistant. (Dan went
onto become the GM of the Rockies). Plus the Indians had some
young, talented kids in their minor league system like Jim Thome,
Manny Ramirez, Albert Belle, Charlie Nagy, and so on.
In short, solely thanks to Harvey—a man I had never met—I got
the chance of a lifetime to work for a number of years with the
Cleveland Indians at the highest levels as their roving sports
psychology coach. I even received a 1995 American League
championship ring for efforts with the Tribe.
Here’s the bottom line: As of today there’s no wing in the Hall of
Fame for sports psychology, but clearly if there were one, Harvey
Dorfman would be a first-ballot unanimous choice. He was
absolutely unique. And the best news is that his legacy lives on with
his extraordinarily well-written books on the mental side of baseball.
For years, aspiring ballplayers have devoured Harvey’s books.
They have become de facto mandatory reading at all levels of the
game.
So consider yourself lucky. You’re about to turn the page and
learn from the master. . . . Harvey Dorfman.
Rick Wolff is one of the nation’s leading experts on sports
psychology and is the longtime host of “The Sports Edge” on WFAN
Radio in New York City. Drafted by the Detroit Tigers after his junior
year at Harvard, Wolff played two years in the minors before going
on to a career in coaching, sports psychology, publishing, and sports
commentary. You can read more about him at askcoachwolff.com.
INTRODUCTION
Not too long ago, I had a telephone conversation with 1990 Cy
Young Award winner, Bob Welch. Bobby, who had been a devoted
reader of The Mental Game of Baseball, ended our chat by saying.
“You know, you ought to write a book just on the mental game of
pitching. Pitching is what the game’s all about. Pitching IS the game.
You know that.”
Well, yes, I do believe that—and, lo and behold, I found myself
following his advice and writing that book. This book.
In The Mental Game of Baseball, Karl Kuehl and I attempted to
help athletes, coaches, and fans understand the mental inhibitors to
performance and to offer strategies for getting rid of those inhibitors
—allowing the athlete’s talent to fully express itself. Easier said than
done. We knew that. The responsibility for application was, is, and
always will be the athlete’s—entirely.
The Mental Game of Baseball is a fully developed presentation,
with lengthy chapters on responsibility, dedication, mental discipline,
and the like.
The Mental ABCs of Pitching is a handbook, so to speak, a more
succinct A-to-Z reference guide to the problems every pitcher can
face before, during, and after competition—and strategies for solving
these problems. The book is meant to be a companion to The Mental
Game of Baseball, not a replacement. Naturally, it is specific to
pitching. The book is an alphabetical compendium of my 15 years of
experience as a mental skills instructor/counselor with the Oakland
A’s, the Florida Marlins, and the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.
The book is not all-inclusive for two reasons. First, I did not think
it necessary to discuss everything I know about pitching. Second, I
do not know everything there is to know about pitching.
The topics listed are the ones that most frequently (always?)
come up when talking with a player about his pitching. I would wish
the book to be comprehensive, but I realize there will be some topics
not treated, either by choice or by inadvertent omission. Most listings
are clearly interrelated; sometimes they seem—and may well be—
synonymous. I would hope to spare the reader tedious repetitions.
Yet, the interrelatedness should illustrate and emphasize the fact
that effective pitching in competition results from the applications of a
very basic core of mental principles. Pitching is not just the activity of
physically throwing a ball. On the other hand, it isn’t, and shouldn’t
be, complicated; people are complicated; baseball is not. This book
speaks to that complexity and simplicity.
Some entries are quite brief, either because the topic needs no
elaboration on the obvious, or because the topic overlaps with
another entry in the book. Others, of course, require more expansive
treatment.
These ABCs address the ways pitchers can inhibit and limit their
effectiveness. More importantly, they reveal how these same
pitchers, when allowing themselves to apply the appropriate mental
skills to the simplicity of the game, can improve themselves and
enhance their performance considerably.
The greatest percentage of my time has been spent working with
pitchers. They are, after all, the sinecure on the baseball field, on an
elevated stage of dirt, an island in a sea of grass (or turf); the only
offensive player on the defensive field. Action begins when the
pitcher delivers the ball. He is proactive; the hitter reactive. At least,
that’s the way it SHOULD be. All too often, however, the pitcher
forfeits that edge.
This “handbook” is meant to help the pitcher recognize, develop,
and maintain the advantage that is built into the game for him. It is, in
the end, the pitcher’s responsibility to integrate these strategies and
philosophies with behavior. Actions, we all know, speak louder than
words. At the end of each entry is a most important section: “WHAT
THE PITCHER SHOULD DO.” These are the mental and physical
keys that will allow and encourage appropriate actions to “speak” for
the pitcher. They are mainly mental activities, of course, that lead to
the penultimate physical one of executing the next pitch.
It might be useful to the reader to glance at the complete Table of
Contents before beginning the book. This will allow for familiarity with
terms being used in the “SHOULD DO” sections. Helpful cross-
references will then be made with greater ease.
I hope readers, Bob Welch included, find these references and
entries interesting and instructive.
—H.A. Dorfman
“I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and life,
whose fountains are within.”
—Samuel Coleridge
∎ ADVERSITY
Adversity is, at the same time, a formidable test and a stem
teacher. The confrontation with difficulty, problems, or failure
introduces people to themselves. Henry Fielding wrote that
“adversity is the trial of principle. Without it a man hardly knows
whether he is honest or not.” Whether he can pass the test and learn
from the experience.
During the course of my daily talks with the team before
stretching each spring training, I’ve invariably included the reminder,
“If you want to know who I am, watch me when things aren’t going
my way.” That’s an indicator I always use when observing others,
when observing pitchers during competition. Unfortunately, many fail
the test.
Lucretius wrote, “Look at the man in the midst of doubt and
danger...It is then that true utterances are wrung from [his]
recesses... The mask is torn off; the reality remains.”
Here’s a recurring reality: A pitcher is sailing along with a two-run
lead going into the sixth inning. He gets into some trouble; the score
becomes tied. He’s scuffling. He “needs an out.” Two men on, two
out. He makes a pitch and gets a groundball to short. The shortstop
boots it.
I cannot count how many times I’ve seen the pitcher come
unglued in this circumstance, or one similar to it. His responses to an
adverse situation—the disappointment that comes from thinking he
had closed out the inning, only to have an error committed behind
him—takes him out of his game, away from his approach, into a fog
of frustration or anger or selfpity. If I had a dollar for every pitcher
who failed to finish that inning, I’d have a wallet thicker than this
book.
The pitcher’s behavior was revealing and unacceptable. His ego
took over. His thoughts centered on himself—on what was
happening to him—instead of on the situation and what he could
make happen to improve or remedy it. Circumstance controlled him
and he took on a victim’s mentality, giving himself no chance to “get
the job done.” Typically—my wallet gets fatter—the pitcher would
invoke, “Here we go again,” instead of, “Here I go.” Therein is the
difference between being the hunter and being the prey.
Some of the indicators I’ve witnessed at such times were:
immediate drop of velocity, over-throwing, terrible body language,
complete loss of interest and energy—quitting. Courage and
discipline were not in evidence.
It should be mentioned here that all of us, at one time or another,
meet with adversity away from the field, as well. The serious illness
of a family member, for example, can be a terrible burden and
distraction. At the ballpark my advice to players in such cases has
been simple and direct. First, it must be determined whether the
player should be elsewhere. Is there something he can do to remedy
the situation or solve the problem? If so, then I encourage him to
stop agonizing about what to do and fulfill his responsibility. Do what
needs to be done.
If there is nothing that can be done—no immediate control the
player can exert over the adverse circumstance to improve it—I try to
help that player concentrate on what he should be doing at the field.
That is, functioning professionally and effectively during a
complicated time. Easy to say, hard to do. How many times will the
reader see these words on these pages? If he had a dollar for every
time...
A pitcher may feel ill himself—or tired—before and during
competition. The best competitors pitch effectively even when they
are not at their physical best. Actually, the body most often will
provide the pitcher what he asks for if he wants to “win the war.” The
body’s sympathetic nervous system kicks in as compensation for the
fatigue or illness. A “battler” will get an extra adrenal charge.
Everyone who has ever competed can remember a day (days!)
when, though he felt terrible, his performance was wonderful.
When facing adversity, a choice must be made. Will it be fight—
or flight? “Tough” pitchers will last longer than tough times.
∎ ANALYSIS
The catch-phrases are clever and hold elements of truth:
1) “analysis equals paralysis”
2) “no brain, no pain”
3) “ignorance is bliss.”
2) Though brains may register pain, they don’t cause it. Every
pitcher I’ve ever met has had a brain with enough capacity to allow
its owner to function well. Poor function by the pitcher comes from
poor use of that brain. Or no use at all. Also, I’ve seen players with
the most limited intellectual ability feel the pain of frustration and
failure. Pain is not exclusive to smart players. Actually, the bigger the
brain, so to speak, the more able a player will be to understand and
solve whatever issue is facing him. Yet, it’s also true that the more
fertile a player’s mind is, the more capable he is of inventing
scenarios that will cause “pain.” And that’s why the cliché of “no
brain, no pain” is invoked by so many players. (“Just kidding,” many
players tell me when using the phrase while talking with me. But
“many a true feeling is expressed in jest.”) Those who hold this
feeling thereby hold the brain responsible, instead of the self that
uses it ineffectively.
∎ ANGER
“Anger,” my friend Frederick Buechner has written, “in many ways
is a feast... The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is
yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.”
People who are continually angry devour, at least, much of what
is good about them. An angry pitcher loses his capacity to think—to
rationally assess, understand and solve whatever needs solution
before his next pitch. Anger brings on the loss of control and further
results in disfunction. During competition, that is tantamount to
becoming a “skeleton.”
The angry pitcher’s brain systematically sounds an alarm system
for the automatic nervous system. Adrenaline pours into the
bloodstream. Blood pressure increases, breathing become
abnormal. The pitcher is ready for a “fight,” rather than “flight.” Yes,
he’s willing, but unfortunately, he’s not able. An angry pitcher can’t
think, can’t see the target, can’t control his muscles. That makes it
rather difficult to locate a pitch. He can’t control a ball if he can’t
control his thoughts. He’s not going to put up much of a fight.
And yet, I’ve had some pitchers tell me they like being angry.
These fellows are most often sensitive, non-assertive, inhibited, and
self-doubting, who finally explode, externally or internally, as a result
of “the straw that breaks their back,” as they’ve explained it to me.
The anger frees them from their self-consciousness. From feeling, as
they invariably do, that they are so terribly responsible for so many
things. They like the freedom anger seems to provide. “I just don’t
care anymore,” they’ve said. That’s only natural, since they have
been caring too much about too many of the wrong things. Those
concerns “just don’t matter,” when they are angry. For them, the
prospect of failure and always wanting to please others (what they
“care” about) is washed away in a raging torrent of adrenaline. They
pay a dear price, however. Because it rarely, if ever, works for them.
And it can’t be sustained if it does. [See AROUSAL)
Anger can work for a pitcher only if it is very brief in duration. It
may “clean the blood,” and then be used as an attention-getter for a
wandering focus; it must subside before the pitcher gets back on the
rubber. If anger continues, distraction from the task at hand
continues. The pitcher will be preoccupied by whatever provoked the
anger—usually frustrated expectations. Being mad is not being
prepared. He must deal with his anger before he is able to deal with
the immediate future: before the next pitch.
The pitcher will not be able to fix what has already happened,
and if he doesn’t fix himself, he can look forward to further problems.
He’ll be punished, not so much for his anger, as by it.
∎ ANXIETY
Performance anxiety and fear are not synonymous. Performance
anxiety most often produces negative anticipation; fear often results
in a flight from participation or dysfunction during it. The important
point to be made is that people have used the words without making
any distinction as to behavior associated with them. In the context of
performance, that difference should be established.
It is quite common for an athlete to be anxious prior to his
performance. When I was playing ball in college, I was assured by a
story I read about a lineman with the Kansas City Chiefs, whose
anxiety before games had been with him since he played in junior
high school. Before every game—through junior high, high school,
college and professional football—his stomach churned to such an
extreme extent that he was forced to throw up. Before every game.
One Sunday, he did not, and could not, actually. He tried to force it; it
didn’t happen. He told the team trainer to get him to the hospital,
where doctors discovered a significant intestinal problem. He knew
something was wrong, he said, because he didn’t have his “normal”
pre-game feeling in his gut.
A brother-in-law of mine, a professional singer, told me he threw
up before singing engagements that were particularly important to
him. (This after I had revealed to him my own performance anxiety.)
The performances of the football player, the singer, and my own,
for that matter, did not suffer from the anxiety. I cannot speak for
them, but I believe mine improved because of it. And I’ve spoken
with many athletes since who made the same claim: essentially,
when they were not aroused enough to feel anxious, they did not
play up to their expectations.
Performance anxiety is considered to be a heightened arousal—
an exaggerated internal response. As noted, it happens prior to
performance and can happen during it, as well. Usually before or in
the midst of a particular situation the athlete (pitcher) perceives as
important or threatening.
What happens? 1) The performer performs—there is no “flight”;
2) the anxiety subsides and then, most often, disappears as soon as
the competition or the situation is faced directly, physically; 3) the
initial heightened arousal is converted from anxiety to intensified
focus, that is, from tension to attention. The performer, having placed
such significance on the event, becomes more attentive in his
approach. The key is to properly channel the stimulus, so that
function is enhanced and dysfunction avoided. (Much like what must
be done with anger.)
Pre-performance anxiety is not an anxiety disorder. It may bring
“old age [on] too soon” (Ecclesiastes), and it may be an unpleasant
feeling, but if understood and managed, it is rarely debilitating once
performance begins.
[See FEAR]
What the Pitcher Should Do...
∎ AROUSAL
Many players I’ve been associated with, when asked what
“arousal” means, tell me “being psyched-up—let’s go!” Others have
related the term to anxiety: having heightened feelings (heart
palpitations, sweaty palms, diarrhea), they say, stimulated by a
negative anticipation of the performance ahead. According to those
responses, a pitcher, then, may be “worked up” for better or for
worse. And so it is.
Studies have shown that athletes typically experience physical
symptoms before competition in which they invest meaning. The
best competitors I know invest the meaning of “challenge” to each
pitching performance. Bruce Bochy managed Kevin Brown in San
Diego during the 1998 season and was impressed by the challenge
Kevin saw before each performance—“the fire and intensity that he
[Brown] brings to every game he pitches,” Bochy said. Some
pitchers view competition as a “threat.” There are those who invest
minimal meaning to each game, and still others whose assessment
is “reliably unpredictable,” to borrow the words of novelist Brooks
Hansen.
Each pitcher’s arousal level is influenced by his interpretation of
the event or situation he is to face. It is also influenced by the degree
of trust he has in himself. The elite pitcher knows himself; he
manages whatever physical indicators exist prior to his performance.
He knows whether he has too much energy (“I’m hyper.”—“I’m out of
control.”) or too little (“I can’t get up for this.”—“I can’t get my mind on
business.”)
When a pitcher and I talk about finding an appropriate arousal
level, we first examine the type of personality he has. For example,
some people are introverted, others extroverted. Some are
hyperactive, others “laid back.”
We then consider the differences in types of activity and the
particular arousal level for each. Remember the linebacker referred
to earlier? When playing football, his high-energy, high arousal
served him because that gross motor activity involved strength,
stamina, physical contact, and bursts of speed. Pitching requires fine
muscle movements, precision and control, balance, and intense
concentration on a small field of attention (the target). During
competition, a pitcher is more likely to require “calming” mechanisms
(as would a golfer) than those requiring more “power” (as would a
weightlifter).
And personality? Many sports psychologists believe that
individuals have distinctive biological differences affecting arousal.
An extrovert tends to produce a slower and less pronounced
stimulus than does an introvert. For the extrovert, there is a need for
more intense input. The introvert, often the “more sensitive” person
spoken of earlier in the book, tends to produce a stronger sensory
signal for himself, and so requires less input to become aroused.
Many pitchers (many people) see the opposite as being true,
because of a pitcher’s outward appearance. They don’t see inside
the pitcher, however. They see fire in a Kevin Brown’s eye, perhaps,
but not in Jamie Moyer’s. They’ve seen it in Dennis Eckersley but not
in Bob Tewksbury. But all of these pitchers have a competitive
approach. And they have all developed their own methods for
optimal arousal, based on how they are predisposed to feel before
performance. The fact is, is a high-energy personality needs a
greater in-put to generate his greater need for excitement, more fuel
to keep that motor running. He has a higher threshold for arousal
and uses external sources of stimulation (a “big” game). Introverts
don’t require those outside signals. They tend to have more
developed fine motor skills. They are usually “control (command)
guys,” not power pitchers.
Most important is the ability of a pitcher to properly adjust and
channel whatever level of arousal he’s feeling. To “psyche up” or
“psyche down,” according to need. The metaphor I use is the flame
of a kerosene lamp. “If it flickers, it will be of no use,” I tell the
pitchers. “At the other extreme, you don’t want to burn the house
down! Heat and light, that’s what we want. Heat and light. The same
with arousal.”
∎ ATTITUDE
[See APPENDIX A]
Viktor Frankl, in his profound book, Man’s Search for Meaning,
speaks of our ability to be self-determining. “Man does not simply
exist,” Frankl writes, “but always decides what his existence will be...
[E]very human being has the freedom to change at any instant... The
last of the human freedoms is to choose one’s attitude in any given
set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”
In other words, we are not bound to be tomorrow what we have
been today; we are not bound to act tomorrow as we have acted
today. We have the freedom to make a choice about our attitude.
Players I’ve come across who were considered to have bad
attitudes are, as their teammates so directly put it, “clueless” about
all this. The players with good attitudes act like “free” people, and
they are healthier and happier—and greatly valued by people in the
organization they’re with. And they play to their peak far more
consistently than “bad apples.” They always contribute to the team—
by their example alone.
The major point, for me, is that they are free. Players with poor
attitudes are unhappy—and victims of themselves, though they are
quick to blame circumstance or other people when confronted about
unacceptable behavior. They have forfeited their freedom. They wait
for the world to make them happy. It does not happen often, and
when it does, it doesn’t last very long.
To ask why people have bad attitudes is to open the subject
beyond what is necessary here. As it is to ask why people have good
attitudes. What is clear to me is that all the players I’ve met
understand the difference. I would further say that almost all
appreciate the benefits of having a healthy attitude. Some just do not
have the personal strength and self-discipline to work on changing.
They are victims, then, of their bad habits also.
In The Mental Game of Baseball, Karl Kuehl and I spoke about
attitude as it related to cooperation, openness to learning,
selflessness, responsibility and their opposite “bad attitudes.” We
spoke of the effect an attitude has on all dimensions of a player’s
performance—and his life. Whether it be in calm or troubled waters,
the relationship between the sailor’s attitude and his voyage should
be clear. A troubled sailor makes for a troubling voyage.
A pitcher doesn’t have to be a troublemaker on a team to qualify
as having a bad attitude. He is a troublemaker for himself. Negative
expectations burden him and inhibit his performance. His
perspective on his performance, and on life in general, is clouded to
such an extent that he cannot make necessary changes. He just
bemoans his fate and/or disparages himself. His self-talk works
against him. And on it goes.
One pre-eminent pitcher in the big leagues had been accused of
having a less-than-desirable attitude. It annoyed others, at worst,
and it frustrated him, at best. He wasn’t entirely who he was
perceived to be, and he didn’t entirely like who he perceived himself
to be. When he was asked what his association with me was like, he
responded simply by saying, “He holds a [expletive deleted] mirror
up in front of your face and forces you to look in it.”
Then what? The pitcher has the choice of being honest about
what he sees, and the freedom to change what he sees and does
not like. Some encouragement may have been helpful; personal
commitment and determination on the pitcher’s part was responsible
for the change.
The best attitudes exist in pitchers who understand themselves
and the game of baseball. These pitchers are selfless, rather than
selfish. They do not pitch for their statistics; the team’s success
concerns them more. They understand the difference between
approach and result, so they are focused on their own behavior,
instead of what “happens to them.” It is amazing to me, though it
shouldn’t be, to observe the upbeat attitude of a pitcher who has that
perspective. His performance generally reflects it. The people who
play behind him feel it. Their performance generally reflects it.
A few words about the term “attitude” as used by those who say a
pitcher “has an attitude” when he competes. The extensional
meaning in that context defines the pitcher as tough-minded,
aggressive, and insensitive to irrelevant environmental conditions—
conditions which would distract someone without the “attitude.”
Exemplars: Todd Stottlemyre, Tim Belcher, Pat Hentgen. Years ago,
when I first saw Bob Gibson pitching for the St. Louis Cardinals, I
was struck by his relentlessness. Another outstanding attitude. Such
pitchers give no quarter; they are “pit bulls” who will have to be
dragged off the mound. Theirs is an “attitude” that gets respect in
their dugout and in the one across the field.
Our attitude is the state of mind with which we approach our
surroundings, our performance, our teammates, our opponents, and
our lives.
∎ BEHAVIOR
“Behavior” is the pay-off word. Everything already read in this
book leads to behavior. Everything that remains to be read leads to
behavior. Good behavior provides a good payoff; poor behavior
yields no payoff. Executing a pitch is behavior; battling is behavior;
throwing a fit is behavior; caving in is behavior. The most important
thing a pitcher can do is behave appropriately. Having done so, he
can take whatever happens like a man. He can come to terms with
results, because he has come to terms with himself. He did as much
as he could do. That is all anyone can ever ask of him. That’s all he
should ever ask of himself.
It is a lot to ask. Nevertheless, behaving well as a performer and
as a person is the entire responsibility he has. Preparation,
approach, adjustments—behaviors all. They stem from thoughts,
attitudes, and beliefs (the next topic to be discussed). Too often, they
stem from feelings. The pitcher who operates out of his feelings—
who concerns himself with his feelings—is the pitcher with whom I
spend the most time. He is the pitcher who invariably will get little or
no “payoff,” until he learns to perform in spite of feelings that are
troubling to him. If his behavior is driven by these feelings, I tell him,
he can expect more “trouble.”
The pitcher must train himself to act out what he knows instead of
what he feels. If he acts bravely and wisely, I suggest to him, his
feelings will change. The habit of behaving appropriately will be
established. Habit is powerful. He must, as Lawrence Durrell has
written, “begin by pretending, in order to end by realizing.”
