I knew my sister, Molly, a reporter for The New York Times, was scheduled to interview Ted about food, fishing, and obviously, a little baseball, too. When Molly told me about this, I was in awe that my older sister was poised to speak with one of the greatest hitters of all time. I jokingly told Molly that I was struggling and that she should tell Ted I needed some advice. Still, I never expected Molly’s visit to Ted’s home would result in him contacting me. This all brought me back to being the boy whose proud father had told him his swing was reminiscent of Williams’s swing. I could not match Williams’ swing or his accomplishments, but I was giddy about talking to the man himself.
To this day, even with my sister’s connection and her gentle or forceful nudging, I’m still amazed that Ted was willing to call me. I was even more amazed when Ted said, “I bet you’re not hitting the ball the other way.” That comment gave me goose bumps because it showed that Ted knew the way that I had to hit to be productive. To be successful, I needed to look for pitches on the middle or outside part of the plate and hit the ball to the opposite field. So, the legendary Ted Williams – a pull hitter who was also talented enough to adjust and hit the ball up the middle or the opposite way – knew my approach.
“You know what?” I replied. “You’re right. I’ve been getting out on my front side too quickly. ” A minute into the conversation, I was already trying to process how surreal it was that Ted Williams – the Ted Williams – was evaluating me as a hitter. Ted won six batting titles, two MVPs, made nineteen All-Star teams, was the last man to hit over .400 (in 1941), and finished his phenomenal career with a .344 average, 521 homers, and an all-time record .482 on-base percentage. He was the hero who also paused his career twice to serve our country in World War II and the Korean War. And he was talking to me about hitting! It was such an inspirational and nerve-racking call because I was absorbing every word Ted uttered. But I also felt like there were a hundred questions I needed to ask before the voice of God hung up. I did not want to interrupt him, so I let him guide the conversation and, sure enough, Ted said something that made me smile and made me feel like I had done something right as a hitter.
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“Relax, all right? Do not try to strike everybody out. Strikeouts are boring! Besides that, they’re fascist. Throw some ground balls, it’s more democratic. ”
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“Don’t let anybody change you,” Ted barked.
As much as any hitting advice I’ve ever received, those words resonated with me because they aligned with how I always felt. A stubborn and serious hitter, I was dedicated to my approach of swinging level and elevating into a slight uppercut to hit line drives. I believed in that swing and still believe in it. Hearing Williams say a hitter should not let anyone change him was one of the highlights of the call and was something I could have listened to all day.
Honestly, I should have expected Ted to emphasize that because it’s what he had written in “The Science of Hitting,” his seminal book in which he dissected the most difficult thing to do in sports: hitting a baseball. I do not remember the first time I picked up the book, but I do remember being enamored with it. There’s a picture of Ted on the cover, his front foot slightly lifted, his eyes focused on the baseball, and body language that screams, “I’m about to crush this pitch.” Ted wrote that Lefty O’Doul, who hit .349 in his career, told him, “Son, whatever you do, do not let anybody change your style. Your style is your own. ” Ted obeyed. So did I.