(Remember the song from The King and I—“I Whistle A Happy
Thne?”—“Whenever I feel afraid, I hold myself erect ... for when I
fool the people I fear, I fool myself as well ... ”) I try to assure the
pitcher that if he fools himself for a short while, he will become what
he acts out for a long while. “The parody of goodness,” Durrell
added, “can make you really good.”
Angels pitcher Tim Belcher, in a recent interview, commented on
my propensity for saying to pitchers, himself included, “I don’t care
about your feelings—I care about your actions.” In other words, their
behavior. My recommendation is that, at the end of a performance, a
pitcher should evaluate himself according to that behavior—grade
himself out. [See APPENDIX B] The more he addresses behavior,
the more apt he is to be successful. Pitchers who have used
APPENDIX B regularly have found this to be true—not because of
the sheet, but because of their heightened awareness of their
actions. They shift their concern from outside distractions, feelings,
“pressures,” and concentrate instead on behaviors that will help “get
the job done.” Done well.
∎ BELIEF
One man with a belief is worth 99 with an opinion. Though
everyone in the game of baseball has an opinion, the opinions of
others should be of no concern to the pitcher. What should matter to
him is what he thinks of himself and what he knows about pitching:
his belief system. If he doesn’t have one, he’d better develop it.
“Man is what he believes,” Chekhov wrote. If every pitcher
(player, person) believed what others have said about him, he would
then be defined by those others, rather than by himself. It is an all-
too-common tendency—a “normal” human tendency. People are
often inclined to live from the outside in, rather than from the inside
out. They respond to others’ possible perceptions of them, rather
than developing themselves into self-assertive, confident individuals.
[See CONFIDENCE]
It is impossible for a pitcher to be confident in competition if he is
concerned with others’ evaluation of him. He will act out of that
concern (“worry” is the word I usually hear). He will be terribly
distracted by it. As a result, aggressiveness suffers, focus suffers,
objective self-evaluation suffers. The pitcher suffers.
Dave Stewart did his share of suffering. In 1984, he had a 7-14
record with the Texas Rangers. In 1985, he was 0-6 with Texas and
Philadelphia. He had a much-publicized off-field incident. The
Phillies released him in May 1986. The Japanese team that had an
interest in Stewart told him to stay home. He was not coveted by
Major League organizations.
Dave Stewart’s belief in himself as a man and as a talent never
wavered. He won the Rangers’ ‘Good Guy Award’ for 1985. Lesser
men would not have shown up at the award ceremony to accept the
honor, in light of public knowledge of the off-field humiliation. Stew
showed up. He addressed what surely was an uncomfortable
audience, and put them at ease immediately. “Sometimes,” he
began, “good people do bad things....”
Dave Stewart could still believe in himself, while not believing in a
singularly weak behavior of his. He could also make the distinction
between belief in his talent and recognition of conditions within
himself and outside himself that resulted in his not winning a Major
League game for almost two years.
Coming to an environment where his belief system was
reinforced, rather than challenged, he became the outstanding
pitcher and community exemplar he had always known he could be.
(Twenty or more victories in four consecutive seasons with the
Oakland Athletics—1987-1990.)
I remember well a wager I made with one of Oakland’s minor
league instructors. This individual had been on the Texas coaching
staff in ’84 and ’85. He offered the wager against my spring training
optimism regarding Dave Stewart’s performance for the upcoming
season, 1987. “A steak dinner on me at any restaurant you choose if
he is anything better than a .500 pitcher,” he said. “If not, you buy.” I
took the bet.
We ate at Ruth’s Chris in Scottsdale, Arizona, in June. My
colleague had conceded. Stew’s record was 9-1 at the time.
All environmental factors do not support our belief system. The
challenge is to rise above a poor or challenging environment. It is
another very difficult task on the road to self-fulfillment as an athlete
and as a human.
During an Oakland Athletics’ seminar on leadership training, I
had the opportunity to “set up” one of our staff members—to
challenge his belief system as an experiment. Of course, I felt he
would be a good sport about it, and he was.
The situation was set up so as to have three others, two coaches
and a manager, in on the experiment. They knew what was going on.
I stood at a writing board in front of the entire minor league staff.
They were seated in rows of chairs, and the men involved in the
“experiment” were in the front row. On the board I wrote the number
2; under it I put another 2, with a + sign to left of it. I drew a line
under the numbers. So it was a simple arithmetic example: two plus
two.
The “set-up” staff member was the fourth to be called on. The
first coach, having been asked for the answer to the example, said,
“Five.” The next person, a manager, said, “Five.” The third “plant”
answered, “Five.”
Now it was the victim’s turn. Without hesitation, he responded,
“Five.” The room was in an uproar. The victim was, despite initial
embarrassment, mostly angry with himself for selling out his belief. It
can happen that easily. I then tried to explain the process of having
that belief—the “absolute” knowledge that the answer is four—
eroded.
The first person says “five” and the victim says to himself
something like, “Is this guy wacky?” The second response of “five”
makes the victim look at the example on the board with more
“concentration,” asking himself something like, “What’s going on
here? What am I missing?” The third “five” leads to panic, the victim
knowing he has to speak in a moment. That fear of being wrong
leads to a collapse of his belief system.
It is a valuable lesson about how vulnerable people can be to
forces that may reveal a self they don’t want others to see. They
become blind as to what they want to be, seeing instead what others
might think them to be.
To understand the results a placebo, a sugar pill, can get is to
understand the power of belief. Many medical studies support this
view. Psychoneuroimmunology addresses the theory, validated by
research, that the body manufactures disease fighting cells if the
patient, a person discovered to have cancer, for example, is upbeat,
aggressive, and an active participant in his own healing process.
This patient, who believes in himself and in life, is not a “victim.” He
is a battler, a winner. And it usually is revealed by pathology, during
his immune system’s battle with the disease. His “stats” for survival
are by far superior to those of someone who believes in the disease
more than in himself and his approach for combating it.
∎ BIG INNING
(Preventing It)
∎ BODY LANGUAGE
A pitcher should ask himself this question, “Do I want to be
perceived as a focused and relentless competitor?” If the answer is
affirmative (if it is not, why is he reading this book?), then he must
know how to look the part before he can play it. A pitcher who gives
off signals of vulnerability will not act out appropriate behavior.
Furthermore, opponents and teammates will recognize these
signals. The actual perception of the pitcher will fall far short of the
one he values and desires.
Wearing one’s heart on his sleeve is dangerous in competition, if
it is not the “heart of a lion.” More appropriately, the heart of a
warrior. I speak here of body language, a language understood by
anyone who is paying attention. Why would any pitcher want to
project, through his posture and movement, the language of
frustration, uncontrolled anger, self-pity, fear, or complacency? He
would not, I believe. That the pitcher may be speaking through his
body in any of these ways is an indication that he has been
distracted and disturbed. He cannot effectively compete. He’s not fit
for combat.
It is hard for many to believe that the pitcher, himself, is most
often not aware of the signals he is giving off. But consider this: if
he’s distracted from attention to task because of his frame of mind,
then he is focused on the major concern of the moment. It follows
that, as absorbed as he is, he is inattentive to all else—including his
appearance.
It is natural enough for people to want things to go their way. It is
just as natural for them to be affected when they do not get what
they want. The test of each individual is how he responds to such a
circumstance. He can rise above his disappointment, or he can sink
below it. A pitcher’s body language indicates whether he is in the
process of elevating himself or burying himself. [See RESPONSE]
The nature and degree of disappointment will vary, but the
appearance of a pitcher during competition should not vary, for
consistent behavior leads to consistent performance. Poor body
language leads to poor performance. It is already poor behavior—
and not consistent with the pitcher’s physical actions when things
are going well for him. [See CONSISTENCY]
A few years ago, while seated in the Florida Marlins’ dugout for
the opening spring training game, I was chatting with one of our
pitchers. The opposing pitcher had taken his last warm-up pitches,
and we turned our attention to the game. Matters began to go poorly
for the pitcher, a veteran starter with more than 1,200 big league
innings under his belt. He began to be visibly affected. His arm angle
was different for each pitch; his release point inconsistent. Balls were
going in the dirt, wide to each side. He lost control of his delivery; he
had lost control of himself. He had taken on what Shakespeare
called “an antic disposition.” Balls that were in the strike zone were
hit hard, mainly because he was steering the ball, not pitching it.
“Look at that,” said the pitcher next to me. “He should know
better. He’ll never get out of this inning.” He didn’t. I’m sure he knew
better after he was out of the game. That is not the ideal pitchers
should seek, however. The fact that it was a spring training game—
the opener, at that—does not relieve a pitcher from responsibility for
his behavior. It’s his body he is getting in shape. His mind and
psyche play the game of life all year.
A number of years ago, a young pitcher came up from the minor
leagues to pitch for the Oakland Athletics during the second half of
the season. He pitched aggressively and effectively as a reliever; his
rookie season statistics pleased him. He had a 1.93 era, a strikeout-
to-walk ratio of almost two to one. He gave up only 45 hits in 72
innings pitched. The next season, however, he seemed a changed
pitcher. He was tentative, behind in the count quite often, and the
batters had much better swings at his pitches—and better results—
than they had the previous season.
His body language told the story. The year before, I had referred
to him as “a stalker” during our conversations. His posture was firm
and strong looking. His manner said to the catcher, “Hurry up and
give me the ball; let’s go.” He looked as if wanted to get back on the
rubber and attack—again and again. And he had done just that, the
way all aggressive competitors so.
But now, his performance was a different story; his body told a
different story. And watching him was like watching a different
pitcher. He clearly was not a “stalker.” Instead, he appeared to be the
one being stalked. He looked as if he didn’t want to throw the next
pitch; his tempo was excruciatingly slow. As he seemed to want to
avoid the next delivery, he also tried to avoid contact. He “picked,”
was behind in the count regularly, and the quality of his pitches
diminished. The hitters took advantage of it.
All this was rather evident to the pitcher. What wasn’t, I felt, was
how he looked out on the mound—the indicator of every bad thought
and feeling he was internalizing. I asked him if he had tapes from the
previous season; he did. We took a few recent tapes from the
current season and went to his apartment. The format was to view
them without comment. Just watch. He was astounded. He was
disgusted with his current body language—the signals he was giving
off. “This is what my teammates see?” he asked rhetorically. “This is
what opposing hitters see,” I added.
We then discussed the importance of a pitcher’s appearance to a
hitter. That hitter has perceptions of the pitcher, to a great extent
based on what he sees. One of my goals, I told the young man, will
be to intimidate the hitter in any way possible. The first way is to
show myself on the mound as a relentless and aggressive
competitor. If I look vulnerable, I am allowing the hitter to be
comfortable facing me. More confident. It can be a subtle difference
in the batter’s mind, perhaps at a lower level of consciousness. But it
will be there. As a pitcher, a tough competitor, I will not allow him to
see me suffer. If I’m in command of the game, it’s easy to act out
superiority. But if I’m struggling, it’s more difficult—and more
important. By expressing negative thoughts and emotions through
body language, I’d hurt myself. Not only couldn’t I make an
adjustment, but I’d be forfeiting my advantage to the hitter.
“This is exactly the garbage I’ve been bringing out there,” said the
pitcher.
The reason his behavior had changed from his rookie season,
and the process he went through to address his issues, are
irrelevant here. It is important to reiterate that the display of negative
emotions while performing is not the behavior of effective
competitors. Whether the body speaks in assertive or submissive
language, it is speaking. And speaking is behaving.
∎ BREATHING
“Breathe or die,” I warn pitchers. They don’t need the literal
warning. It is simply a verbal key, reminding a pitcher to pay attention
to the “when” of breathing and the “where.” The pitchers know how,
and they know why. Yet some tend to forget everything they know in
the heat of battle. It only seems to happen during periods of tension
—when the relaxation technique is most required.
Anyone who has ever been to a movie thriller has had a chance
to understand the relationship between tension and inhibited
breathing patterns. For example, during a Stephen King film, an ax is
held high, the killer poised to strike. Down comes the ax; off comes
the head... The scene ends abruptly. Cut away to a pastoral scene
now, quiet, peaceful. An audible gasp by the audience. People had
been holding their collective breath. The cutaway relieved the
tension; they could breathe again.
I have seen pitchers hyperventilate during competition, the result
of racing thoughts and a general disorientation. The hyperventilation
(shortness of breath) has mental causes and physiological effects.
Muscles tense up; the arm does not have a fluid function. The
delivery breaks down: coordination, range of motion, balance, timing,
power, and accuracy are adversely affected. All this is triggered first
by what the mind has focused on (danger) and, then, the
unsatisfactory ratio of carbon dioxide to oxygen in the bloodstream.
To use the race car metaphor once again, carbon dioxide acts as
a brake; oxygen acts as an accelerator. Carbon dioxide slams down
on muscles; oxygen propels them smoothly. When exhaling deeply,
pitchers release carbon dioxide from their blood stream and allow
oxygen to take over.
The last act of downhill Olympic skiers, before they push off for
their run, is to exhale deeply. Most basketball players do the same,
before taking a foul shot.
Pitchers often forget. They breathe, for certain. But during crisis,
many think about “the falling ax,” and their breathing either becomes
shallow or it stops. The skiers and foul shooters are not in the midst
of action. Their breathing precedes it. And that, too, should be the
case with pitchers. Breathing should be part of their preparation on
the mound—on the rubber—before each pitch. As with every other
good habit, the more consistent the breathing pattern, the more
consistent the total approach.
How, specifically, can breathing help a pitcher’s approach? First,
it relieves muscular tension and enables the pitcher to maintain his
typical physical/mechanical behaviors. Second, it will aid the pitcher
in calming himself. In slowing himself down. The tendency of a
pitcher in trouble is to rush—to speed up his tempo and his delivery.
He will jump out. He usually will not come through with his arm, and
his release point will be too high. As will the pitch. Power, as
mentioned above, will be lost. But the major loss will be his ability to
slow down his thoughts. How many times can such a pitcher be seen
letting out a gasp when the catcher is returning the ball? Many times.
He has no chance of making appropriate adjustments because his
mind is racing. He has forgotten to breathe, and he will forget to get
off the mound to fix himself.
It is easiest to create a pattern, a habit, of breathing if it is
practiced. And it is easy to practice. It can be done in a pitcher’s
room and should be done during his side work in the bullpen.
Working out of a stretch is conducive to developing a natural, deep
exhalation. As the pitcher brings his arms down slowly in the stretch,
he can slowly let air out from his mouth. It is a naturally coordinated
procedure. Working out of the windup, a pitcher can look in to the
catcher, take his sign, exhale slowly and then begin his delivery.
Effective breathing is not gasping. It is not necessarily a
discernible action. It should be a regular one. A number of pitchers
have involved themselves in martial arts training, the better to
regulate and develop effective breathing patterns. Dave Stewart was
a prime example. Reliever Robb Nen is one of the most consistent
and regulated “breathers” among pitchers. (As a closer, he always
works out of a stretch.) It is the first aspect of his approach he
checks, when he’s not satisfied with a performance during which
might have rushed himself.
Each year, it seems, more pitchers learn to incorporate patterned
breathing into their approach. It becomes obvious to them that
random breathing is not as helpful to them as regulated breathing.
Or no breathing at all.
∎ CHARACTER
I am compelled to write more than the “few words” originally
intended about this abstract term. The word is used and heard
frequently by and from many people involved with sport. The term
“character” is used regularly in and around professional baseball
environments.
Not only do the people using the term often fail to agree on its
definition (and who can blame them?), they differ in the value they
give to “character,” as it relates to their players—particularly major
leaguers. This is discernable not so much by how they speak, as by
how they act. To be candid, baseball people do not differ in their
desire to win, they differ in the “price” they are willing to pay in order
to have a chance to win. For some, therefore, a player’s “character”
has value relative to his talent. Others note that there is no value in a
player who has character and little else. It is a valid argument. Once
again, the problem is how to strike a proper balance. And what is a
proper balance? I am thankful that these are not issues to deal with
on these pages.
As to why I believe “character” matters, first, I would quote
Goethe, “If you would create something, you must be something.”
The creation is only as good as the creator. The best pitchers I have
talked with have had the most “character.” It is no random truth.
Their achievements have been the result of talent, to be sure. But
their mental attitude, which is a major ingredient of “character,” is an
important part of their superiority.
Second, Lincoln spoke of “character” being like a tree, and
reputation—the judgment of others—like a shadow. The shadow is
what is thought of it—the tree is “the real thing.” Players often tell
teammates to “get real,” but not everyone knows how to be “real.”
Third, though not in order of importance, I share the view of the
philosopher Heraclitus, who felt that “character” is “a man’s fate.” A
pitcher is a man first. He is many other things to many other people,
before he gets down to a lower rung on that ladder of abstraction—
where he is identified as a pitcher. When statistics, expectations, and
evaluations are put aside, he is ultimately defined to himself by his
“character.” That is his fate, whether he understands it or not. His
“character” is his substance; his reputation is the symbol—in
baseball, his “label.” He should want to take control of defining
himself—first and foremost for himself.
A good number of thoughtful and interested pitchers, having read
about and heard the topic “character” being discussed—and having
a respect for the game they play—expressed the idea to me that
“baseball develops character.” My own view, I told them, is that
“baseball helps reveal character.” A discussion usually ensued.
“People develop their character,” I offered as explanation. “Or don’t
develop it. Circumstances reveal it, in either case. How a person
reacts to situations and circumstance reveals the person.” Thomas
Hardy wrote of “the influence of character upon circumstance.” We
spoke of character as a determinant of what happens to a man. His
fate.
And so it went; the talk expanded (particularly when Al Leiter,
intellectually curious by nature, was a participant) to the idea that,
while temperament may be inborn, “character” is acquired. That’s the
major point I always wish to make to players. And that time and effort
are required for its acquisition. “Character building begins in infancy
and continues to death,” Anna Roosevelt wrote. It is a life-long
process, and the building site is wherever the person brings himself.
Even to playing fields, where what is done every day, as Vince
Lombardi told his teams, helps define who they will be the rest of
their lives.
The Greek word “character” means impression. Pitchers should
learn to regard Lincoln’s words and make the distinction between
who they are and who they appear to be. Though the difference may
seem obvious, less so is the connection. This connection is
“impressed” on his being—all through his life—by everything in his
environment: family members, friends, teammates, newspapers,
television, money, fame, statistics, music, social contexts, and more.
Everything.
The impression is being made regularly—constantly. Put simply,
people may be shaped; “character” must be formed. To the extent
that each individual makes selections of what he defines as “right”
and appropriate, and to the extent that he acts upon these
selections, he develops his own “character.” He is his own man, free
of “impressions” that do not last, free of perceptions that do not
matter.
A topic soon to be treated in this book is CONFIDENCE. Can a
pitcher be confident if he believes he is defined by others? By
statistics? Rhetorical questions. When a pitcher acts out of what he
knows is “right,” he is building his self-confidence through the
process of developing his “character.”
One of my lines to pitchers is, “Character is what you do when no
one is watching.” If someone knows an action or activity to be “right,”
he shouldn’t need supervision to give his full mental and physical
energy to it. It’s much easier to behave well when being watched,
whether by judgmental peers or by evaluating staff members. (It’s a
rare horse that can just be hand-ridden by the jockey. A special
horse—one with “character.”)
So people may act many ways in many places for many different
reasons. The cynical but humorous writer, Ambrose Bierce, fully
understood human tendencies. He commented with irony, “In every
human heart are a tiger, a pig, an ass and a nightingale. Diversity of
character is due to their unequal activity.” The choice, he implied, is
ours to make. Yet, people often choose to keep too great a distance
between who they are and who they wish to be. It is not so much a
choice to maintain that distance as a hesitancy to approach the task.
Narrowing the gap is, after all, a very challenging task. It takes some
“character” to develop more “character.”
∎ CLOSERS
In 1983, Ozzie Smith and I had a conversation, during which he
mentioned his early days in the major leagues. In that time before he
had established himself as a pre-eminent shortstop, Smith was used
in the late innings of close games as a defensive replacement.
Said Smith, “A player put into the game for defensive reasons is
expected [his emphasis] to make every play. If you don’t, you’ve
failed. It was a no-win situation.”
The same expectation must be faced by a closer. And the ball is
in his hands—as is the game itself—with every pitch.
The closer’s role is to protect his team’s lead in the late innings,
the ninth inning. His performance is compressed into the action of
pitching to a few batters—or one batter perhaps. He is expected to
get the last out in order to preserve the victory—to “save” it. If he
does not, he fails.
Herein rests one of the distinctions the closer must make for
himself, if he is to be well suited for the role. Though he may fail to
achieve his goal on a given day, he is not the failure. One
interpretation speaks to task; the other personalizes the failure.
Responsible people feel the great responsibility of having a game
turned over to him, after his team has worked hard to keep or take a
lead. How the pitcher responds to that challenge (threat?)
determines his mettle as a closer.
“It’s all about how you handle the mental side,” Dennis Eckersley
has often explained. “You’ve got to be as positive as you can,
because a lot of negatives will happen to you [over time].”
Robb Nen calls the responsibility “a mental strain.” Churchill
called it “the price of greatness.” But blown saves and bad outings
erode today whatever claim to greatness was gained yesterday.
“Those games make you feel like you’ve let people down,” Nen said.
“But you know you’ve got to go back out there tomorrow, so you’d
better be ready and confident you’ll get it done next time. You can’t
take the failure personally. That’s not easy to do sometimes.”
But that is exactly what needs to be done by a closer, or he will
not remain one for long.
The theme in BIG INNING relates to the pitcher’s perception of
the irrelevance of runners on base. A closer would have had to
develop this point of view early. Runners on base, runners in scoring
position, the winning run, at that: those situations are the rule, not
the exception for a closer.
Before facing these situations, the closer, during his walk from
the bullpen to the mound, should narrow his thoughts. “Get an out,”
should be part of the “reducing” thought process. Once he gets to
the mound, “Make a pitch,” becomes his focus. On the rubber:
selection, location, target—aggressiveness under control. A mature,
consistent, uncomplicated approach.
Over time, Yankees closer, Mariano Rivera has come to that
approach. In the spring of 1999, catcher Joe Girardi said of Rivera,
“He’s more mature ... He understands more about how to close,
about the mentality.”
The understanding that he cannot and will not succeed all the
time is one that must be clear in a closer’s mind, if he is to remain
rational and functional. At the same time, he cannot use this truth as
an excuse before he “goes into battle.” That viewpoint at that time
will usually lead to problems. The thoughts are not part of a
preparation for success, but, rather, an explanation of failure. And
failure will be the likely result. As has been discussed earlier,
balance is required, and the beam can be narrow sometimes.
∎ COACHING SELF
I tell major league players, “The most important coach you’ll have
from now on is you.” Surely the players have learned and will
continue to learn from others, but unless the information is properly
integrated into behavior, it will be of no value during performance.
And coaching behavior is, for the most part, what I am alluding to
when I speak of self-coaching. Self-coaching during performance.
It has been said that we are all brilliant in retrospect. Also, that
best laid plans often go awry. But past and future are not the concern
of those who coach themselves effectively. The present, the
moment, the task at hand—this is the appropriate concern. What the
pitcher does to help himself—or hinder himself—will be the precursor
of success or failure. (Recall the pitcher with the “antic disposition,”
who didn’t make it out of the first inning of a spring training game.)
Much of what has already been said in this book speaks to a
pitcher’s need to coach himself during competition. Making
adjustments, behaving properly and coping with adversity all require
the pitcher to direct himself or redirect himself. Doing this is an
internal process. No one except the pitcher knows what he is
thinking and feeling. (Sometimes even he doesn’t know!) [See
GATHERING] Pitching coaches can only respond to the observable
behavior of a pitcher. The cause of much of it is not revealed to him.
He can only guess, and such guesses can be risky for the coach—
and the pitcher. So it is imperative for pitchers to be aware of their
thoughts, feelings, and needs as they compete. Only then can they
help themselves by being good coaches. By knowing what to do,
when to do it, how to do it.
Pitchers tend to be hard on themselves. The language they use
when talking inside their heads—on or behind the mound—is often
nasty. The tone of their collective inner voice can be harsh and
overly critical—emanating from a disgusted attitude. That kind of talk
is neither positive nor encouraging. It certainly is not conducive to
building confidence. [See SELF-TALK]
I’ll often ask a pitcher what he says to himself when he’s
dissatisfied or unhappy with what he’s doing on the mound. I ask
what happens as a result. Those who are poor at self-coaching—and
I’ve found them to be a vast majority—tell me of their self-
flagellation. Here is a typical conversation:
“I beat myself up.”
“Does it work?”
“No.”
“If I were the pitching coach, and I came out to the mound and
said to you what you’ve said to yourself, what would you think of my
coaching?’
“I’d think it was horsebleep.”
“The how would you judge your own coaching technique?”
“Horsebleep.“
“Then what are you going to do about it?”
I’ll end the report there, though that’s just the beginning of the
talk.
A good coach has to “know what’s going on,” and he has to know
how to respond to what’s going on. [See RESPONSE] Effective
pitchers have that understanding of game situations. The pitcher
must also understand his thoughts and feelings, as they affect his
behavior. As only he can know them. In effect, he is both a pitcher
and a coach.
The difficulty in knowing when and how to differentiate is
understandable. Simply put, when on the rubber, he is a pitcher;
when off the rubber, he can be a coach—if a coach is needed.
Naturally, when matters are going well—everything flowing smoothly
—he should “go with the flow,” just as the pitching coach should “let
it flow” without interference.
The only thoughts a pitcher should have on the rubber should
relate to pitch selection, location, and focus on the target. He should
have already coached himself to be aggressive and be under
control. He should already have given himself mechanical “cues” he
might have needed. This he did behind the rubber or off the mound,
depending on how much time he required to gather himself and
coach himself. He has told himself what to do and how to do it—off
the rubber. The quality of the next pitch he throws is greatly
determined by the quality of his self-coaching.
Many pitchers admit to being much better coaches of others than
they are of themselves. Their awareness of the difference is helpful.
They recognize the fact that they know what to say and how to say it,
albeit to others. “I’m smart for others and stupid for myself,” one
pitcher told me recently. “It’s hard to see the picture, when you’re
inside the frame,” I answered. “And when you’re in the heat of battle,
you’re inside the frame.”
That is why it is so important to get off the rubber and/or off the
mound and become a coach, instead of a pitcher. By first “getting out
of the frame.”
∎ COMPETITOR
Pitchers who express admiration for other pitchers tend to identify
their most admirable trait as being “a tough competitor.” Though I
share the object of their admiration, I believe the term they use to
characterize it to be a redundancy. To my mind, a pitcher who is not
mentally “tough,” is not an effective competitor at all. That toughness
(my own working definition is “mental discipline”) is prerequisite.
It seems that many people hold an image of a tough competitor
to be a pitcher, for example, with fire flaming from his nostrils. He
scowls, he snatches, he swears, he sweats. Sort of an unpleasant
dragon in a china shop. More assassin, perhaps, than linebacker.
The term “killer instinct” is frequently used, and aptly so. That instinct
is admirable and necessary, if one is to be a tough competitor. But a
“calculated cool” must accompany the instinct if the job is to be
“executed,” so to speak. I would not send a dragon or a linebacker to
do the job.
Philip Roth, in a short story entitled “Defender of the Faith,” wrote
of a soldier learning to have an “infantryman’s heart.” That is what an
effective competitor must have. Think of these possibilities:
infantryman A runs from the battle (quitting); infantryman B freezes
during it (panic); infantryman C rapidly unloads all his ammunition,
firing his weapon aggressively but aimlessly, hitting no one (loss of
control and focus); infantryman D sets up properly (courage), aims
carefully (focus), fires with deliberation (poise), hits his target
(execution—indeed).
I want infantryman D on my side—on a battlefield—and on a
playing field. He is the true competitor, the balanced performer, the
guy with mental toughness, who faces fire and takes care of his task,
rather than fearing consequences. He’s got the “infantryman’s heart.”
The image of Greg Maddux during competition comes to mind.
Prepared, controlled, focused. A pit-bull, not a raging bull. The term
dogged perseverance seems to be similarly applicable. No giving in,
no grandiose gesturing, Maddux executes pitches with the consistent
intensity, irrespective of score or circumstance. That his agenda, at
least.
Yet the best competitors can “lose” their approach from time to
time. It does not take them long to get it back, and they “come at
you,” as pitchers are wont to say, with renewed determination. Kevin
Brown told the media in 1998 that he was still learning to guard
against such a loss of perspective. Pitching for San Diego that
season, he had a no-hitter for seven innings against the Dodgers,
then gave up a number of “choppers, hardly a clean hit”—and lost
the game, 4-2. “If you’re a competitor, that can really bother you, and
it bothered me,” Brown said. “But you have to learn not to dwell on
the past. I had to focus on the next game, the next day. It’s not easy,
but it’s essential.”
The point has been made in earlier pages: a pitcher’s
appearance is not the determining factor in judging his competitive
efficacy. His behavior defines him. Stomping and ranting is usually
just posturing—behaviors of an actor, not a competitor. How the
pitcher “goes after it” gives meaning to the man.
Many pitchers have “competitive spirits.” Of course, they all want
to win, to succeed. Who doesn’t? Spirit alone, however, does not
suffice. A will—and a “way” must accompany it.
One of the measures of a pitcher’s competitive tendency is not
how he pitches with his “best stuff,” but by how he pitches when his
stuff has deserted him. Ineffective or poor competitors panic, try to
do too much (overkill) or give in to “one of those days” (surrender). A
true competitor recognizes the need to compensate for lack of “stuff”
with intelligence and persistence. Courage is required, as well, and it
is a competitor’s instinct to stick to his battle plan, rather than
succumbing to disorientation or losing his spirit (heart and soul). The
true competitor holds himself even more accountable to employ all
his mental resources on those days when his physical skills seem to
be unavailable. Seem to be.
Quite often I have witnessed pitchers, in the course of the battle,
“find their stuff.” The phrase they use is significant. Pitchers who
“found it” were not searching for it. As they focused on task, and kept
themselves and their team in the game, the “stuff reappeared.” I
often use a particular metaphor for explaining this to young pitchers.
I will ask the question, “How do you catch a bird?” I answer the
question for them. “Not by doing this,” I say, as I snatch at the air
with my hand. I open my hand and hold it still with my palm up. “This
is how you ‘catch’ it; open your hand and trust it will fly in.” The same
theory applies to stuff. The bird will not always alight there, but a
grabbing, flailing hand surely will never catch it.
Pitchers who have the courage to battle with limited resources
and trust themselves give their muscles time to get their “rhythm” (a
term often used by pitchers) because of their indomitable spirit—and
will—and approach.
Along this line of thought is the evaluation of “stuff” a pitcher
makes when warming up in the bullpen. So many pitchers, especially
young ones, use that evaluation as a forecast of what they will take
into the game. Yet so many pitchers will say there seems to be no
correlation between bullpen “stuff” and game effectiveness.
Information gained in the bullpen can be useful, predicting the future
is not. So long as the pitcher knows how to behave, and his
impression of his bullpen “stuff” does not alter that behavior, he’ll be
fine. The information relating to what pitch seems to be working well
on that day and what pitch does not may help the pitcher when he
enters the game. But very often the information is limited only to
what is going on in the bullpen. When game “stuff” is executed, it
may change. The point to be made is that a pitcher’s predicting his
physical efficacy—for better or for worse—too often leads to the
corruption of mental efficacy. It is to be avoided.
A notion some pitchers have expressed to me is that to be a
fierce competitor one must be an arrogant, ignorant, and obnoxious
person. As stated, this view is most widely held by intelligent,
sensitive, often deferential people [See NICE GUYS] Intelligence is
an asset “between the lines”; sensitivity and deference are not. A
fierce competitor’s concern is knowing how to go about his task and
battling to give his team and himself a chance to win. He has no
other concern; he is insensitive and unyielding. He is not a terrible
person. “Nice guys” might identify him as such, because they feel
they themselves are not capable of competing fiercely, and use
personality as an excuse.
Rick Honeycutt, to use a favorite person of mine, is a
“gentleman,” a “nice guy”—off the field. He pitched for 20 years in
the big leagues, not because people liked him, but because he was
given the ball often and competed always. He reminded me of an old
English sea captain Thomas Fuller wrote of. Fuller noted that
Captain Somers, a veteran “of many Atlantic voyages” in the late
1500s, was “a lamb on the land, a lion on the sea.” Rick Honeycutt
and other gentlemen still pitching are sensitive, caring people who
become fierce competitors on the mound. They know how to win
battles.
One of the wonderful aspects of sport is that warrior metaphors—
battles and infantrymen and sea captains—can be used when
speaking of great competitors, pitchers who “take no prisoners,” but
cause no fatalities. Because intense competition, in the words of
William James, is just “the moral equivalent of war.”
∎ CONCENTRATION
[See APPENDIX A]
∎ CONFIDENCE
[See APPENDIX A]
∎ CONTACT
Many pitchers try to avoid contact of the ball with the hitters’ bat.
They do so either by trying to strike everyone out, thereby
overthrowing, or by “picking”—“nibbling”—pitching out of the strike
zone, where the hitter is unlikely to reach the ball. Neither of these
two approaches is ever successful over time. (I am tempted to say
anytime, but will restrain myself from throwing around absolutes.)
What little can be said about this topic is nevertheless essential.
First, it should be noted that successful pitchers do not avoid
contact; neither do they allow contact. Successful pitchers force
contact. They want the hitters to put the ball into play, and they make
the hitters do so. The sooner, the better.
Effective pitchers recognize and trust the probability of outcome
being in their favor when a hitter makes contact. Statistics have
taught him that. And they know from experience that when they
attack the strike zone, when they act aggressively and confidently,
they will most often have a positive outcome from a ball put into play.
Intelligence tells the pitcher this. Courage reminds him of it, when
his left brain deserts him. With this appropriate mental message, the
pitcher’s talent will best be able to express itself. He will be in the
“attack mode” when his message to the batter is, “Here, hit it.”
The pitcher who values contact, shows that he values the
defensive teammates behind him. His fielders reciprocate that
feeling; defensive players love pitchers who force contact. Infielders
particularly are quick to admit they are “into the game more,” when
hitters are swinging their bats. The defense is on its toes, rather than
its heels, as it is when pitchers are trying to avoid contact.
The irony in a pitcher’s reluctance for, or fear of, contact is that
his behavior plays into his fear. He is feeding the monster he fears,
rather than starving it. By avoiding contact, or by squeezing the ball
and overthrowing, the pitcher invariably falls behind in the count.
[See COUNT] When he feels he must throw a strike [See STRIKES],
he does so in the hitter’s count, and he usually steers or aims the
ball. This is done with considerably less than his “best stuff.” When
the pitch is then hit hard, his fear or reluctance is validated. The
monster has been fed.
The hitter has not been first cause in this event, though the
pitcher’s perspective often makes him see it that way. First cause
must be traced to the pitcher’s thought pattern and the resultant
behavior. Responsibility rests there, and the pitcher must re-examine
his thinking and his approach—and adjust them.
Part of this re-examination, particularly for starting pitchers,
should include the recognition that “going after hitters” will reduce the
pitch count. By forcing contact, pitchers will be able to stay in games
longer, thereby allowing themselves to compete more effectively and
help the entire staff to be better rested. They also will better preserve
their own arm strength by reducing the number of pitches thrown.
When I have shagged in the outfield with pitchers during batting
practice, I’ve spent considerable time watching what hitters are
doing. Many hitters are outstanding “five o’clock hitters.” But at 5:40
P.M. many seem to become less effective. That is the time coaches
are apt to say, “This last round is for basehits.” Approaches change,
hands and muscles tighten. The hitters “have fun” as they “try” to get
basehits. (A result goal.) The proportion of basehits to attempts is
low.
If a hitter is at all susceptible to that kind of stimulus as an
influence on his approach, what might happen during a game? The
question is addressed to whomever I’m standing with in the outfield,
as we watch balls popped up or pulled on the ground during this
“round for hits.” The pitcher knows the answer, and he also knows
his “stuff” is superior, by far, to that of the coach throwing batting
practice.
∎ CONTROL
The term “control” is misunderstood by many pitchers. The initial
response when defining the word reveals an individual’s belief that
someone “under control” does not have strong emotions. This
violates a pitcher’s sense of competitive spirit. That is why I always
remind such an individual that “aggressiveness under control” should
be a competitor’s mantra. The accelerator and the brake. Without the
accelerator, the race cannot be won; without the brake, the race
cannot be completed. The aggressive, competitive spirit is a great
asset to a pitcher. But it must be accompanied by an ability to control
strong emotions.
Control is also required of pitchers who tend to falter in
competitive settings by having distracting thoughts related to failure.
Doom and gloom. Their self-control must address the issue of
passivity—not challenging hitters and/or not focusing on the task at
hand. As noted in BALANCE, a pitcher can fall off the balance beam
to one of two sides—being too aggressive or being too passive. In
either case, falling off the beam implies a loss of control.
The popular “serenity prayer” addresses an essential point about
control. In it, the speaker asks for help in order to understand and
dismiss what cannot be controlled, strength to deal with what can be
controlled and the wisdom to know the difference between the two.
That wisdom, a prerequisite, can be hard to come by. It requires an
introspection and awareness that is often obscured by the emotions
of the moment. During competition, unharnessed emotions will send
all the wrong messages to the pitcher’s muscles. The pitcher must
either be in control of his muscles or regain that control. Without it,
he cannot compete effectively.
Part of a pitcher’s understanding of how to better be in control of
himself comes from making a distinction between “control” and
“influence.” Pitchers have told me they have lost control—of
thoughts, muscles and the strike zone—to circumstance and
surroundings in a game. But they do not lose control to them. They
were influenced by events and environment; they lost control
because of them. But they also lost control because they allowed
their response to these factors to affect them in a way that forfeited
control. The final responsibility was—and remains—theirs.
It should be made clear, therefore, that a pitcher “in control” is a
pitcher in control of himself. It may appear that he is in control “of the
situation,” as a pitchers have said to me when things were going
their way. But a pitcher cannot control a “situation” or results. An
opposing player’s actions are involved; the direction in which a ball is
hit is involved; an umpire’s questionable judgment can be made.
Wind, rain—all uncontrollable. The pitcher can, however, control his
own thoughts, his own body, his focus—the ball as it leaves his
hand. His self-control influences outcome in his favor, in the long run,
despite the workings of factors beyond his control.
Let me now identify a sampling of factors that can affect a
pitcher’s sense of control. The following list will serve that purpose:
∎ COUNT
” ...[C]ommon sense and statistics concur: Get ahead in the
count,” Tom Seaver has suggested. The thought is shared by
anyone who discusses the game of baseball from a pitcher’s point of
view. “A no-brainer,” as pitchers say. The statistics Seaver referred to
came from thousands of pitching counts examined by a computer
programmer. The three major league organizations I have worked for
kept their own breakdown of averages when hitters put the ball into
play on particular counts. Though their numbers vary somewhat,
their theme is identical: “the game is the count.” Bob Welch used that
phrase often. It is an accurate one, I believe.
The numbers indicate that batters hit less than .200 when they
are behind in the count, and that they hit over .300 on 2-0 counts,
over .320 on 3-1 counts. The statistics have indicated that batters at
the bottom of the order hit for higher average when hitting 1-0 in the
count than the third or fourth hitters in the lineup, when these hitters
are hitting 0-1. Another compelling statistic supports the cliché of
most baseball broadcasters: the leadoff batter who walks scores
almost 80 percent of the time. More statistics can be cited (there are
always more statistics), but the point, I hope, has been made. Those
who pitch ahead in the count will dramatically increase their chances
for success.
Let us examine the count from the hitter’s point of view. This I
have learned: batters do not like hitting while behind in the count. As
a result of having this attitude, many hitters put the ball into play on
the first pitch. They are often called “aggressive hitters.” But I
consider many of them to be “anxious hitters.” They have a particular
aversion to hitting with two strikes, so they make certain not to get to
two strikes. The stats on first-pitch batted balls are, as usual, in the
pitcher’s favor—by far.
With the count at 0-2 or 1-2, the hitter has a discomfort and
uncertainty about what pitch the pitcher might throw. Having created
that advantage by being aggressive, the pitcher should further that
advantage by attacking the hitter in his vulnerability. The further into
the count the pitcher gets by throwing pitches for balls, the more he
loses his advantage of count. Hitters become more comfortable as
they consider the pitcher to have fewer options of pitch selection.
Dennis Eckersley and Bob Tewksbury are retired. I will miss
seeing them pitch. The two were exemplars, insofar as establishing
a favorable pitcher’s count is concerned. It is unsettling to many
hitters to know they will surely be behind in the count. Many tend to
change their approach from being aggressive to being defensive.
Eck and Tewks could do that to hitters. David Wells has also been
noted as a good example of a pitcher who seems to have the count
in his favor at all times. Hitters know that and respond accordingly. A
pitcher should, therefore, be determined to put hitters in the
disadvantaged position of being behind in the count. To do otherwise
would be, as Seaver would remind him, to fly in the face of common
sense and statistics.
∎ COURAGE
One of my pat introductions to a pitcher I’m meeting for the first
time goes like this: “If I tell you that you’ll be successful if you give
me two things—intelligence and courage—and you tell me that you
can only give me one of them, which do you think I’d ask for?”
The answer is too often, “Intelligence.” Those who so reply, I
advise that throwing a baseball aggressively does not take all that
much intelligence. I find that for many, it does take a greater degree
of courage than they seem to have. It is, perhaps, understandable.
But it is not acceptable, if excellence as a pitcher is his goal.
I further explain that whatever “smarts” a pitcher may have is
negated by his lack of courage. H a pitcher acts out his fears, he
forfeits his intelligence, since he behaves emotionally, rather than
rationally. He loses a doubleheader.
The Latin cor means “heart.” To have courage is to have “heart”;
that term is heard often enough around ballparks. To many, it implies
fearlessness. But that is not the point of courage. To have courage is
to act bravely in spite of the existence of fear. Dennis Eckersley has
exemplified courage for as long as I have known him. Here is a
pitcher—a man—who fought and won the battle against alcoholism,
and who announced to the world that he was terrified of failure—of
public embarrassment and humiliation should he perform poorly. The
strategy was clear to him. Essentially, he said to himself, “If I don’t
want to fail, then rather than acting out what I feel, I will act out what
I know will help me to succeed.” And he did; he was a consistently
aggressive as a pitcher. And courage was evident in that
consistency, which he expressed irrespective of circumstance. As a
recovered alcoholic, Eck recognized that it is himself a person
abandons when he acts out of his fears. [See FEAR]
Courage is facing fear and “spitting in its eye.” Trying to avoid
danger, as so many pitchers do by trying to avoid contact, is not an
effective strategy. Nor does it bring safety. Rather, as has been said
earlier, it almost guarantees failure. The advantage a pitcher has
over the hitter is lost. The feeling of vulnerability is reinforced by the
lack of courageous behavior. Dennis Eckersley’s behavior pre-
empted his feelings. As a result, fear dissipated; courage prevailed.
Courage allows the pitcher to express all his other qualities;
acting out of fear suppresses them. Stifles them. Challenging fear
elevates behavior and elevates the man. It even seems to elevate
the pitching mound.
To not have fear is to not require courage. Remember earlier the
words of some pitchers: “No brain, no pain.” The implication is that
one is blessed who doesn’t know enough to be afraid. Yet some
people would wonder at a discussion of pitchers—professional
pitchers, at that—being fearful about playing a game. But all people
have fears, whether hidden or exposed—whether an athlete or an
accountant. Since one’s emotional system is the source of one’s
fears, the environment and activity is less significant than the
personality and perception of the fearful person. Baseball may just
be a “game” to a spectator, but it can be quite a bit more to a
participant.
Courage is more than acting against fears. For a pitcher, courage
is required to act against fatigue. Performance that reflects a
“feeling” the pitcher has of being tired also reflects a “giving in.” If
“fatigue makes cowards of us all,” as Vince Lombardi suggested, it
behooves a pitcher to be in shape. But well-conditioned pitchers may
still work hard enough to become tired. A courageous pitcher does
not let a decrease in his level of physical energy diminish the level of
his mental energy. Tired muscles should not be allowed to surrender
because they are being “led” by a tired mind. “Sucking it up,” as
pitchers say, is an expression of courage. Satchel Paige used to
brag that the more tired he became, the more effective he became.
Self-indoctrination such as that makes bravery easier to come by.
As discussed in an earlier section, battling through adversity also
requires courage. “Losing one’s heart” is really “giving one’s heart
away.” Not an act of courage. Having everything seemingly going
wrong during a performance tests a pitcher’s mettle. Umpires’ calls,
errors behind him, lack of “good stuff,” general bad luck—all can be
included in the test. The strong of heart fight through it. They pass
the test. [See RESPONSE]
Whatever the circumstances may be that might “threaten” a
pitcher, [See PERSPECTIVE] whether it be starting a “big game,”
facing an imposing hitter, coming into the game in a crucial situation,
the resolution to stay with his aggressive approach and the courage
to act it out will make a “winner” of the pitcher, irrespective of the
results.
All the qualities of a pitcher are better able to express themselves
when courage clears the way. Talent armed with bravery becomes a
formidable combination, as I tell those pitchers I meet for the first
time.
Unfortunately, I have seen too many pitchers disappear from
professional baseball because they could not so arm themselves.
The words of Sydney Smith apply exactly, “A great deal of talent is
lost in this world for want of a little courage.”
∎ DISCIPLINE
The longest chapter in The Mental Game of Baseball is the one
that treats the topic of mental discipline. The American Heritage
Dictionary defines discipline as “training that is expected to produce
a specified character or pattern of behavior, especially that which is
expected to produce moral or mental improvement.”
Mental discipline is the umbrella that covers just about everything
else concerned with “the mental game.” A pitcher can develop the
ability to effectively and consistently direct his mind through this
discipline. Courage in battle takes discipline; concentration takes
discipline; preparation, self-coaching, consistency, the breaking of
bad habits through the development of good ones are all under the
umbrella. Or, to use some players’ more palatable metaphor, mental
discipline is “the whole enchilada.” A pitcher who hopes to perform at
his highest level of physical ability must develop an insistent
discipline of the mind.
A more common term used in the game of baseball is “mental
toughness.” It is an adequate term, if it is properly defined. But my
concern has always been that it can be misunderstood, because, to
many people, the word “toughness” implies an aggressive action
exclusively, without the suggestion of self-control. The “tough” fighter
in the boxing ring, who fearlessly flails away at his opponent, can
console himself only with his fearlessness—physical toughness—
after he gets up off his rear end. “Mental toughness” requires
aggressiveness and control. “Physical toughness” alone does not
adequately define “mental toughness.”
After the defining of terms, I find it easier to use “mental
discipline” when addressing pitchers. They then understand that
what is under the umbrella requires discipline: patterned thinking,
controlled focus, controlled behavior, consistent preparation, and
persistent expression of will. That serves me better than just telling
them to “be tough,” though after the enactment of these behaviors,
they certainly get my respect for being just that.
In June 1998, en route to the Chicago Bulls second “three-peat”
of the decade, Michael Jordan noted that fans and critics had
expressed concern about the Bulls’ “physical tiredness” during the
finals against Utah. “You don’t become champions five times without
having some type of mental advantage. Right now, we are mentally
strong enough to defend what we have...The mental side counts for
something.” It counted for plenty. It helped them become champions
for the sixth time, though Jordan felt the Bulls “... may not be as
gifted [as Utah.]” The discipline was in playing with focus on function,
rather than on fatigue or the perceived “physical gifts” of the
opposition. After all was said and done, that was playing “tough.”
The expression of mental discipline requires great energy and
dedication. The process is an exhausting one for those who have not
previously held themselves accountable for such consistently
controlled and determined behavior.
In the late 1980s, the Oakland organization had a Triple-A pitcher
named Rick Rodriguez. (He is a minor league pitching coach these
days.) During his performances, Rick had a tendency of using much
of his energy by reacting excessively when he was unhappy or
frustrated by circumstance, or when he was angry with himself. He
would stomp around the mound, kick the dirt, and talk internal trash.
Of course, his attention would be misdirected.
He decided to work at changing that pattern of behavior, on
keeping his mind focused on task through self-discipline. The first
step toward that goal—his awareness—had already been taken.
Next, he needed a strategy—the “what to do.” When he sensed
himself “losing it,” as he would say, he separated himself from the
rubber and/or the mound. He changed his environment, so to speak.
He calmed himself, coached himself, established a regulated
breathing pattern and directed his energies toward the execution of a
pitch. He also controlled his responses to pitches and results. [See
RESPONSES]
The first time he integrated his strategy into behavior (which is
the last step in the process) was during a game played against the
San Francisco Giants Triple-A team at Phoenix Municipal Stadium.
Rodriguez was in trouble in every inning, it seemed. This, itself, was
not a particularly unusual circumstance. What was unusual was the
fact that he got out of every inning unscathed. Baserunners did not
score. In the past, he had been distracted—“annoyed”—by having
runners on base. That day he focused on the next pitch. On what he
would do, rather than what had just happened. No emotional
outbursts.
Rick Rodriguez was taken out of the game after seven innings
with a 2-1 lead. After a time, I left the dugout and went up the ramp
into the clubhouse, where I found him sitting in front of his locker with
head in hands.
“Nice going,” I said. “Are you OK?”
“I’m wiped out,” he replied. “Mentally.”
What Dante called “tutta spenta”—entirely extinguished—and
Rodriguez looked it. “That was bleeping hard work,” he continued. A
pause. Then, “That kind of game—in the past—I don’t make it out of
the third [inning].” Energy well spent. Harnessed, directed. He had
gotten out of jams each inning through the ordeal of self-discipline.
He had “hung tough,” if you will.
It was a difficult task but, as Rick remarked the following day,
“Worth it.”
After having played his final hole in the Andersen Consulting
Match-Play Tournament in February 1999, Tiger Woods spoke of
being “mentally fried.” Said Woods, “I know what I have to do, so I
focus on that. But as soon as it is over, then you feel it.” Those who
work on it, feel it.
The process Rick Rodriguez and others have gone through is 1)
the identification of the issue; 2) the formulation of a strategy; 3) the
enactment of that strategy. The ‘problems’ and strategies are
presented within the covers of this book. These strategies may be
considered the “umbrella” of self-discipline. The pitcher is
responsible for keeping that umbrella open, holding it high, and
staying under it.
To have the ability to effectively address every topic in this book
is to have optimal mental discipline. Self-discipline is a form of
freedom. Freedom from laziness and lethargy, freedom from the
expectations and demands of others, freedom from weakness and
fear—and doubt. Self-discipline allows a pitcher to feel his
individuality, his inner strength, his talent. He is master of, rather
than slave to, his thoughts and emotions. A pitcher with great mental
discipline is usually a pitcher with great confidence. And as Al Leiter
expressed and hundreds of others have understood, confidence, or
lack of it, “.. is the difference between having a good year and a bad
year.”
∎ EXCUSES
Many years ago, as a boy, I came home after having played a
baseball game at Frankie Frisch Field in the Bronx. The team I
played for was the 52nd Precinct in the Police Athletic League, New
York’s beloved “PAL.” I had not pitched badly, but when questioned
about “how the game went” by my father, I managed to come up with
some excuse for one of the many imperfections in my performance.
He responded by calling me “Alibi Ike.” I hadn’t ever heard the name,
but did not confess my ignorance. After asking around, I was
informed of the source by one of my friends. Alibi Ike was a
character in a short story by Ring Lardner.
I found a collection of Lardner stories in the school library. “Alibi
Ike” was written in 1915. It was a baseball story, and Ike was,
naturally, the main character in the story. He was a talented baseball
player who nevertheless felt compelled to make excuses. Many of
them. A teammate named Carey described Ike as the most prolific
excuse-maker he, Carey, had ever met, though “prolific” was not
Carey’s term.
He explained, “I’ve known lots o’ guys that had an alibi for every
mistake they made; I’ve heard pitchers say that the ball slipped when
somebody cracked one off’n them; I’ve heard infielders complain of a
sore arm after heavin’ one in the stand, and I’ve saw outfielders
tooken sick with a dizzy spell when they’ve misjudged a fly ball.” But
Alibi Ike “got the world beat.”
Ike explained everything he did, the good and the bad. He was
an apologist and a bore. His personal weakness was apparent to his
teammates, if not to him. A mistake could be explained, and a good
performance could be improved upon “if only.” No act of his spoke
for itself.
Needless to say, I was not flattered by my father’s reference after
having read the story, and I vowed not to make that kind of
presentation again. I have since heard how obvious excuses sound
to the listener. And I grew to understand how harmful they could be
to the maker.
Excuses can be a double-edged sword. The main purpose for
their use is to deflect criticism. By doing that, the excuse-maker
keeps himself from learning to correct whatever mistake he has
made. There is a point on that sword, as well: the point of
irresponsibility. By not taking responsibility for his actions, he is
illustrating a lack of courage and lack of confidence in himself. That
is a painful slicing and sticking oneself.
Voltaire said that to understand a man makes it impossible to
hate him. One can hate an excuse, but should understand the
excuse-maker. Especially if it is the pitcher himself making the
excuses. In the understanding is the opportunity to fix the problem.
The excessive excuse-maker was probably the object of frequent,
and very often painful, criticism as a youth. Either he felt a need to
defend himself continuously—or he didn’t dare to, fearing further
“abuse” from the severe critic. Whatever the case, he dragged the
need from childhood into adulthood. [See FEAR OF FAILURE]
To oversimplify, as time passed, this youth perceived everybody
to be a potential critic. He tended to over-explain every action that
might seem to be questionable. The explanations took on the form of
apologies, which, as presented by him, became excuses in fancy
attire. His days can now be very difficult, often filled what might be
called a subtle, constant “psychological toothache.” Sometimes not
so subtle.
An excuse engenders weakness, rather than courage. The
courage of honest introspection is a required first step toward the
changing of negative, ingrained habits. As has been said quite often,
awareness is the first step to change. If no one else tells a person
about his tendency, the person is left with himself as his sale
resource. If the reader, as a pitcher particularly, suspects such
tendencies in himself, he should re-read this material and then look
within.
It should be noted that the people who are hearing the excuses,
the excuse-maker’s audience, hear them as a confession of guilt, not
innocence, as was the original intention. The only person being
deceived is the excuse-maker, because he has trained himself to
believe his excuses, a form of denial, and/or because he wrongly
believes he is deceiving his audience. In either case, he does harm
to himself. He hears denial; the audience hears admission. In the
world of baseball, teammates lose respect for the pitcher who makes
excuses. The pitcher, himself, has little chance to build self-respect
through such behavior. The most compassionate verdict would be
“guilty with an explanation.” But still “guilty.”
Finally, I will present a list of excuses I have heard over time from
professional pitchers. It is my hope that the discussion of excuses
that precedes the list has revealed my serious concern for the issue
and the players who have tried to deal with it. I make mention of this
only because a self-actualized reader may think the subject to be
problematic. Others may feel the presentation to be made with an
amused, critical tone. Neither is true.
• A bad mound
• A bad catcher
• A bad defense
• A bad arm, undetected by medical staff
• Bad luck
• Bad seams on the baseball
• Too long a period of time between pitching appearances
• Too short a period of time between pitching appearances
• Bad concentration, attributed to the perception that the
pitcher is only used “to mop up games”
• Distractions related to:
contractual situations
trade rumors (often only heard by the pitcher himself)
rumors of demotion in level
rumors of promotion
unidentified “personal problems”
a pitching coach’s poor opinion of his ability
a manager’s poor opinion of his ability
a minor league director’s poor opinion of his ability
∎ EXECUTION
The execution of pitches, one at a time, is the singular task that
moves a baseball game from its opening to its close. All that appears
in this book is aimed at and reduced to the execution of each pitch
as it is delivered.
Unfortunately, all the complexities that are part of the human
condition, all the complications pitchers bring to the game of
baseball, too often engender the execution of a pitch. In order for
that pitch to be well executed, the depth, fullness, and complexity
that is part of being human must be replaced by the limited, narrow
focus, and simplicity of thought required to be a pitcher. An effective
pitcher, that is.
A character in an Iain Pears novel talks of someone who puts “so
much effort...into squeezing in knowledge that there isn’t room left
over for common sense.” Many pitchers are guilty of just that. They
try to squeeze information into their heads about their mechanics,
about the hitter, about irrelevant circumstances and consequences
and leave no room for the common sense of focusing on the target
and delivering the baseball aggressively.
Such pitchers fail to “keep it simple, stupid.” The simplicity of
“selection, location and target” is a required component of a well-
executed pitch. Also, a pitcher’s trust in his talent and preparation
allow him to be relaxed, aggressive, and under control. Anything else
gets in the way of effective execution.
I tell pitchers that they are defined by “how the baseball leaves
their hand.” By this I mean that the pitcher has control over his
approach (and response), but not over the result—what happens to
the ball once it leaves his hand. He is entirely responsible for how
the pitch is executed, but not for how the batter behaves. If he gets
an out on a poorly thrown pitch, he may be happy with his good
fortune, but he should not be satisfied because of the result. His
execution was not acceptable, and that is how he is measured—or
should be.
Conversely, if he makes a great pitch and the hitter manages a
“lucky hit” or battles the pitch and gets on base, the pitcher surely
has his momentary unhappiness about the result, but he did what he
wanted to with the pitch; he executed it well. He had better
understand that. [See RESPONSE] As he is competing, the
execution is all that that should matter—because it is what he can
control.
Ron Darling pitched with the Oakland Athletics during part of my
tenure with the organization. A very intelligent Ivy League college
graduate, Darling had a tendency to “think too much” about the
wrong things. His manager felt that, on the mound, Darling did not
use “common sense.” The penetrating thought required to arrive at a
complicated answer is not the stuff of effective execution of a pitch.
Darling, and the many others whose “profound” but distracting
thoughts inhibited their performance, would have been better served
by applying the wisdom of Occam’s Razor, which suggested that” ...
the simplest explanation of a phenomenon is usually the most
trustworthy.”
On July 18, 1998, Al Leiter returned to the mound for the New
York Mets, after having partially torn a tendon in his left knee on
June 26. He pitched six scoreless innings, giving up two singles. “It
was fun,” Leiter said after the game. “It’s such simple stuff. Move the
ball around. Change speeds. Locate the ball...Get ahead of hitters.”
Execute, pitch by pitch, in other words. It is better to “understand” a
little than misunderstand a lot.
Tampa Bay pitcher Wilson Alvarez struggled through the 1998
season. In the latter part of the season, after having had downtime
because of an arm injury, Alvarez ran off five consecutive good
performances. He explained to the media, “I’m just trying to be
aggressive and not trying to throw the perfect pitch. I’m just letting it
go and seeing what happens because I’ve got eight guys in the field
who can make the out for me.” A simple—and appropriate—
assessment of his execution. He said nothing about hitters. An
effective pitcher does not out-smart the opposition, he out-executes
them. [See HITTERS]
I spoke in earlier pages about natural instincts and acquired
instincts. In order to be a successful pitcher, one is not required to
have a genetic predisposition for understanding how to execute a
pitch effectively. The understanding and the skill can be developed.
[See LEARNING] When interviewed a few years ago, Greg Maddux
told the interviewer that he would not have had such success in his
career if he hadn’t started to learn to change his focus while with the
Chicago Cubs early in his career. He learned the value of focusing
on execution.
“I was worrying so much about winning and losing, or getting an
out, or giving up a hit, that it was affecting the way I was pitching,”
Maddux explained. “It was interfering with my ability to make good
pitches,” he said. Thinking exclusively about execution, Maddux
went on, “...made a lot of sense to me, so I tried to do it. It’s easier
said than done because you play this game to win. But at the same
time you have to forget about that and concentrate on what it takes
to win. For me, it’s making good pitches.”
A few years ago, when I was working for the Florida organization,
the Marlins played a game against Atlanta at Joe Robbie Field, as it
was then named. Maddux pitched that particular night. He left the
game with a 2-1 lead after having pitched seven innings. The reliever
gave up the tying run, so Maddux did not get a “W.” The Braves
eventually won, 3-2.
After the game, I met Maddux in the player’s parking lot. I thought
I’d “test” him. I asked him ambiguously,” “So, how was it out there
tonight?” Would he complain about not getting a win, about meager
run support? His answer was, not surprisingly, exemplary. He looked
at me with a knowing smirk and replied, “Fifty out of seventy-three.”
All that needed to be said on the subject. He had thrown seventy-
three pitches and had executed fifty to his satisfaction. No results, no
explanations. Maddux evaluates his performance by assessing the
ratio between intent and action, pitch by pitch, as he competes with
himself first, in order to effectively compete with the hitter. He works
toward pitching what writer Richard J. Brenner called “that perfect
Platonic game.” That is the theoretically “simple” bottom line for
every pitcher. [See SIMPLICITY]
Poet Gary Snyder might describe the simplicity of executing pitch
after pitch as “relentless clarity at the heart of work.”
∎ FINISHING HITTERS
All pitching “philosophers” share the view that pitching ahead in
the count is a key to success. Many pitchers struggle to integrate the
belief into behavior. But of those who are very able to do so, a good
number meet another obstacle en route to “getting an out.” These
pitchers get to two strikes and lose—abandon, is probably more
appropriate a term—their intelligence and aggressiveness. From this
loss comes the loss of a likely out. Pitchers who “lose outs” this way
are said to be unable to “finish the hitter.”
One of the reasons for this departure from his otherwise effective
approach is that pitchers, having two strikes on the hitter, decide to
do more—“do too much,” as they say after the fact. Having lost
control of their mental approach, they then lose control of their
mechanics, overthrowing and missing the strike zone—until the
count is no longer in their favor. Then, aware the count is slipping
away, and having already lost a significant advantage, they throw
“mediocre stuff” into the strike zone. The results are not usually to
their liking. Neither are they to their liking when, feeling their edge
slipping away, they become determined to not allow good contact
and “ruin what they had going.” The result is usually a base on balls.
An inability to finish a hitter can also result from a pitcher’s belief
that, in 0-2 or 1-2 counts, he must make a “perfect pitch.” He “toys”
with the hitter, trying to execute a pitch in such a way as to “force” it.
Many a forced pitch becomes very hittable, since command suffers
greatly. Many more are out of the hitting zone and are called balls.
Very few ever qualify as “perfect pitches.” Pitches not put into play
allow the hitter to see additional pitches, get the count back even or
in the hitter’s favor, and become a distraction for the pitcher,
because of his inability to execute when ahead in the count.
Some pitchers believe that if they throw a pitch out of the strike
zone it will not be hit. This is not the case, and those pitchers who
tend to believe it is also tend to throw “mediocre stuff” on such
pitches. After all, it won’t be hit, they think. They, too, frequently
suffer the consequences of their approach.
When the count is 0-2 or 1-2, an inexperienced pitcher will tell
himself that the best way to finish the hitter is to keep the ball away
from him, whereas more success has come to pitchers who have
kept the ball down. At his best, closer Robb Nen, with his 96+ mile-
an-hour fastball, will get ahead in the count and snap a slider down
—perhaps in the dirt. The pitch down is much harder for a hitter to
fight off than the pitch away. Down and away works well for him and
others.
Different personalities display different tendencies. Some pitchers
“go hard” at the strike zone, establish the count at 0-2 or 1-2 and
become self-satisfied. They think the hitter’s at-bat is over. They
relax their intensity and focus and become careless with their
pitches. Good things do not happen in this scenario. “Cookies” are
thrown in the hitter’s zone or a base on balls result. (These pitchers
frequently tend to apply the same sloppy approach to two-out
situations. [See OUTS]
This final example is dramatic, but relatively unusual. In the late
’80s, during a championship game in the Northwest (rookie) League,
a young, effective relief pitcher was brought into the game for the
Medford (Oregon) A’s. A graduate of a Big Ten school, this young
man entered the game in the ninth inning of a tie game. A runner
was on second base; two were out. He went right after the hitter and
got the count to 0-2. He then threw a wild pitch, the ball in the dirt,
and to the backstop, far to the outside beyond the catcher’s reach.
The runner went to third. The next pitch was identical. The runner
scored what proved to be the winning run, the championship going to
the team from Everett, Washington, if memory serves me.
After the game I was thinking about those two pitches. It came to
mind that I had seen a number of similar circumstances earlier in the
season when I had visited. Same pitcher. It is not my “way” to
confront players after games and immediately talk about mistakes or
situations that went awry. But this was the final game of the season,
and the players were leaving for their homes the next day.
I waited until after our showers and then casually approached the
pitcher. He saw me coming and shook his head from side to side.
“It’s over,” I said. “But tell me something. What did you want to do on
the 0-2 and 1-2 pitches?”
He said he didn’t want to sound as if he were making excuses. I
encouraged him to tell me and allow me to decide for myself. In
college, he said, the coach had a “rule.” Pitchers were to “waste” the
pitch in those counts. Any pitcher who allowed contact on an 0-2
pitch, or who gave up a hit on a 1-2 pitch, would run “until he
dropped.” I heard him out and asked him if this hadn’t happened to
him in like circumstances earlier in the season. “It happens all the
time,” he said. “All I think of in those counts is that there’s no way the
pitch is coming anywhere near the plate.”
Psychology 101: stimulus-response; conditioned reflex. Baseball
101: a reason is not the same as an excuse.
A number of ways of “wasting” an advantage have been
presented. Opportunities based on a hitter’s vulnerability are lost
because a pitcher does not know how to finish the hitter. The best
“finishers” are those who simply keep going after the hitter. Certainly,
pitch selection and location are factors. But “best stuff” and an attack
mode are as great, if not greater, factors for these pitchers. After all,
that was how they established the count in their own favor. The
confident competitor will not forfeit that edge. And so it comes down
to trust and behavior once more. It always seems to.
In one of his columns in the New York Times, George Vecsey
wrote about certain athletes’ “inner bully.” Vecsey wrote of their
“instinct that says, ‘Kick ’em while they’re down.’ Jordan had it,”
noted Vecsey. “[Mark] Messier had it. Lawrence Taylor had it.”
Pitchers who consistently finish hitters have it also.
∎ FIRST INNING
The first inning has been the nemesis of many starting pitchers.
Successful pitchers have struggled in the first, often giving up runs in
the opening inning and shutting down the opposition thereafter. Tom
Glavine, has twice won the Cy Young Award, but he had a period of
difficulty with first innings. Of course, if a pitcher comes to believe it
to be a recurring issue, it will be one. [See. SELF-FULFILLING
PROPHECY]
Pitchers are not prizefighters. Boxers come out in the first round
and “feel each other out.” Typically, they do not commit to aggressive
action, waiting to see the style and disposition of the opponent. The
fighters are cautious as they watch and wait. That is their plan.
Many pitchers act in a similar fashion in the first inning. It is
dangerous behavior—and it is not part of a plan. It is a form of
involuntary reflex, a cautious reaction, rather than an aggressive
action. Most frequently, the pitcher’s behavior results in his pitching
behind in the count. The next result is usually a hard-hit ball or a
base on balls. Countless times I have witnessed a leadoff hitter
trotting to first base without seeing a strike. A pitcher must “come out
swinging” in the opening “round”—his first inning.
Why would he not? Some pitchers are tentative at the beginning
of competition. “I was waiting to see what would happen out there,”
I’ve been told more than once. The pitcher’s focus was on what
would happen to him. He made himself the object instead of the
subject. “What I want to make happen” never entered his mind—in
the first inning. That should have been his point of view; that is
always his responsibility. The wait to see what happens is often a
short wait—with a quick exit.
Television and radio baseball commentators speak of this type of
pitcher in a particular way. “They better get to this guy early, before
he gets his rhythm. He’s tough once he gets his rhythm,” they
announce to their audience. Read “rhythm” as the aggressive
decision to attack the strike zone. Lack of “rhythm” is a physical
discomfort that usually has as its origin a mental discomfort. A lack
of situational self-trust.
Other pitchers manifest a similar non-aggressive behavior in the
first inning, though their viewpoint is slightly different. These pitchers
I call “hopers.” These pitchers go out in the first inning hoping the
day will show itself to be a good one; hoping they will have a good
outing. Often, a “hoper” is a spectator at his own funeral. He always
starts off as a spectator, irrespective of outcome. He, too, thinks
about what might happen, rather than what he wants to make
happen. If he gets outs early in the inning—in spite of, rather than
because of, his behavior—“it will be a good day” (confessed to me),
and he will be encouraged to participate with heart, soul and mind. If
“things go against [him],” it is just “one of those days,” a phrase so
commonly used it is enshrined in the “Baseball Hall of Shame.”
The first inning presents an issue for starting pitchers only if they
approach it with caution and uncertainty. Any inning can become an
issue when the pitcher is non-aggressive or aloof.
A recollection comes to me. I was coaching a basketball team
with very talented players. A team that, for no apparent reason, was
always behind in the score in the first quarter. The feeling grew in me
that, sooner or later, we would not be able to make up the deficit,
and we would lose to an inferior team. The problem frustrated and
confounded me. After many failed appeals and other attempted
remedies, I decided the team was “not ready to compete” when the
game started. I ditched the pre-game “warm-up” from the traditional
drills; the team played three-on-three “games.”
We did not impress the spectators with drill-skill wizardry, but the
players “worked up a lather”—and, more importantly, a competitive
focus. The issue was solved.
In nine years of coaching basketball, that team was the only one
to require such a preparation. Every year during my 15 years in
professional baseball I have seen the need for pitchers to improve
their “mental readiness” to compete in the first inning. A Russian
proverb says, “Necessity taught the bear to dance.” Pitchers who
seek to be consistent in the maximizing of their talent, must feel it
necessary to be ready to compete aggressively in the first inning. To
take that aggressiveness and focus right to the “first dance.”
∎ GIVING IN
“Giving in” is a term frequently heard in baseball dugouts. Words
can mean all things to all people, so it seems necessary to make a
distinction between “giving in” and “giving up.” I do not consider the
terms to have the same meaning.
There is good reason to take the time to make the distinction.
Each of the behaviors associated with the terms stem from a loss of
hope. And people—ordinary people—who lose hope tend to lose
motivation. But hope should never be part of the competitor’s point
of view. Determination should. Persistence should. [See
RELENTLESS] Nevertheless, in their humanness, pitchers have
faltered, yielding to whatever sense of hopelessness they may have
felt. “Giving in” is a less dramatic, if more frequent, behavior than
“giving up.” Neither is acceptable on a baseball field.
Though the topic of “giving up” will be treated in later pages, [See
QUITTING] the definition must be established here, as a contrast to
“giving in.” The metaphor of traffic signs might serve. “Giving in”
would be a yield sign, “giving up” a stop sign. As a driver would yield
to another motorist, a pitcher would, for example, yield to a hitter, or
to his own emotion of the moment. Deference in traffic and
deference in competition are both defensive behaviors. In one
setting, the behavior assures favorable outcome, in the other setting
the behavior generally assures the opposite.
In battle, “giving in” is fighting the opponent ineffectively, because
of uncertainty, distraction and/or fear. “Giving up” is surrender.
The most frequent use of the term “giving in,” as it relates to
pitchers, can be heard when talking about the pitcher’s confrontation
with the batter. “Don’t give in to this guy,” seems to be the phrase of
choice. [See NEGATIVITY] The speaker, usually a pitching coach,
can mean any of a number of things, but in the broad sense, he does
not want the pitcher to yield to the batter, philosophically and
behaviorally. What he does want is for the pitcher to be aggressive,
but smart. The pitcher, it is presumed, knows what that means in that
context.
In May 1998, Orioles pitching coach, Mike Flanagan, spoke about
the kind of “giving in” that most frequently has come to my attention.
Flanagan was explaining the travails of pitcher Doug Drabek. “In the
spring,” Flanagan said, “hitters reacted to Dougie. Now it’s the exact
opposite. He gives up a bloop single, and then he starts thinking, ‘Uh
oh, now they’re going to get a big inning off me.’ [See SELF-
FULFILLING PROPHECY]
“You start fearing being hit,” Flanagan continued. “Then you pitch
defensively. You try to pinpoint pitches. You miss pitches. You fall
behind in the count. Then you get hit.” Flanagan was describing
perfectly the cycle of behavior and outcome that has as first cause
an attitude of “giving in” to hitters and circumstance. Loss of trust,
loss of hope, loss of aggressiveness. Flanagan went on to say he
saw no flaws in Drabek’s mechanics. “It’s all mental.” It usually is.
The mental state of “giving in” is like the fungus of athlete’s foot.
It may be dormant, but it can reappear at any time. The first sign of
its reappearance should provoke immediate attention to the issue.
All pitchers are susceptible. They wear shower shoes and powder
their feet. Equal attention must be paid to behavior during
competition.
A batter/runner does not hustle down the line to first base. Why
not? Disappointment is one response I’ve heard to my question.
Frustration another. Fatigue. Sorry. Guilty with an explanation, but all
guilty nevertheless.
A batter is extremely unhappy with an umpire’s call. Strike two.
The batter is blinded with rage and has no idea what he is swinging
at. Strike three. “Giving in.”
A pitcher doesn’t back up third base after the batter has hit a
double in the gap with two men on. “Brain cramp,” has been an
explanation. See above. An emotion of the moment was triggered by
the gapper. The instinct for self-pity became stronger than the one
for responsibility. “Giving in.”
A close acquaintance, a major league pitcher, sheepishly
admitted to me years ago that, when he became frustrated by errors
behind him, he “tried to strike everybody out.” Can over-
aggressiveness be a form of “giving in”? When a pitcher is forced out
of the approach he knows works for him because of circumstances
beyond his control, he has, indeed, given in to those circumstances
and to the emotions they provoked.
Bad weather, bad mounds, bad luck. These are but a few of the
other forces to which a pitcher can “give in.” Whatever the force, if it
is stronger than his resistance to it, the pitcher has given in. He may
not always have the capacity to win the battle, but he always has the
capacity to fight it effectively. To do less is to expand the external
forces he will always be called on to face. At the same time, he
shrinks the spirit within him, and diminishes his chances of being the
victor, rather than the vanquished.
∎ Set goals for himself, with the input of those he works closely
with, based on specific, individualized behaviors and skills he
wishes to improve.
∎ Understand that the expectations of others are not to be
considered as part of the goal-setting process, nor should they
be considered.
∎ Express goals in positive language, rather than in language
that indicates what he does not want to do. (e.g., “I want to
attack the strike zone regularly,” rather than “I don’t want to
walk guys.”)
∎ Adjust realistic goals, rather than abandoning them.
∎ Prioritize goals, according to need.
∎ Put the goals in writing.
∎ Keep a record of progress, in order to hold himself accountable
on a daily/regular basis.
∎ Be reasonable in the evaluation.
∎ Understand that an unattainable goal should be abandoned,
since it was inappropriate to begin with.
∎ Understand that goals relate to performance, not self-worth—
that the failure to reach a goal does not make him a failure.
∎ HABITS
One of my “games” with players is to have them clasp their hands
and wait for me to give them a signal to undo the clasp—pulling their
hands apart. They then are to quickly clasp their hands again, this
time putting the other thumb on top and intertwining the rest of their
fingers. Some players do it faster than others; some fumble and fix,
as they look down at their hands in awkward motion. When fingers
have been in place for a time, I ask the player how the second clasp
feels. Responses range from “different” to “weird.” Habit is very
powerful.
“Winning is a habit,” Vince Lombardi said. “Unfortunately, so is
losing.” In other words, people have good habits and they have bad
habits. Bad ones are harder to break than good ones are to develop,
so it stands to reason that one should work diligently at creating
good habits for himself. As Mark Twain said, “It is easier to stay out
than get out.”
Creating a good habit is an act of self-discipline and will. If, as a
Roman poet believed, “Ill habits gather by unseen degree...,” good
habits must be recognized and monitored diligently. Attention must
be paid.
Earlier in the book, the thought was presented that acting out
courageous behavior while at the same time being fearful is a form
of heroism. The consistent enactment will allow the fear to dissipate;
the habit of behavior will pre-empt the emotion. As Lawrence Durrell
wrote, “One day you will become what you mime. The parody of
goodness can make you really good.” Such is the power of habit.
This truth has implications for the way a pitcher should go about
his “business”—or his profession. Eating habits, sleeping habits,
running, lifting, his manner of practice and game-day preparation
create a pattern—for better or for worse. If a pitcher has no
consistent routine, he still creates a pattern. The pattern is one of
inconsistency, which will represent his habits and, most likely, his
performances. [See PREPARATION] If order produces security, it
follows that randomness or chaos will lead to its opposite.
The more a pitcher can develop routines, the more confidence he
can have in his preparedness. He will feel a greater sense of control
and focus. His routines are formed through choice and consistent
expression of the behaviors he understands will serve him well.
These routines are the focus of his attention and help him to “stay in”
good habits, so he does not have to concern himself with “getting
out” of bad ones. The habits are developed in relation to directed
tasks.
Without being compulsive, the pitcher can create a form of
ritualistic behaviors, so very helpful in that they provide him with
systematic leadins to his regular performances. He will have his off-
field, pre-game, in-game, and post-game habits firmly established.
Physical and mental preparations that are habituated will allow him
to focus on what he wants to do, rather then on any thoughts or
circumstances that are distracting. Good habits represent his plan,
his adjustments, his philosophy. His habits also represent his
character.
Habits, as Francis Bacon believed, are the “principal magistrate
of man’s life.”
∎ HITTERS
A couple of years ago, a pitcher with whom I have a close
relationship rang me up on the phone. It was early winter when he
called. An American League pitcher his entire career, he had
recently signed on with a National League team as a free agent. At
the time, I was working for the Marlins, a National League team.
“What can you tell me about the hitters in the league?” he asked
in the first minute of our conversation. “I don’t know anything about
them.” His tone was one of conscientious concern. Great concern—
not quite worry.
“The hitters aren’t your problem,” I answered. “You’re their
problem. They don’t know anything about you! Do you know
yourself?” I asked rhetorically. The more you know about yourself,
the less you have to know about hitters. Remember?” He had heard
all this before. Then I changed the subject.
If dugout conversations—serious and frivolous—were to be
monitored, the phrase (in the form of a question) that would rank first
in frequency of use would be one which expresses the prevailing
concern of hitters, regarding pitchers: “What’s this guy got?” Hitters
feel a great need to know the answer. Pitchers realize this; they hear
the question asked on a daily basis. It should help them to reinforce
their psychological advantage, to say nothing (yet) of their statistical
edge. Pitchers should focus their attention within, heading the advice
of Shakespeare’s Polonius: “This above all: to thine own self be
true.”
In response to a question asked by an Atlanta Constitution
interviewer during spring training, 1999, Greg Maddux had this to
say: “When you understand yourself more as a pitcher, it’s easier to
pitch... Hitters have been the same since I came up. You’ve got
some righties; you’ve got some lefties; you’ve got some fastball
hitters; you’ve got some guys that’ll steal bases, guys that hit
homers. They just have a different name on their back. That’s why I
think understanding yourself makes it easier.”
Let the pitchers be the warriors and the hitters the worriers.
To know a hitter’s strengths, weaknesses, and tendencies can be
helpful to a pitcher, it is true. But knowing his own is of greater value.
A pitcher’s trust in his ability is more powerful than all the information
he can gain about a hitter. This trust allows him to maintain the
inherent “edge” he has over hitters. He should further realize that if a
pitcher’s strengths coincide with the hitter’s strength, the pitcher
“wins” most of the time. On the condition that he employs his own
strengths aggressively. So much the better for him if he can execute
from his strength to a hitter’s weakness.
Finally, a pitcher should also heed the words of Marc Antony and
apply them to his own audience: “I have come to bury Caesar, not to
praise him.” Pitchers, however, should say it in truth. They should go
to the mound to “bury” hitters, not to praise them. A pitcher’s praise
of a hitter can develop into an exaggerated respect, which can lead
to awe. Awe becomes deference and deference is a “giving in” to a
hitter. Pitchers who are overly concerned with hitters—and many are
alive, if not well—generally will admit, after damage has been done,
that they “gave the hitters too much credit.”
This brilliance in retrospect has one value: it is a mistake the
pitcher is aware of, and so has the opportunity to learn from. Sadly,
man’s history indicates such learning to be the exception, not the
rule. Luckily, being exceptional is a pitcher’s goal. Or should be.
The less said about hitters, the better. This has come close to the
limit.
∎ INTENSITY
One demonstration I have used to help players understand the
meaning of “intensity” has been to hold a magnifying glass above a
sheet of paper under the Arizona or Florida sun. The paper rests on
the grass of a practice field. My hand holds the magnifying glass at
knee level. A large, faint circle of light is spread across the paper and
spills over its edge onto the grass. I move the glass closer to the
paper. The circle of light becomes smaller and more defined. I then
move the glass to within an inch of the paper. Smoke begins to rise;
a hole is formed; the paper is now on fire.
The three circles represent degrees of a player’s intensity. 1) no
intensity, 2) controlled, well-concentrated intensity (heat and light)
[See AROUSAL], 3) destructive intensity. Players understand what
they are seeing; they themselves have experienced each level.
Too much of a good thing is a good thing no longer. Discussing
an effective intensity level is much like discussing arousal. Both deal
with the regulation of the mental and physical energy an athlete
brings to performance. Pitchers often confuse the expenditure of
energy as being solely physical and mental expression. But the
discipline needed to control intensity also requires the expenditure of
mental energy. The sharply defined circle on the paper strikes the
proper balance. Intensity, like aggressiveness, must be controlled if
the pitcher is not to “go up in flames.” As mentioned in previous
pages, “Nothing in excess.”
Yet, my experiences have instructed me that more pitchers are in
need of greater intensity than they are of greater control. Too many
are trying to drive their metaphorical racecar with one foot on the
brake.
In accordance with this belief, I tell young pitchers (and a few
older ones) of my preference for “too much,” rather than “too little”
intensity. “It is easier to adjust down than adjust up,” I say to them.
The many distractions they bring to their game often make the circle
on their paper wide and diffused.
Intensity is the calling card of every pitcher who considers himself
to be a competitor. Yes, there are some bulls who must learn to
move with determination, while not destroying the shop’s chinaware.
That ability can be developed with relative ease. For the timid or
distracted pitcher, the process of heightening positive intensity can
be a daunting task. But it is a core requirement in the curriculum of
pitching excellence.
Intensity is both an attitude and a skill. Effective intensity is
rooted in caring deeply and knowing how to be successful in the
caring. Aquinas said that only intense actions develop and
strengthen good habits. Repetition alone can be a mindless and
therefore meaningless activity. Recall the reference on earlier pages
to PFP as a repetitive drill. Without the right attitude, the skill fails to
be developed. The meaning given to it on the practice field must
replicate the meaning given on the playing field. Intensity can be
learned.
Appropriate intensity requires undivided, controlled, and
sustained attention, and both physical and mental energy.
Enthusiasm is another ingredient. An intense pitcher considers
competition to be fun and practice to be purposeful. [See JOY] His
focus is always narrowed, concentrated, and consistent.
Kevin Brown’s intensity is apparent to any observer. Journalists
have noted the way he takes batting practice. “Watch Brown in a
routine batting practice and he is not joking around the way pitchers
often do...” This from a saved newspaper clip. I have seen Kevin
Brown return to the dugout after a poor at-bat. He takes all
competition very seriously—at the same time relishing it.
Said Tony Gwynn, a San Diego Padres teammate in 1998, “You
see [Brown] sitting there on the bench between innings when he’s
pitching, and he is like in a daze [zone?] he’s concentrating so hard.
He’s probably going over in his mind who he’s facing next inning and
what he has to do. Whatever, you know you aren’t going to go over
and start a conversation with him.”
Oral Hershiser provided San Francisco Examiner writer Henry
Schulman with textbook material during an interview a day before his
second start with the Giants in September 1998. Hershiser
incorporated many facets of the mental requirements for successful
pitching in his talk, which initially addressed “intensity.” His remarks
are quoted liberally.
Hershiser began his interview by noting that prior to his last start
against the Phillies he had lost the intensity for which he was
recognized. He was distracted by the expectations of others, these
based on the view that he had come to San Francisco to be a
mentor, rather than a pitcher. “That took over my mentality on the
mound,” he said.
Hershiser continued, “I got my nickname ‘Bulldog’ because of my
intensity... The last time out, I threw every pitch like it was the last
pitch of my career. That’s going to be my mantra for the rest of my
career. [See MANTRA] Everyone wants to label you as old and more
cerebral, but I’ve still got some good stuff left to offer. Here it is.
Come and get it.
“I’m not worried anymore about how people react to my facial
expressions... Not all of us got here by being robots. Some of us got
here by being passionate, intense, and exuberant about what we do.
“I think I started to lose that because I was listening to what
everyone was saying about me instead of listening to who I am. At
some point I thought I started to lose love of the game... [Now] I just
decided to give everything I’ve got and uncover the original source of
why I wanted to play.”
The interrelatedness of topics discussed between the covers of
this book—intensity being but one—is made abundantly clear by
Hershiser’s revelation of agendas—past, present, and future.
∎ Be open to learning.
∎ Listen to everyone; be discriminating, thoughtful, and honest in
using what is heard.
∎ Always seek better ways of accomplishing tasks.
∎ Give new approaches honest effort before evaluating them.
∎ Realize that what might have worked at one level might not at
a higher level.
∎ Give a newly acquired approach a fair amount of time to “kick
in.”
∎ Understand that learning implies change, and that change is
not immediately “comfortable.”
∎ Learn about solutions, rather than dwelling on the problem.
∎ Be discriminating, using what seems to work and discarding
what does not.
∎ Understand that in order to find out how to do something well,
a good learner takes risks, rather than being fearful of doing
something poorly.
∎ Understand that the wisest man still has plenty to learn.
∎ Know that ideas do not work, unless he also does, because
theory may be fine, but application is finer.
∎ MANTRA
By now the reader has surely recognized that positive, rational,
task-oriented thoughts are prerequisites for effective behavior on the
mound. Over and over this point has been made, particularly in
WHAT THE PITCHER SHOULD DO sections. “Understand” this;
“Recognize” that: “Be aware” of such and such ... Over and over.
The purpose of these repetitions is to help the pitcher to create
an understanding of a mantra—a sort of incantation, casting a spell,
so to speak, over him as he “chants” the same, sound point of view.
The repetition is a strongly defined and constant reference point—
the star to guide the pitcher’s ship by, through safe waters, away
from troubled waters.
If using a mantra is a form of “brainwashing,” the pitcher can be
assured his brain is being “washed” by the pitcher himself. In doing
so, he must be careful to choose impeccably correct messages to
deliver to his brain—messages that ultimately affect his muscles.
From the trust in, and the repeated expression of it, the mantra will
become a countervailing force to all the wrong messages delivered
by pressures, anxieties, distractions and fears. A strong, positive
mantra can mute the voices of negative would-be intruders. That is
why “one-pitch-at-a time” has become such a popular—and
appropriate—mantra. It puts a pitcher’s mind where it belongs: on
the next pitch to be delivered. Simple, direct, clear. Repeat after me
...
“Every time we ... chant our mantra, the brain rewards us with the
release of soothing endorphins ...” wrote novelist John Dufresne.
Endorphins help relieve pain and stress. The additional “reward” a
pitcher gets from his mantra is the reminder of what focus he needs
at the moment. That has very practical value. Hershiser’s mantra,
previously referred to, brought the veteran pitcher back to his lost
focus.
Also noted previously was Greg Maddux’ insistence that his sole
concern is “executing a pitch.” This has become his mantra. He
chose it; he ritualistically verbalized it; he learned to believe in it; he
is now unfailingly “spellbound” by it. “It’s scary,” he told me a couple
of years ago. “That’s all that matters out there [on the mound].”
If someone thinks about a particular thing in a singular way, he
learns to own the thought—to represent it. The body hears the same
directive repeated and repeated. The chant becomes he who chants
it. “Scary,” as Maddux said, the power our minds have, if we choose
to use it.
∎ Listen to himself.
∎ Examine how his attitude is reflected by his thoughts and
speech.
∎ Understand that negative influences in his youth do not have to
continue through adulthood, if they are understood and
rejected.
∎ Be who he wants to be, rather than who others have shaped
him to be.
∎ Take responsibility for what he says and how he behaves.
∎ Know that what he thinks and says will greatly influence what
he does.
∎ Learn to change negative talk into positive statements (e.g.,
“I’m going to work on this,” rather than, “I can’t do this.” “Right
through the target; good, low strike here,” rather than, “Don’t
walk this guy.”) [See COACHING SELF and SELF-TALK]
∎ Tell himself to what to do, rather than warning himself what not
to do.
∎ Be aware of the common vocabulary of negativism so that, in
identifying “the enemy,” he can combat him.
∎ Learn to understand himself, to be honest with himself, to like
and trust himself.
∎ Know that changing the quality of his thoughts will change the
quality of his performance—and his life.
∎ Know that the change is a choice and requires commitment
and positive mental energy.
∎ NICE GUYS
When a player flies in to spend a couple of days with me during
the off-season, I pick him up at the airport. Once we’re en route to
my home. I present a hypothetical situation.
“You go to an upscale restaurant for a good dinner. You have
looked forward to it. You knew just what you wanted to order. The
meal is served; you begin eating. The food is cold. What do you do?”
A considerable number (probably 13 out of 20) have answered, “I
shut up and eat it.” Or words to that effect. They “don’t want to
bother the waitress.” They do not want to confront the issue.
“That’s why you’re here,” I say to them.
I am reminded of a story that made a strong impression on me
when I read it as a child. It is about a young boy and his father, who
are bringing a donkey they wish to sell at a market three towns away
from their home. They begin the trip with the father walking, as he
holds the rope around the animal’s neck. The son rides the donkey.
As they go through their town, the father hears people say, “Look at
that; the old man is forced to walk by a selfish son with young legs.”
The father and son switch positions.
They walk on and soon hear the townspeople of the adjacent
hamlet say, “Look at that; a small young thing forced to walk, while a
strong man rides.” Father and son mount the donkey and both ride
into the next town.
There they hear, “Isn’t that inhumane! Two people burdening that
poor, dumb animal. What insensitive cruelty.” The father thinks for a
moment. He then purchases a long bamboo pole and a length of
heavy rope. The father and son tie the donkey’s legs to the pole,
then lift it onto their shoulders.
They walk into the next town carrying the upside down animal.
“Look at those fools, carrying a donkey.”
The most certain way to assure failure in this world of ours is to
try to please everyone.
Nice guys tend to be pleasers. They may have different motives,
but their agenda is not to ruffle anyone’s feathers. I have found three
distinct differences among players who want to please. Some just
seem to want to be liked too much. They tend to have low self-
esteem; their acceptance by others is their validation of self.
Others have been criticized excessively as youngsters. They too
suffer from poor-self esteem and wish to prevent criticism by catering
to those who have any chance of giving it. Like a waitress in
restaurant. Or a plumber who botched the job in the player’s home,
but who the player will not call to hold accountable. Or their inept,
perhaps dishonest, auto mechanic.
Still others simply have been raised to be very nice sons by very
nice parents. Nothing wrong with that. Until the “son” walks out to the
mound to compete. (I often ask such pitchers, “What was the last
thing your mother said to you when you left the house by yourself
when you were a child?” The answer is usually: “Be careful.” Or, “Be
a good boy.” Or both.
Most of the aforementioned pitchers tend to have difficulty
converting off-field niceness to on-field competitiveness. They pitch
“carefully” and are “too nice.”
Many with whom I have worked have what is called in semantics,
“an either-or orientation.” They are concerned that if they are not
acting like a Mr. Rogers, they will appear to be Attila, the Hun. [See
PERSPECTIVE] Not true, but if it were, Attila would be the more
likely of the two to get the job done on the mound.
I am struck by the Denver Broncos’ Bill Romanowski, reputed to
be the wildest, most aggressive, nastiest linebacker in the NFL. He is
also known, off the football field, as the consummate and caring
gentleman. He is well-spoken, active and giving in his community.
He seems to adjust his persona to what the environment calls for. He
has compromised his persona. Rather, he has established it.
Whoever he is, he is effective—wherever he is.
In BEHAVIOR I spoke about Rick Honeycutt. Another ultimate off-
field gentle man. He learned to be a steadfast attacker as a pitcher. It
can be done, but a decision must be made.
Early in his career, pitcher Tom Seaver decided to shed his “nice
guy” image, which he equated with “a losing-guy image.” He knew
he had to back hitters off the plate and did what he had to in order to
send his message. “There is a fine line between good hard baseball
and dirty baseball,” Seaver said.
The line between good, hard baseball and not-so-good, soft
baseball is much more clearly defined. Pitchers must be on the
appropriate side of the line. If they are not, they must inspire
themselves to cross over.
Greg Maddux can be the humble, self-effacing good person—
when he is not pitching. But those who watched Maddux respond to
what he perceived to be Jim Leyritz’s attempts to distract him during
the ’98 NLCS, saw a fierce, competitive nature express itself. Not the
nature of a “nice guy.”
The Cardinals’ Bob Gibson has been my favorite non-“nice guy”
on the mound, but I think I would have enjoyed watching New York
Yankees pitcher Burleigh Grimes perform. I was a bit too young. In
the mid-1930s, someone asked Grimes why there are so many “nice
guys” in baseball. (Yes, back then, during those glorified days of
“hardball.”) Grimes said he didn’t know the answer about “nice guys,”
but he knew about himself: “I’m a bastard when I play.”
Pitching is confrontation. Pitchers realize that and must reconcile
any differences they have between their understanding and their
approach. If efficacy comes from aggressiveness, and caution or
timidity assures ineffectiveness, their choice should be clear to them.
Their goal should be established and vigorously pursued. That is the
need of every “nice guy.” Otherwise, he will not be much better off
than the “nice guy” in a Bryce Courtenay novel, who became
“powerless as those around me plundered my spirit with the gift of
themselves.” Hitters especially.
∎ POISE
Hemingway called it “grace under pressure.” Writer Paul Theroux
used a term that is a favorite of mine: “Un-get-at-able.” As in the
dugout expression, “You can’t get to this guy.” Poise is their subject.
A pitcher who has poise is able to maintain his composure during
“times that will try his soul.” That is not to say he will not entertain
some distracting internal responses. But he will not externalize them.
He will “keep his powder dry.” Two-time Cy Young Award winner Tom
Glavine comes immediately to mind. His demeanor is impeccable.
No observer knows what he is thinking or feeling, and that is the way
it should be. He is methodical and consistent in his behavior on the
mound. He will not let anyone “see him sweat.” Peter Gammons
described Glavine’s mound behavior to me, with pride in his eye and
tone, as “good old New England stoicism.”
But poise is more than outward appearance, though that is
important enough. [See BODY LANGUAGE] The Vikings believed
that no good purpose could be found for showing fear. Such display,
they felt would signify to observers that they had lost their
independence—freedom. A pitcher’s display reveals himself, and the
loss of self-control. A pitcher who has “total” poise has the ability to
control his emotions, his thinking, and his behavior. His is a serenity
of mind over chaos.
Many pitchers have “partial” poise. When speaking of Tom
Glavine, I refer to what observers may see. He is not a “stalker” on
the mound. His serenity is total, insofar as the observer can tell. Yet
other pitchers may stomp around the mound when matters seem to
become “unglued.” As long as the pitcher does not come unglued,
the situation can be dealt with effectively. By that I mean, the
proverbial “bottom line” is how the pitcher behaves as he executes
the next pitch. Glavine exemplifies “total” poise. His performance
seems to be effortless.
His teammate, John Smoltz, is an example of “partial” poise.
Smoltz can be seen making facial expressions or body suggestions,
but he seems to regain his composure—his poise—quickly, before
delivering the next pitch. That is what truly matters.
The danger for young pitchers is to believe that regaining poise
during competition is easy to do. For a pitcher who habitually
expresses his emotions on the mound, the likelihood of getting it
back is less. For some, it is easier to maintain poise than regain it.
Often, a pitcher who “loses it” does not get it back until he is in the
shower. Having lost his poise, he lost his self-control—to the extent
that he could not have “his wits about him” and gather himself. “I just
flat-out forgot everything I had to do to fix myself,” I have been told,
by a pitcher who showered early.
Such a statement as the one above, indicates one of the mental
skills that can be lost in the heat of the moment. Panic, anger, or
frustration can result in loss of “memory.” Those emotions can also
produce vague or distorted messages in the brain. The pitcher’s
judgment suffers as well (“I’m going to unload this pitch as hard as I
can”). Doubt and indecisiveness result. [See SELECTION] Irrelevant
and distracting thoughts gain control.
Physical effects also result from loss of control. Breathing is
adversely affected (I have seen pitchers hyperventilate on the
mound). Muscular tightness inhibits proper blood flow. Range of
motion is reduced and the arm becomes less “free.” The ability to
focus on the target is reduced or eliminated.
The loss of poise has a ripple effect. A pitcher should always
strive to have an internal peace, in spite of adverse or chaotic
conditions outside him. [See ADVERSITY] The poem, “If,” by
Rudyard Kipling lists the conditions for manhood, as delivered by a
father to his son. The first condition reads: “If you can keep your
head when all about you are losing theirs...” The last line, after all the
other conditions have been stated, is: “And...(then) you’ll be a Man,
my son!”
Poise helps make the man.
∎ POSITIVISM
The term “positivism” is not meant to be applied as a doctrine
referred to in philosophy books. Rather, it is a reference, in these
pages, to a thinking “skill” that is a countervailing force to
“negativism.”
Nor is “positivism” a synonym for “optimism,” which is a tendency
to expect that “everything will work out for the best.” For a pitcher,
positivism is the utilization of appropriate thinking patterns—task-
oriented directives, stated in positive language. “What to do and how
to do it.” The “best” may not result, but the pitcher will be “at his
best.” He will deliver his pitch effectively (plan, focus, execution,
response) by employing positive self-coaching techniques. [See
SELF-TALK]
If a pitcher is not predisposed to speak in positive terms, he must
learn to do so, acquiring the behavior as a skill is acquired. It is bad
enough that negative language reflects an unwholesome attitude.
Worse is the fact that the negative thoughts a pitcher may have,
expressed silently or aloud, are translated into negative approaches.
A pitcher, in telling himself what not to do, focuses his attention on
just that—and increases the likelihood of the very behavior he
wishes to avoid. Positive directives provide a pitcher with a focus on
what he should do.
If I did not know how to properly drive a nail into a piece of wood,
and I wanted to learn how to be a carpenter, I’d seek out a carpenter,
someone who knew how to do what I wished to do.
“Let me see what you’ve got. Here’s a hammer and nail; there’s
the wood. Drive the nail into the wood,” he might have said to me.
Despite my not really knowing how to go about the task, I gave it my
best attempt. The nail went in sideways and bent, because of my
inept attempt at driving it. “Good grief!” the carpenter exclaimed.
“You can’t do it that way. Don’t bend the darn thing; don’t swing the
hammer sideways; don’t come down with it from so far away. Can’t
you do it right?”
He did not tell me how to accomplish that. He knew how to do the
task, but he couldn’t teach me how to do it. He certainly told me what
I shouldn’t do.
I sought out another carpenter. The nail looked the same after I
demonstrated my lack of skill to this fellow. “OK,” he responded. “Let
me show you what to do. To begin with, you held the nail at an angle;
hold it straight up and down. Good. Now, keep your hammer stroke
short and come right down over the nailhead. You hit too rapidly and
lost control of your stroke the first time. You want to use short,
deliberate swings over the top. There you go.”
It would take a while for me to become a master carpenter, but I
would know what kind of teacher I needed. A “positivist.” One who
would teach me what to do and how to do it.
If it is true, as I will say to a pitcher, that he is the most important
coach he will ever have, the need for him to be positive in his
coaching should be obvious. If a pitching coach tells him all the right
things in all the right ways, but the pitcher translates it into negative
terms, the coach has been of no use. Conversely, if a pitching coach
is not skillful at presenting his messages appropriately, but the
pitcher converts what he needs into positive language, all will be well
that ends well. Every external message must run through the
pitcher’s mental filter. If he does not have a filter, problems are very
likely to result. If he himself provides the contaminated internal
message, problems are assured. He must be an exemplary self-
coach for his pitching self.
The battle to express all thoughts in a positive way must be
fought—if it needs fighting. The first campaign is to employ general
language such as: “I will—; “I’ll find a way—; “I’ll adjust.” Rather than,
“I can’t”; “I’d better not...”; “I hope.” A pitcher who tries to “find a way”
looks for a positive strategy, rather than saying, “It can’t be done.”
The pitcher who employs positive language is a seeking excellence.
A pitcher who speaks in negative terms is seeking an escape from
failure. One pitcher is likely to find what he is seeking; the other is
likely to be found by what he is fleeing from.
A pitcher grows by what he feeds on. Positive language allows
him healthy growth. He affirms himself, rather than degrading
himself. He examines possibilities, rather than pronouncing
impossibilities. He seeks ways to improve himself, rather than
seeking ways to judge others poorly. He is grounded in reality, rather
than floating in imaginative thinking (“If only ...”). He expects the
best, rather than being certain of the worst. He looks for solutions,
rather than wallowing in problems.
The development of appropriate behavior is a process. It takes
longer to habituate desired behavior than it does to determine the
behaviors. To say, “OK, I’m going to speak in positive terms as much
as I possibly can,” is a simple enough plan. The execution is the
challenge. Someone once said that his greatest inspiration was the
challenge to attempt the impossible. My inspiration is to declare this
challenge difficult, but very possible.
∎ PRESSURE
Important, critical, extremely significant, essential, imperative,
must game, must pitch...Shakespeare’s “the be all and the end all.”
These are words used to describe a situation.
Must, have to, got to, need to, expected to, had better...These are
words used to describe an attitude. An attitude held by a person who
interprets a situation to be as described above.
Words of pressure; words of weight.
In a psychology class I was teaching, the subject of “pressure”
(and stress)—because of problems real and imagined—was to be
discussed. I brought a big, tin, empty linseed oil can into class the
day the topic was to be treated. And an air pump. At the beginning of
the class, I gave a demonstration. First, I took the cap off the
opening of the can and put a rubber stopper into it. Then, the thin
hose from the air pump was inserted into a hole in the stopper. The
pump was to be used to extract air from the can.
Slowly I pumped the air out of the can. A crackling noise began to
sound as the can’s shape gradually changed. The sides were
collapsing. I pumped faster; the noise became more pronounced and
the can collapsed and shriveled. When I stopped, the can’s shape
was completely distorted.
“What happened?” I asked.
“It collapsed because of the air pressure outside,” came an
answer.
“It folded because there was nothing left inside,” I responded.
Prior to the demonstration, we had noted that air applies 15
pounds of pressure per square inch on every surface. The pressure
put on the can’s external surface was 15 pounds per square inch.
The pressure inside the can had been the same—until I sucked the
air out of the can. Because there was no longer any air inside, to
“combat” the pressure from the the air outside, the can “folded.”
“The same physical principal applies to us,” I said to the students.
“We have air inside us that keeps our bodies intact. Our psyches
follow the same principle. The ‘pressing’ problems or issues we have
all can create ‘pressure.’ But these issues won’t ‘dent’ us or ‘buckle’
us if we have what it takes to stay whole. It takes coping
mechanisms. The can’s internal force is air; our internal
psychological force is whatever coping mechanisms we have,” I said.
Though oversimplified, the point seemed clear to them.
Part of the oversimplification is that “pressure” is a perception.
What pitcher A perceives as a threatening situation, pitcher B sees
as an exciting challenge. This point has been made often. So, when
Orel Hershiser signed with the New York Mets in March ’99, he said
of playing in New York, “I love the pressure...” Well, is it “pressure”
then? That point is moot. What matters more is that different pitchers
interpret the same environment and circumstance differently. I know
pitchers who “buckled” in New York. (I refuse to say New York
“buckled” them.) And I know pitchers who have thrived there. A
person’s reality is what he believes it to be. (Karl Wallenda once
said, “Being on a tightrope is living; everything else is waiting.”)
Still, if the environment truly presents difficult situations that must
be dealt with, a pitcher who has “the right stuff” will survive at least,
and thrive, at best, in spite of the whatever external problems exist.
He will cope. He will manage himself and, to that extent, “manage”
his environment. He will not control the externals, but he will control
the internals—thereby applying equal pressure from within. He will
not cave in.
I am certainly not cavalier about the various issues pitchers must
face—many presented by particular factors of environment or
circumstance. But I have heard too many people pay too much
attention to too many problems, rather than paying attention to
possible solutions. The “problem” of pressure is just one more
misdirected focus. “How can we deal with it?” That is the question I
ask pitchers on a regular basis (after we determine that the issue is
real, rather than imagined).
What a pitcher is forced to deal with is an internalization that
inhibits his ability to relax, to enjoy what he does and to do it well.
Crucial games, important performances, “must” pitches—all the
descriptive terms noted in the very first paragraph above—lead to
the responses in the second paragraph. [See URGENCY] By
defining his world thusly, he creates his “monster.” By dwelling on his
creation, he feeds it. By confronting it, he will have a chance to
starve it.
“Baseball is not pressure,” Sammy Sosa has said. “Pressure is
when you’re seven years old and, and you don’t have food to eat. So
when you’ve come from nowhere and have all that I have now, I
sleep like a baby every night.” [See PERSPECTIVE] Nevertheless, if
someone else has decided baseball is pressure ...
Veteran outfielder Paul O’Neill has been known for being very
hard on himself throughout his career. In 1984, O’Neill played for the
Vermont Reds, Cincinnati’s Double-A team. At the time, I was doing
a newspaper feature—about “pressure.” O’Neill told me, “I feel
pressure on me when I go 0-for-5. Sure it affects me... The eight-
hour bus rides you take in the minor leagues keep you thinking about
it. It adds to the pressure. I need time with other things, other
interests, to relieve the tension. It isn’t easy.”
“The rides...keep you,” “It adds to...” Pressure given life by a bus
ride. Or by O’Neill himself? It is the human tendency to give pressure
life without understanding the life-giving process. Pitchers, again,
must develop more enlightened tendencies if they wish to be
exceptional. O’Neill apparently did.
Entire teams can be affected. I have seen it firsthand. [See JOY]
So has Detroit pitcher Jason Thompson who, in September ’98, with
his team at the bottom of the American League standings, saw
young players “feeling the pressure of all the losses.” Said
Thompson, “It’s just really weighing on everybody. You can see it in
the way everybody’s playing. It’s just been real tough. You’ve seen
things you normally wouldn’t see. I think we’re all starting to think
about it too much. We just need to go out there and play.”
Easier said than coped with.
I am adamant about this point: players put pressure on
themselves. The reader has heard many athletes express this exact
viewpoint. Yet, privately, the very athlete who will make such a public
pronouncement can express his resentment of the circumstances
that, as one pitcher described to me, “...always seem to rock my
house.” A building without solid footings will tend to rock. [See
RESPONSIBILITY]
The pitchers with the greatest sense of responsibility consistently
come at difficult situations with the understanding that what they
think is the countervailing force to “what’s out there” to be faced. The
pitchers with the best mental discipline face it best—and best cope
with matters they cannot control.
Everyone will feel “the pressure.” My first concern is that the
pitcher properly identifies its source. Himself. Then, feeling it during
competition, my concern is to help him cope with the feeling
effectively, by transferring his thoughts to function—to executing a
pitch. That is always the bottom line. And it is most often the solution
—if the pitcher can help himself to reach it. The focus is on the
pitcher and what he does for himself, rather than the circumstance
and what it is doing to him.
The linseed oil can has the air taken out of it; a pitcher allows it to
be removed. He gives it up. The can has no say in the matter; the
pitcher has all there is to say. He has the responsibility of giving
himself the right messages. [See POSITIVISM] He must develop the
capacity for being mentally strong. [See COURAGE]
∎ RELENTLESSNESS
Relentlessness is the antithesis of quitting. It is an aggressive,
persistent, attack-mode attitude. It defines a warrior. [See WARRIOR]
The relentless pitcher gives himself intensely, entirely, and constantly
to competition.
“Paralyze resistance with persistence,” Ohio State football coach
Woody Hayes used to say. The relentless pitcher works consistently
to do just that, offering an internal persistence to his opponent. He
has “left nothing out there,” after his performance. He is fully
extended. Spent. He may be beaten, but he will never surrender. His
ego is rewarded by this unyielding behavior. [See QUITTING]
A relentless attitude combats distractions, such as minor pain,
fatigue, weather conditions—the score. [See RESULTS] “When you
can’t pitch with your arm, you go with your heart,” said Yankees
pitcher Orlando Hernandez. (His manager, Joe Torre, once claimed
he “had to pry his glove open and take the ball out myself,” when
removing Hernandez from a game.)
Pitchers with severe flu symptoms, for example, have pitched
effectively and been in a state of virtual collapse—after the
performance. Their sympathetic nervous system gave them as much
as they demanded of it. Those who make no demands, get little in
return. Bob Gibson made demands. He was able to pitch with a
broken leg.
“You just pitch,” Greg Maddux explained to a reporter who noted
that his team had “supported” him with only two hits in the game. “You
don’t worry if you’re up ten runs or down ten runs. You just make
pitches. Regardless of the situation, you just have to get guys out. So
who cares what the situation is?”
On one occasion before a game a couple of years ago, Maddux,
in thinking about the relentless execution of pitch by pitch, said to me,
“It’s scary. Nothing else matters. I’ve learned that if I let down, it can
all turn around in a heartbeat.” He does not let down.
Steffi Graf has had a reputation of being a relentless competitor
on the tennis court. Monica Seles described Graf’s approach with
admiration. “Steffi will never give you a free point, even when it’s 5-0,
40-10ve.”
Never giving a “free pitch.” That is what Maddux was talking
about. Irrespective of score, of circumstance—of feelings. Keep
executing pitches. Keep competing. Keep bearing down. Stay
focused. Relentlessly.
All pitchers have the capacity; not all have the determination. [See
WILL]
I have seen pitchers who battled through adversity, working to
“find a way to get it done.” They appeared to be hanging on with
suction cups. Japanese players would describe such a quality as
gambate—working hard, never giving up.
Goethe wrote, “Ohne Haste, ober ohne Rast.” Without haste, but
also without rest. Under control; slowly but surely. Relentlessly.
∎ RESPONSE
“Approach, result, response.” That is the sequence of the three
events that take place on the mound, I tell pitchers. It is actually a
cycle, these “events” being repeated throughout performance.
∎ RUBBER
Though little need be said about the pitching rubber, what little
there is has significance.
When the pitcher stands on the rubber, his mind and body should
be ready to deliver the next pitch. His thoughts should be exclusively
on pitch selection, location and then directed—with his eyes—to the
target. Any intrusive thoughts should trigger the pitcher to back off the
rubber and redirect his focus.
Typical of pitchers’ tendencies is the one expressed by veteran
Doug Drabek, when he was struggling during the 1998 season. “You
can’t stand on the mound [read ‘rubber’] and try to figure it all out,” he
said.
The pitcher must recognize that he has two roles on the baseball
field. He is a performer (a defensive player once he delivers the
pitch), and he is a coach. On the pitching rubber, he is a performer.
Whatever self-coaching is required—whatever “figuring it out” must
be done—takes place off the rubber. The more dramatic the
adjustment, the further from the rubber he goes, getting down off the
mound and gathering his thoughts and his composure, if necessary.
Off the rubber, the pitcher becomes a coach.
Many pitchers have not come to this understanding. They “think
too much” about mechanics or the previous pitch or possible
consequences, while standing on the rubber. All those matters are
irrelevant and distracting. Even effective self-coaching techniques
become ineffective when the pitcher is on the rubber. It is a pitching
rubber, after all, not a coaching rubber.
The pitcher should use the rubber as a “key”—a trigger to remind
him of what his focus should be. When he feels his foot on the rubber,
he should be reminded that his head should be clear of all thoughts
but three: selection, location, target. That is the mantra of the rubber.
Selection, location, target. Anything else should provoke him to step
back off the rubber and replace the extraneous thought(s) with
appropriate ones.
Too many pages would be required to catalog all the examples of
“thinking too much” that I have heard from pitchers over the years.
Negative or positive. All are counterproductive if expressed on the
rubber. [See TASK AT HAND] They force the pitcher to “think big,”
instead of encouraging him to “think small.” These distracting
thoughts focus on a topic, rather than on a target.
Selection, location, target. The awareness of inappropriate
thinking will develop from the habit of invoking that mantra. And when
a pitcher is able to develop a consistent thinking pattern on the
rubber, he will be better able to center his attention on where and how
he delivers the pitch. He will be rewarded for thinking less by the
ability to control the ball more.
∎ SELF-ESTEEM
Initially, my instinct was to consider “self-esteem” to be a
redundancy on these pages. After all, BELIEF and CONFIDENCE
have been already been presented. But there is an extensional
meaning I wished to clarify, based on experiences with precocious
athletes over the years, and this attempt seemed important.
“It is difficult to make a man miserable while he feels worthy of
himself...” Abe Lincoln said in one of the many speeches he
delivered as President of the United States. “Worthy of himself.”
That’s the operative phrase. When talking with athletes, my subject
is usually “performance” or the athlete as a performer. Players wear
uniforms, but I must often remind them that there is a “self” under
each uniform.
A youngster who is precocious, whether it be as a musician, a
mathematician or an athlete, has his precocity in front of others—and
himself—always. He is identified for his great and exceptional talent,
rather than for whatever “self” is behind it. Behind it—hidden from
public view, and, very often from the person “himself.” What seems
to matter is what he does, rather than who he is. And this is how his
early years train him.
He may have great “confidence” in his talent and skill, especially
at early stages when others around him cannot come close to being
as skillful. He may have great “belief” in his ability to achieve,
especially when there is, in an athlete’s case particularly, little to no
competition to truly challenge him. But, alas, his “self-esteem” is
most often based on his singular achievement and the exaggerated
approval of others.
On this, his identity is based. He feels “worthy of himself” when
he performs to the level of expectations. For a baseball player, the
level is indicated by statistics—averages, numbers, victories. That is
part of the youngster’s learning curve. He is an avid and eager
learner, in this regard. But does he learn much about self-worth as a
“whole” person? The more precocious he is, the less likely he will be
considered a “whole self.”
As a young baseball player, he may never fail. He is too good.
But as he rises, through Little League, high school, college,
professional ball, the playing field “levels.” The competition becomes
as elite as the individual. Initial failure to dominate on a regular basis
can be devastating. The interpretation of and response to this
“failure” will influence the performer’s perception of “himself.”
When a person considers his entire “self” to be a performer,
failure becomes very personal and very dramatic. Self-esteem
plummets. Players say, “I’m a failure.” I try to correct them. “You’ve
failed at a task, but you aren’t a failure.” It’s a hard sell, and often
requires the building of a foundation of self that had not previously
existed.
Many examples come to mind. One particular player, a glaring
example of a person who had low self-esteem, had a very fine major
league career, and was recognized as being an outstanding
ballplayer. As a man, he is intelligent, kind, considerate, trusting,
handsome, and articulate. At the end of his playing career, he was
very troubled. He had always had social insecurities, based on the
fact that he did not recognize all his personal attributes; he only
recognized his efforts on the baseball field—his statistics. Those
around him during his youth focused on his baseball prowess. So
when his “numbers” began to identify him as significantly less than
the player he had been in the past, his self-worth became
significantly less as well. He had little (nothing?) to fall back on. It
was an emotionally exhausting ordeal he went through, in order to
gain a new—and healthier—perspective.
This is not an isolated or exaggerated example. It is “out there.”
Let the young player beware. If he does not develop and identify an
early “self,” he will become a symbol of his performance, rather than
the substance of who he really is. And he will fail to recognize his
substantial self, giving himself approval only when his “numbers”
allow and confirm that approval.
Earlier in the book, attention was given to players who had been
mentally abused as children, and who suffered through the
consequences of a poor self-image. But mental “abuse” can be
much more subtle than the case of the boy who jumped off a wall,
broke his arm, and “learned” thereby “to trust no one.”
Unrealistic expectations, subtle but constant criticism, one-
dimensional treatment (as a baseball player, rather than a person),
the burden of others’ needs being satisfied through the precocious
young player—all will inhibit the development of a healthy and self-
actualized self. It can distort the boy’s view of himself and influence
the view of the man he becomes.
“Public influence is a weak tyrant compared with our own private
opinion,” Thoreau wrote. “What a man thinks of himself, that is which
determines or rather indicates his fate.” But when a person is a
public figure at an early age, the public opinion all too easily
becomes the private opinion. If baseball statistics help shape public
opinion, they will invariably influence the player who has come to
believe he is defined by them.
A few words about public opinion. First, in general, people “out
there” are more considerate and less interested in us than we think.
In addition, judgments of celebrities, athletes included, are fickle and
fleeting. People have more to do than spend their time judging and
condemning. Their immediate expression of opinion is neither
objective nor sustained. Nor should it be an influence on the
individual player.
The self-consciousness that an athlete might have is a false
pride, a form of egotism which persuades him that what others think
and say about him has more meaning than what he says about
himself. Naturally, the player with high self-esteem, then, is fortified.
The player with little self-esteem is under siege and vulnerable. He
must recognize that he, not the “public,” is the problem and the
solution.
A pitcher who continually refers to his inadequate statistics is, to
use Lawrence Durrell’s metaphor, “tied to the wheel in the sinking
vessel of [his] self-esteem.” His “belief’ and “confidence” are already
submerged. The pitcher comes to discount his successes and
magnify his failures, thus always confirming a negative self-image.
He will be cautious, rather than aggressive. He will be distracted,
rather than focused. He will expect to do poorly, rather than expect to
do well. And he will “tip-toe” through life, intimidated by car salesmen
and plumbers, never realizing his own self worth, despite being a
good son, a good friend, a good teammate, a good husband, and
father. A good man.
Maxwell Maltz, in his marvelous book, Psychocybernetics, wrote,
“Of all the traps and pitfalls in life, self-esteem is the deadliest, and
the hardest to overcome, for it is a pit designed and dug by our own
hands...” Under the influence of others, we may accept a “design”
created by them—but we, most certainly, “dig our own pit.”
Pitchers who so frequently seek to be “comfortable”—on the
mound and off—should also heed the words of Mark Twain. “A man
cannot be comfortable without his own approval.”
Abraham Maslow studied the lives and behavior of people he
believed to be “self-actualizers.” People such as Lincoln, Einstein,
Jefferson, Jane Addams. He extended his study to college students,
and selecting those students who fit his description of self-
actualizers, he found the group to be in the top percentile, in terms of
good mental health. These people made full use of their talents and
capabilities. Some of the behaviors of self-actualizers are included
below.
∎ SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY
[See SELF-TALK]
If people are, indeed, what they think, the importance of an
athlete monitoring his thoughts should be clear. [See BELIEF] And if
belief is an engine, prediction is a fuel. A pitcher who predicts
outcome—for better for or for worse—is preparing himself and his
muscles to play into that prediction.
Physicians and psychologists—and research—all confirm that a
patient’s belief in the likelihood of his healing will significantly affect
his health. There is psychological and physiological power in
prophecy. The self-fulfilling prophecy is so named because of the
correlation between the belief and the behavior. If a pitcher says
something is going to happen, he will behave in such a way as to
confirm his prophecy. In baseball, it often seems, more often for
worse than for better.
The pitcher with a healthier attitude is more apt to see positive
outcome than negative. He will therefore use more self-affirming
language and focus positively on what he wants to do, rather than on
forces that will inevitably bring about adverse consequences.
The tendency is linked to control, responsibility, mental discipline
—positivism and/or negativism, to name a few related topics. A
pitcher’s perspective will determine the nature and direction of his
prophecy. [See NEGATIVISM and POSITIVISM]
Sitting in a dugout on a May afternoon at Phoenix Municipal
Stadium, in 1985, I was chatting casually with the Tacoma Tigers
(Oakland organization) Triple-A pitcher, Steve Mura. Mura was a 29-
year-old veteran who had spent six seasons in the big leagues,
winning 12 games for the 1982 Cardinals. A bright, dependable
person and pitcher, Mura was the scheduled starter for this night’s
game.
He shook his head silently, and I asked him what that meant. “I
can never win on this mound,” he said.
The reader will be spared the entire lecture, but my first response
was to the language Mura had employed. “There is a difference,” I
said, “between, ‘I have not won and I cannot win...’” And I expanded
the point.
When questioned further, Mura complained about the height and
slope of the mound. I asked what kind of adjustments he could make
because of it. Being intelligent, he thought for a while and produced
a strategy. He never had—and he couldn’t understand why that had
been the case.
“You don’t think about strategies when you think that outcome is
inevitable,” I said. “That’s what self-fulfilling prophecies are all about.
You’ve pitched right into your certainty that you can’t pitch here.” And
so on.
Mura pitched seven innings that night, giving up no runs on two
hits. He threw the ball well. After the game, he was more
embarrassed than elated. Understandably so.
Many pitchers have held similar points of view. Early in his
career, Greg Maddux felt he couldn’t pitch well against a particular
team in the Eastern Division, and felt he just had to “throw my glove
out there,” and he would beat another particular team in the same
division.
Day games, bad weather, opposing pitchers, opposing hitters—
all present possibilities for formulating prophecies. More often than
not, it is a negative prophecy. “I can’t,” “It’s going to be one of those
days,” “I’ve got no chance,” “This isn’t going to be pretty...” These are
the phrases of predicted doom, almost certain defeat.
On the other hand, having a positive anticipation of outcome will
enhance a pitcher’s belief system and likelihood for success. That is
fine. But an indiscriminate and determined approach to every
external factor will, to my mind, best serve a pitcher in his desire to
be consistent and responsible for his own performance. Rather than
regarding the forces of fate and outcome, he will focus on task and
behavior.
In other words, it is better for a pitcher to believe in positive
outcome than negative outcome. But it is best for him to believe in
his talent and his ability to make adjustments and execute pitches.
∎ SELF-TALK
At the point where the reader is in his life, he responds to
situations based on his past experience and the habit of reaction
from those experiences. His memory of similar circumstance and
their effects on him provokes a patterned verbal response. That self-
talk is most often a help or a hindrance as he faces a current
situation. (It can be, but rarely is, neutral.)
Self-talk is what a person says to himself, either silently or aloud.
The habit, as noted above, is established according to situation. For
example, if a person spills his coffee at a restaurant, what does he
say to himself and/or about himself? Does he scold himself?
Disparage himself? Condemn himself? The harsh self-criticism is a
language of self-diminution. It does not build self-confidence or self-
esteem. Yet, it is regularly invoked out of habit. [See HABITS]
On athletic fields, as a youngster, my singular emotional
response to a mistake I made was to say to myself, “You jerk.” It was
not helpful. The measure of maturity and efficacy is the length of
time it takes for an athlete to recover from his emotional
unhappiness. On earlier pages, it was suggested that it is acceptable
to be angry (“You jerk”) and purge oneself, so long as the expression
is brief and the recovery swift. A recovery through adjustment and
refocusing on task, rather than the non-recovery of sustained
frustration over what just transpired.
If a pitcher is to function effectively, his self-talk must be
grounded in reality and rationality, rather than in imagination and
irrationality. The latter leads inevitably to emotional disorientation
and poor performance.
Again, the pitcher is called upon to examine his tendencies and
work at developing good (new?) habits. With positive self-talk, he
can train himself to focus on what will enhance him and his
performance, rather than on what will diminish both. He must, of
course, first be aware of what thoughts and self-talk he employs
during his preparation and during the actual performance. It is an
arduous process, as noted often.
One major league pitcher expressed the following thought to me,
having worked diligently on changing the nature of his self-talk: “I try
to get through the tough times [situations] by talking myself into
acting like I’ve got things going for me. Deep down, I know it’s not
necessarily true, but if I keep talking right things seem to work out.”
Brainwashing at its best.
But talk alone is not enough. What a pitcher says is important. So
is how one says it. An instructive tone is more desirable than a
critical one. Listening to what he is saying is an imperative. Pat Rapp
said all the right things to himself during a difficult circumstance,
while pitching for the Florida Marlins. But he did not hear himself.
(The anecdote is elaborated upon in TARGET.)
I used the following illustration with him the next day. A man is
sitting at a breakfast table reading the sports page in his morning
newspaper. His wife is talking to him. He responds to her with
appropriate remarks and answers, still focusing on the sports page.
Twenty minutes after breakfast, she says to him, “It’s time we got
going, dear.” He has no idea where they are going, though that was
her topic at the breakfast table. The husband assimilated only what
he had been truly attentive to—the information on the sports page.
While self-talk may be positive, neutral or negative, it can also be
classified as follows: that which is irrelevant to the task at hand, that
which is focused on the task at hand, and that which is related to the
pitcher himself. Two of those three do not serve him well at all. [See
TASK AT HAND]
When thoughts are focused on himself, they diminish the
pitcher’s ability to adequately see what is going on around him. He
cannot interpret what must be done, nor make adjustments. Nor can
he properly focus on the target. He is mired in self-consciousness
and, most likely, anxiety. Two days before I write this, a major league
pitcher told me of such an experience he had had the previous day.
“I felt numb out there. I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing.”
I asked him what he had been thinking about to start with. “Myself,”
he answered.
Irrelevant self-talk proliferates. On the mound, anything that is not
related to the task at hand is irrelevant. Listed below are some—but
not all—of the most common irrelevancies I have heard coming from
pitchers’ mouths. They include self-talk related to self and self-talk
related to externals. These, the most frequent expressions, are
negatives.
“Idiot,” “loser,” “dummy,” “gutless”—and profane variations on the
theme.
“I stink,” “This always happens to me,” “I can’t believe this crap,”
“What’s new?” “He’s [manager/coach] jacking me around again,” “It’s
not fair,” “The hell with it all,” “I can’t,” “I don’t have it,” and “I’m
clueless.”
A sampling which, in what is known as semantitherapy, would be
considered as “language of maladjustment.”
These are a far cry from the pitcher “trying to get through tough
times...” noted above. The ease of “giving in” has been established
on earlier pages. So has the difficulty of being relentless in the
pursuit of efficacy. Positive self-talk is the tool. But the tool is only as
good as the worker who uses it.
The “worker’s” task is simple enough to understand. He must be
aware of the language he uses and work effectively at thought
changing. “Blocking out a thought” does not work. The command
becomes a negative one. For example, if someone is thinking about
a pink elephant and he wants not to think about it, he will attempt to
“block it out” by saying, “Don’t think of a pink elephant.” The image of
a pink elephant is still in his head. He must change his thought. He
can say to himself, “Think of a black swan.” He has a new image in
his head.
Pitchers hold great disdain for pitching coaches who come out to
the mound and say, “Don’t walk this guy.” Or give other directives
based on what not to do. Yet, they do it to themselves, saying things
such as, “I better not hang this slider,” or “I can’t hit this guy by going
too far inside.” Their talk of what they do not want to do becomes the
focus of what they are about to do. Rather, they must train
themselves to use self-talk that encourages focus and positivism.
“Good low strike here,” is much superior to “I’d better not get behind
this guy.” “Slider away,” much better than the expressed fear of
hanging it.
∎ SHUT-DOWN INNINGS
Managers and coaches put great emphasis on shut-down
innings. They value the shut-down inning because, they say, it
maintains the “momentum” their team has established after having
“put runs on the scoreboard”—and then, in turn, held the opposition
scoreless in their next at-bats.
Certainly, it is desirable to do just that. In baseball, the pitcher’s
object—and the manager’s joy—is always to keep the opposition
from scoring. [See ZEROS] But the psychological “boost” an
opposing team gets by coming back and scoring runs immediately
after the other team has scored “changes the momentum.” Though
this is not empirically validated, in the baseball world it is a widely
held generalization, worthy of attention.
The attention given to the shut-down inning is similar to that given
to stopping the big inning. [See BIG INNING] In pointing out an
inning’s uniqueness, coaches and pitchers often seek to achieve the
goal of shutting down the opponent by searching for methods that
are complex, rather than simple. [See SIMPLICITY] Such an attitude
will take the pitcher out of the consistent approach he has
established or wishes to establish. It leads him to believe he must
behave differently, “try harder.” The change will prove to be
counterproductive.
Randy Johnson, when pitching for the Houston Astros,
responded to a reporter’s question about post-season play. His
response is perfectly applicable to any situation or circumstance for
a pitcher, shut-down innings included. Said Johnson, “You do the
same thing you’ve done all the time to make yourself successful. You
don’t change things.”
No sense of urgency should be attached to shut-down innings.
[See URGENCY] I will allow myself to repeat the words I use at
pitchers’ meetings, already presented in BIG INNINGS. “Anytime the
focus is put on the definition of an inning, the perception of it, the
concern for runners and runs, the idea of making special a particular
situation, something very important—most important—will be pre-
empted: the pitcher’s focus on executing the next pitch.”
The actual purpose of calling pitchers’ attention to shut-down
innings is based on the tendency of some pitchers to get
“comfortable” after their team has scored runs. Those pitchers tend
to go out to the mound with less intensity, because of that illusionary
feeling of comfort. Complacency sets in. Concentration suffers,
aggressiveness is diminished. It happens; pitchers recognize the
truth of it—after damage has been done.
So, a pitcher should be forewarned of the possibility/tendency.
But the warning should be this: be consistent, keep competing. Stay
under control. Maintain your concentration. Think small; stay
aggressive.
The pitcher should do no less than he had been doing just
because his team “got him some runs.” Nor should he attempt to do
more.
This is simply preparation for the next inning. Appropriate
behavior is reaffirmed in the dugout before the pitcher ever goes out
to the mound. Like showing a racehorse the whip, in order to keep
his mind on the right business.
During the presentation of TASK AT HAND (on later pages), an
anecdote about pitcher Bruce Hurst is presented. The theme of that
story can also be related to shut-down innings, as it can to pitching in
general: execute one pitch at a time, with exclusive focus on that
task.
What the Pitcher Should Do...
∎ SIMPLICITY
Keep it simple, stupid. That is a widely held philosophy. But
Albert Einstein said, “Everything should be made as simple as
possible, but not simpler.” Meaning, not stupid. Intelligence is valued
in a pitcher, though too often that intelligence is converted into
imagination. Matters become complicated, not because of
information, but, rather, because of interpretation. Matters are further
complicated when significance is given to irrelevancies.
Simplicity means knowing what matters and what does not
matter. That is what Einstein meant. Quite often, however, pitchers
tend to complicate their world with their needs, their fears, their
desire to succeed. My expressed view to them is that the game of
baseball is simple; people are complicated. Many of them tend to
think that there must be more to the game than executing a pitch. In
terms of behavior, there is not. Each singular pitch has a “perfect
simplicity [that] is audacious.” (George Meredith)
The greatest truths are the simplest, and so are the greatest
pitchers. Not simple-minded, but simple in their approach. They think
small; they are focused on task. [See TASK AT HAND] They do not
allow extraneous issues and circumstance to take them out of their
game plan—which is simply to attack and execute.
Pitcher Jim Abbott, in his comeback attempt before retirement,
understood the difference between what he had done in the past and
what he wanted to do in the future. “... I’m not going to make it as
complicated as I used to,” he said. Stated in positive terms: “keep it
simple.”
Inexperienced closers I have been associated with have often
complicated their thoughts with the responsibility of saving another
pitcher’s runs and saving the win for the team. Such thoughts, on the
mound, qualify as irrelevant and, therefore, are distracting. Too big,
too complicated.
Much of the success of San Diego closer, Trevor Hoffman, comes
from intelligence and a narrow focus. “When I come in,” says
Hoffman, “I know how I feel, what I’ve got going, how many good
pitches I have. I go from there, depending on the situation and the
hitter... I try to keep it all as simple as possible.”
Ron Darling was an Ivy Leaguer before he was a major leaguer.
A very smart man, Darling tended to use his intelligence to
complicate the process of pitching. His Oakland manager
acknowledged Darling’s intelligence, but said the pitcher lacked
“common sense” when he was on the mound. Common simplicity.
Pitcher Mike Flanagan was given credit for pitching intelligently
until his “stubbornness” got in the way of his brain and complicated
his approach.
But smart and simple can be synonymous. Less can be more.
Hans Hoffman, no relation to Trevor, wrote, “The ability to simplify
means to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary may
speak.” The “necessary,” allowed to speak, will say, simply, “Execute
the next pitch.” That’s smart. That’s simple.
∎ STRIKES
The standard question and answer: Question—What is the best
pitch in baseball? Answer—Strike one. [See COUNT]
The value of throwing strikes—establishing the count in the
pitcher’s favor, forcing contact [See CONTACT], being aggressive in
the strike zone—is statistically evident and philosophically agreed
upon. The behavior is the hallmark of successful pitchers. The fact
that being ahead early in the count will dictate an entirely different at
bat than being behind in the count has been well established.
Bobby Cox has waxed poetic about Greg Maddux’ ability—read
“determination”—to throw strikes early in the count. “He can go strike
one with the best of them,” Cox has said. “That’s a huge advantage if
you can do that. You can talk about pitching and mechanics all you
want, but strike one is the first step to success.”
While pitchers will not dispute this viewpoint, many will avoid the
behavior that validates it.
“I hate to use the word ‘fear,’” Yankees manager Joe Torre has
said, “but sometimes it seems they’re afraid to challenge the hitter.
They don’t want to put the ball over the plate on the first pitch, and
then they’re behind.” [See FEAR]
Fearing failure is one thing; acting out the fear is another. Dennis
Eckersley has been noted in earlier pages as an exemplar in this
regard. Though he admitted to a fear of failure, he did not allow this
fear to negatively influence his approach. On the contrary, he used it
to provoke a behavior that he knew, intellectually, would help him to
succeed—to avoid the failure he dreaded. He relentlessly threw
strikes.
Eck attacked the strike zone aggressively. He did not “pick” or
“nibble” around the strike zone. He did not “just” throw strikes,
putting less than his best stuff in the zone, for the sake of having it
qualify as a strike. He “went after it.”
Attacking the strike zone takes a commitment, especially by a
pitcher who tends to be defensive when he pitches. The
understanding he has about the importance of throwing quality
strikes must be integrated into his behavior. He must have the
courage of that conviction.
Glenn Abbott is a minor league pitching coach with the Oakland
organization. Abbott told me of a situation he had witnessed while
pitching in the big leagues. We had been discussing “throwing
strikes.”
A particular pitcher was having an awful outing, constantly behind
in the count, reluctant to throw strikes, “walking the ballpark,” as
Abbott put it. The manager was furious. He sent his pitching coach
out to the mound, and the coach delivered the message that the
pitcher had better “throw strikes or else.” The coach returned to the
dugout.
The pitcher understood the ultimatum. He guided pitches into the
strike zone and, in Abbott’s words again, “was whacked.” Continued
Abbott, “I mean, doubles were banging off the walls, line drives were
flying out into the gaps.”
The disgusted manager sent the pitching coach back out to the
mound to remove the pitcher from the game. The pitcher didn’t even
wait for the coach to reach him. He walked toward the dugout,
flipped the ball to the coach, and said, “So much for your bleepin’
strikes!”
Aggressively thrown strikes, “best stuff” strikes are quality strikes.
Aimed strikes, guided, dart-throw strikes are “bleepin” strikes.
In 1996, Al Leiter was pitching for the Marlins. The Florida team
that year—the year before they won the Championship—had trouble
scoring runs. Leiter, particularly, received little run support. That fact,
coupled with his tendency to be “effectively wild,” would create
games with little margin for error on Leiter’s part.
During one of his mid-season home starts, Leiter set the
opposition down easily in the first inning. One, two, three. He had, in
his words, “great stuff.” In the bottom of the first, the Marlins,
uncharacteristically, scored six runs. Leiter went out in the top of the
second inning, walked two batters and hit one. He escaped from the
bases-loaded jam without allowing a run.
In the dugout, he explained that, with the luxury of six runs, he
went out there to “just throw strikes.” It did not work. The idea of
steering the ball kept his delivery from being free and loose. The
actual steering of the ball kept him from being aggressive. He
returned to his usual approach the next inning. With the “great stuff,”
he pitched a no-hitter that night.
In May 1999, 25-year-old Phillies pitcher, Carlton Loewer, pitched
a five-hitter for his first career shutout, defeating San Diego, 3-0.
Loewer had been inconsistent during his brief major league tenure.
In the first inning of the game, he had an epiphany. After having
walked Tony Gwynn and Wally Joiner with two outs, he determined
that his approach was based on “not walking guys.” Many of the hard
hit balls over the course of previous outings, he felt, resulted from
“defensive strikes” being thrown. (See Abbott anecdote above.)
Loewer determined to change his focus from avoiding walks to
being aggressive with all his pitches, all the time. On that night, the
philosophy was well integrated into behavior. His goal was to bring
that approach out to the mound on a consistent basis. The process
is enhanced by the determination. [See WILL]
A strike can be an eagle or an albatross for a pitcher. The pitcher
who feels he ‘has to’ throw strike one will be bound up by the tension
that accompanies that feeling. [See URGENCY] Young pitchers who
want to please their coaches feel that burden. I can recall many,
particularly young pitchers in major league spring training camps,
who, having thrown ball one, became disoriented by their “failure to
get ahead of the hitter.” What followed was usually an unhappy result
for the pitcher.
Pitchers can get outs despite having thrown a ball on the first
pitch. Or on the first two pitches. Perspective is needed. Urgency is
not. A pitcher must learn the difference between what is desirable
and what is disastrous. He s6hould attack the strike zone, not
himself. Process. Balance.
What the Pitcher Should Do...
∎ Understand that the eyes are the muscles’ guide, and should
be properly used during the delivery of each pitch.
∎ Develop the habit of “being on target,”—i.e., the catcher’s mitt.
∎ Recognize that distracting, irrelevant thoughts will adversely
affect his concentration and “cloud” or obscure his sharp focus
on the target.
∎ Make the necessary adjustment during competition, when he
has a sense of divided attention through gathering and self-
coaching—off the mound.
∎ Develop a consistent, disciplined approach to picking up the
target during sidework in the bullpen.
∎ Focus on the target with a relaxed intensity.
∎ Pitch through the target, rather than to it.
∎ TASK AT HAND
The mother of all pitching mantras is “one pitch at a time.” Rightly
so. The concept brings a pitcher’s focus to the most important,
immediate, manageable task at hand: the next pitch he will execute.
It has been said that all we have is “the now.” The “now” for a
pitcher is the very task of delivering his next pitch. All else in a
pitcher’s head is extraneous, whether it is an historical past or an
hysterical future.
Living in and for the moment makes it easier for the pitcher to
adapt to situations as they change. His focus is narrow; the
requirements are limited to that time and space. All attention is
concentrated on delivering the next pitch. He can understand that;
he can control that. It is small and elemental. That task at hand is his
exclusive concern, and always should be.
In 1983, while interviewing players for The Mental Game of
Baseball, I spent some time speaking with Wade Boggs in the
Boston Red Sox dugout hours before game time. Bruce Hurst, a
young pitcher who had won seven games over the past three years
with Boston, was sitting nearby.
After I had completed my interview/discussion with Boggs, Hurst
came over and said that he had been listening, and that he was
interested in talking about “the mental game.” “I can use that
information,” he said. We talked. He was particularly interested in the
concept of focusing on one pitch at a time. His concentration had
been less than he would have wanted it to be.
Hurst’s next start was to be in Anaheim in a couple of days. He
would be pitching against Tommy John and was “looking forward to
the challenge.” He was enthusiastic about following the principle of
taking care of the singular task at hand—the execution of the next
pitch.
At the end of seven innings in Anaheim, the score was 0-0. In the
top of the eighth, the Red Sox scored three runs. The Angels scored
five runs off Hurst in the bottom of the eighth. Bob Stanley relieved
him. (Boston tied the game in the ninth and won it in extra innings.)
When the team returned to Fenway, I was there, doing more
interviews. Hurst greeted me with a guilty smile. “Do you know what
happened?” he asked.
“One of three things,” I said. “You were focusing on one pitch at a
time all game, until you got three runs. Then you went out in the
bottom of the eighth thinking either, ‘Six more outs and I beat Tommy
John,’ or ‘Two more innings and I have a win,’ or ‘Two more innings
and I have a shutout.’ Which one?” I asked.
“All three,” Hurst replied.
He had gone from thinking small to thinking big. From focus on
the target and the execution of one pitch, to focus on the
unmanageable and distracting future. From process and behavior to
result, albeit an imagined “happy” one. Irrelevant to task,
nevertheless.
The only life a man can lose is the one he’s living at the moment.
To forfeit the moment, for a pitcher, is to relinquish his control and
ability to effectively accomplish his task. If great wisdom is in
knowing what to do next, a pitcher who is attending to anything other
than the moment—the next pitch—forfeits his wisdom as well.
Previous topics have also addressed the need for this
concentrated attention to task. That concentration, as has been
noted, will be pre-potent. It will power the pitcher’s mental energy—
his mind, his muscles, his eyes—toward the execution of a pitch.
Nothing else will matter. Nothing else will intrude on the pitcher’s
“now.”
The greater his ability to establish such focus, the more often he
will—naturally and without effort—”be in the zone.” Some pitchers
will achieve it more naturally than others. But it can be an acquired
instinct. The acquisition is through the process of disciplined
preparation. Of adopting mantra number one: carpe momentum.
Seize the moment. Deal exclusively with the task at hand. Execute
the next pitch.
That execution is what the pitcher should be thinking about. And
talking about—to himself, to the media, to whomever attempts to
expand his thinking beyond what is relevant and controllable.
∎ TEMPO
In 1990, the Oakland Athletics had a good pitcher and an even
finer man on their roster. He won 17 games for the A’s. But
teammates were not enthusiastic about playing behind him when he
pitched. His tempo was excruciatingly slow. The games he pitched in
seemed interminable. As effective as he had been as a pitcher, the
A’s sold him to another American League team after the season. The
defense was not unhappy.
A slow tempo has infielders playing back on their heels, rather
than on their toes. Their concentration, they are very willing to admit,
wanders because so much time is taken between pitches.
Beyond that, a slow tempo allows the pitcher time to “think too
much” and/or to have his mind wander. His approach does not “flow.”
Neither does the movement of the game.
Pitchers who slow their tempo also give the impression they do
not want to throw the next pitch. Such a reference was made to a
pitcher in BODY LANGUAGE. In fact, he did not want to throw that
next pitch. He had lost his aggressiveness, and this was evident to
everyone watching him, including the opposing hitters. And,
perceiving the pitcher to be vulnerable, a hitter bolsters his own
confidence and has ample time to “get comfortable.” As a result, the
hitter, rather than the pitcher, is establishing the tempo. That should
not be acceptable to the pitcher.
A steady, regular tempo is desirable. Deliver the pitch; get the
ball back from the catcher; get up on the rubber; take the sign;
deliver the pitch. That pace keeps hitters from having all the time
they wish to get ready. It rivets the pitcher’s attention. It dictates the
movement of the game. It gives the appearance that the pitcher is
control. And, when a pitcher establishes such a tempo, he is in
control.
A time does comes when pitchers must slow the tempo. Herein
lies an issue for many who, when circumstance goes against them,
accelerate their tempo. The tendency for many pitchers is to work
faster when they are in trouble. They are anxious to extricate
themselves from the difficult situation, so they rush. “The faster I
work, the sooner this will be over,” they are saying to themselves.
They “rush.” Their thoughts swirl; their muscles tighten; they jump
out of their regular delivery. In the process, the difficulty mounts.
A pitcher should realize that when he is in a difficult situation, a
situation that requires him to make an adjustment, he must break the
tempo that is working against him, get off the mound and gather
himself, coach himself, and re-establish the desired tempo.
Pitchers who have told me they were “lost out there,” or “numb,”
or had the sky fall on them “before (they) knew it,” neglected—for a
variety of reasons—to “stop the bleeding” by breaking the tempo and
“taking care of the wound.”
Bob Welch, already a Cy Young Award winner, still had a
propensity to rush himself when he was annoyed or distracted. An
aggressive competitor, Welch could not wait to get the ball back from
the catcher and go at the hitter. Literally, he could not wait. A high-
energy, hyper-kinetic athlete, Welch would, at times, rush himself
into difficulty because of his great desire to attack it.
A particular tendency would show itself at such times. If Welch
went 2-0 on a hitter, he too often threw ball three and ball four on
consecutive pitches. Being 2-0, he would come down off the front of
the mound, reach his arm toward the catcher impatiently waiting for
the ball to be returned, get it, and deliver ball three. Repeated act,
then ball four. Further annoyance; further distraction. The cycle
needed breaking. [See URGENCY]
I discussed with him an idea for changing this pattern, one that
included the catcher’s participation. Welch, being the open person
he is, thought it worth a try. A simple plan was devised. Whenever
the count went to 2-0, or whenever he sensed an out-of-control
tempo, Steinbach would hold the ball for a moment, rather than
immediately returning the ball to the impatient pitcher.
Terry Steinbach, Oakland’s relatively inexperienced catcher at the
time, laughed when he understood the rationale behind the idea.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve been throwing gas on the fire. We’re both
so competitive, and I see him pumped up out there, so I’m shaking
my fist at him, saying, ‘Come on, let’s go,’ and firing the ball back to
him, when I should be calming him down.”
They both changed their behavior at such times. Welch, standing
in front of the mound with his arm extended, would see Steinbach
holding the ball, not returning it to the impatient pitcher. A couple of
clock ticks later, he would understand the key. Steinbach might
sometimes put his palms down, in a calming, slow-down gesture.
Welch delivered the next pitch with a greater sense of purpose,
rather than with a greater sense of urgency.
There are two ends of a continuum. At one end is the pitcher who
works with painstaking and pain-inducing slowness. At the other is
the pitcher who is rushing aimlessly through an inning, without
regard to the singular requirements of each pitch. The place to be is
at the spot where each pitcher establishes a balance. A consistent,
steady pace when all is well. An effective deliberation time to correct
what is not going well. Break the unfavorable cycle; re-establish a
favorable one—one that keeps the game moving, makes the
pitcher’s aggressiveness evident, keeps his mind on his business,
and keeps the defensive players on their collective toes.
∎ URGENCY
Conventional wisdom speaks to the point that athletes perform
better when they are in a relaxed state. This view is supported by
much research on the topic. [See RELAXATION] A sense of urgency,
so common in pitchers, is the antithesis of relaxation. At best, a
pitcher’s urgency inhibits his ability to function well. At worst, it
makes him dysfunctional.
A feeling of urgency can have as many causes as there are
pitchers. Each individual brings his perspective and needs to the
mound during every outing. If one pitcher feels the need to do well to
“save his job,” he can manifest this need by “trying too hard.” If
another is pitching a “must game” for his team, his urgent response
will work at cross-purposes with his intention—“to win the big one.”
He will “try too hard,” becoming too aggressive and less controlled.
As mentioned previously, some pitchers have a sense of urgency
kick in as soon as they fall behind in the count—or put men on base
—or have runs scored against them. They always seem to be
pitching to “get something back,” governed by a vague perception of
having lost something. What has actually been lost is their good
approach.
This excessive concern or worry or fear produces the same
symptoms: a loss of a controlled mental and mechanical pattern.
Desperation sets in, and thoughts become disjointed and scattered.
Muscles tighten, the delivery quickens.
A relaxed state speaks to the pitcher by saying, “Be easy, trust it,
stay on task, let it flow.” Urgency speaks another language: “Hurry
up, force it, I’d better ... ”
The “language of maladjustment” was mentioned in SELF-TALK.
It is not difficult for the reader to recognize the distinction between
the language patterns above. One expression is conducive to
adjustment and an effective approach to performance, the other to
maladjustment and an ineffective approach. A sense of urgency
rushes a pitcher’s thoughts toward judgments related to
consequences. His concentration and muscles follow those thoughts
—all going in the wrong direction.
Urgency is “I have to” and “I must.” Urgency is tension and fear.
Urgency is “or else.” Urgency is “do or die.”
Urgency induces loss of control, loss of purpose, loss of balance,
loss of focus, loss of tempo, loss of trust—to name a few losses.
Illustrative behavior can be seen just about every day, in just about
every game. It happens, to varying degrees, to just about every
pitcher. The greater the sense of urgency, the greater the loss of all
the elements of a good pitching approach.
Real crisis tests mental discipline. Perceived crisis tests the
pitcher’s view of the world and of himself. Whichever tests him, a
controlled behavior helps him to pass. Urgent behavior induces
failure.
The passing “test key” is a reaffirmation of a healthy point of view
and a renewed understanding of what works and what does not work
on the mound. First, a pitcher who performs with a heightened sense
of urgency has made everything “matter too much.” The “or-else
syndrome” takes over. Dire consequences are always close to his
surface thinking. A healthier perspective is required.
Second, the pitcher, having gone through the experience of
performing at this high level of urgency, understands its power over
him. He must further understand what measures he should take to
transfer that power. In my experience with pitchers, this has been
done with constant and frequent reiteration of a desired approach.
The “brainwashing” referred to in earlier pages. [See MANTRA]
Daily work on mental discipline and preparation helps train the
pitcher to A) establish a healthier, more effective approach, and B) to
recognize when it breaks down during competition and to make an
adjustment. This, rather than allowing the urgency to “cut off his
head,” and have him pitch like the proverbial chicken.
Finally, regular relaxation exercises are appropriate for a pitcher
who regularly performs with a feeling of urgency. Philosophy deals
with the issue; techniques deal with the symptoms. An urgent pitcher
should deal with both.
∎ WILL
Will is power. Will is determination and resolve. It is the imposing
of desire onto behavior. Many value it; not that many exert it.
A study of people who made New Year’s resolutions was
conducted quite a few years back. I remember some of the findings.
Enough to support the statement above. In the large “study group” of
those who pronounced their intention to enact specific changes in
their behavior, 25 percent abandoned their resolutions after two
weeks had past. Fifty percent “gave in” after three months. All they
seemed to have was what Saul Bellow called “a warehouse of
intentions.”
The intentions, unfortunately, were more strongly expressed than
the peoples’ resolve. “Men are distinguished by the power of their
wanting,” wrote novelist Barry Unsworth. Their wanting, without will,
achieved little or nothing.
The undistinguished behavior of broken resolutions is “normal.”
But it is a normalcy other than what elite athletes seek for
themselves. Ordinary people have, as Durant wrote in The
Reconstruction of Character, “a thousand wishes but no will.”
Ordinariness is not a goal of pitchers who wish to excel.
“Warrior” is the person—the athlete; will is his psychological
weapon. The designation of an individual as a “tough pitcher” is a
reference not to his physical capacity, but, rather, to an indomitable
will. Most of the misfortunes a pitcher faces during competition are a
result, I believe, of weakness of will. He has gone into battle with a
blunt weapon—or with no weapon at all. The strong determination a
pitcher has for “getting it right” connects him to his appropriate
concentration. As it does to positivism, aggressiveness, and all the
other traits and behaviors he values. The expression, “He wills
himself to win,” speaks to that point.
Even when a pitcher’s internal system is invaded by self-doubt or
fear, his determination enables him to disregard these intruders. He
redirects thoughts and immediately regains control of his approach
and performance. Self-control requires a strong expression of will.
Much has been written about people who have performed
remarkable feats because of their expression of will. An anecdote is
provided in The Mental Game of Baseball telling about a European
pistol shooter who was favored to win a gold medal in the 1968
Olympics. A year before the games, he lost his right hand (his
shooting hand) in an accident and disappeared from public view.
People presumed his despondency and a desire for seclusion. He
reappeared before the games, now shooting with his left hand. He
won a gold medal.
A story of Native American origin tells of the ordeals an
adolescent boy is required to face and conquer before his tribe
considered him to be a man. A long, solitary walk was one of the
requirements. Five miles. Before he departed, an elder would tell
him, “If you can walk five, walk six.” After a will becomes strong—it
becomes insistent.
“When will is as taut as a bowstring, the ant can overcome the
lion.” An African tribe’s “lesson” to their boys with “manly”
aspirations.
Cancer patients have offered many examples of the assertion of
will extending life, as opposed to resignation—“giving up”—assuring
death. More often than a “normal” person thinks, he is able to take
himself beyond that norm. With will power. Tour de France winner
Lance Armstrong beat the disease and all other opposition in 1999.
FIRST INNING addressed pitchers who are “hopers.” Hopers
want good things to happen to them. “Doers” take responsibility for
making things happen. The difference relates to the statistics of
failure in people who make “resolutions.” Most were probably
hopers. Goal-setters are more likely to be people who establish what
they want and hold themselves accountable for getting it.
The goals I most value for pitchers are behavior goals, for the
very reason that the individual has complete control over these goals
and can impose his will daily, working to achieve what he wants. The
“power” Unsworth spoke of above. [See APPENDIX B]
The ability to think appropriate thoughts during competition and to
behave in a way that is compatible with his understanding of what is
required distinguishes the ordinary pitcher from the exceptional. His
thoughts and focus and right decisions are part of a man’s act of
choice. When he makes the right choices, a pitcher senses the
control he has over himself and his performance. The resultant self-
confidence rests on the foundation of a confidence he has in the
power of his mind. Such a pitcher is much more capable of “doing
what it takes.”
Certainly, as has been mentioned many times, the development
of this mental discipline is an arduous, trying, and exhausting
process. It is many cultures’ right of passage from boyhood to
manhood. For baseball pitchers, the metaphorical passage is from
soldier to warrior. An implacable will can make all the difference.
• ATTITUDES
• DEDICATION
• CONCENTRATION
• CONFIDENCE
• GOALS
• LEARNING
• MENTAL DISCIPLINE
• PREPARATION
• RELAXATION
• VISUALIZATION
Many related sub-topics are more specifically treated in the
ABC’s book. An example: COURAGE and WILL are more developed
here than in The Mental Game of Baseball, where they are
mentioned in the chapter on MENTAL DISCIPLINE.
∎ APPENDIX B
Listed here are goals of behavior and attitude. They are all within
the control of the pitcher. Result goals are not. A pitcher who trusts
his talent and commitment will be able to devote himself regularly to
the development of routines and habits that are conducive to
effective performance.
The list is not to be considered all-inclusive. Pitchers will be able
to think of other goals related to their individual needs. Setting these
specific goals—and monitoring his attempts to reach them—allows a
pitcher to be attentive to his own strengths and weaknesses.
Behavior goals provide purpose and direction. Just as a pitcher
should focus on executing one pitch at a time, so should he work on
one goal at a time. He should establish his own list of needs and
priorities and work diligently at mastery, before moving to the next
goal. Establishing those priorities is an initial act.
His dedication to excellence will determine the level of behavior
and achievement he will reach. Elite athletes, by definition, have
exceptional habits, which are tools of an effective worker.
∎ GOALS
To develop:
To: