And not a one of those swings was halfway. I had my stroke in place, dropping my right shoulder at just the point of contact, torquing slightly in reverse before uncorking, with the bat on a straight plane the whole way, level to the ground and the roof of the sky. Or in this case, the roof of the roof.
It is really a simple thing, if you pay attention. I often wonder why everyone cannot figure out something so beautifully simple as hitting.
The more I swung, the more controlled and stronger I got. And the quieter Napoleon Charlie Ellis got. I could feel him there behind the machine, and after five years in the Regan Youth League, I had come to know the difference between the various kinds of noise and silence. Some guys will shut up when you’ve got it going just because they begrudge it, and won’t give you the satisfaction. But some are better than that.
“That... was remarkable,” Napoleon said. “You are so aggressive, the way you do that, like you have something personal against the ball.”
“I don’t,” I said, trying not to smile too much though his words felt pretty all right. “I love the ball. I just want to knock the skin off it.”
“And now it is my turn.”
“Yessirree,” I said, and handed him my bat.
He took it, looked at it. Ran his hand up and down the smoothness of it, and checked the inscriptions. Most kids went with Louisville Slugger, but I preferred Adirondack. He balanced it in one hand, then worked the grip. It was obvious that there was a foreignness about the bat to Napoleon, but it was also obvious that he appreciated a fine instrument. You could tell, in the way he was thinking about the feeling of the bat, measuring, stroking, examining it, rather than just grabbing it. He was treating the Adirondack right.
I liked that. Felt something like grateful about it.
“The bat is so different,” he said, smiling in a kind of wonderment. “The cricket bat is flat.”
“Fl—” I shook my head, in a definite wonderment. “How are you supposed to get a good whack at anything with a flat bat? Jeez. I mean it, Napoleon, I think I got to you just in time.”
I was still messing, but it was nearly the point where we had to cross over into serious business. The flat bat and all the other weirdnesses that followed my friend north were interesting, but I really thought I could help him recover from it all just the same.
“Will I show you?” I said carefully. I was careful because, while I might think I know everything in the world about hitting, I also know a guy can be pretty touchy about being shown stuff, when it comes down to it. Particularly when that guy tends to be touchy about just about everything.
“Why don’t I try it myself first.”
Like that. He’s stubborn, okay. I would have said the same thing myself.
First he tried doing what I did in the batter’s box, scuffing and digging first with one shoe, then the other. He didn’t get very far before breaking down in hysterics. “It’s just too silly,” he said, shrugging and letting the bat fall to his side.
I marched right over. “That’s because you are doing a Carlton Fisk,” I said, and went into Fisk’s famously weird and endless preparations of twisting one foot just so, like he was planting a rare delicate tulip bulb, then, about five minutes later, plant the second one. Then he did this sort of wiggle dance with his enormous behind—he wasn’t a fat guy, actually, just a guy with an uncommonly broad backside—then he would look at his bat, as if they had never met before, wave it a couple of times to see if it was loaded. Then he would address the pitcher.
“You don’t need to do a Fisk. Do a Yaz instead.” And I showed Napoleon what Captain Carl Yastrzemski did, which was basically stand like a tree with his bat raised as high above his head as he could manage while still facing the pitcher. It was hugely impractical, but it was a kind of monumental thing, like a statue to the art of
It is really a simple thing, if you pay attention. I often wonder why everyone cannot figure out something so beautifully simple as hitting.
The more I swung, the more controlled and stronger I got. And the quieter Napoleon Charlie Ellis got. I could feel him there behind the machine, and after five years in the Regan Youth League, I had come to know the difference between the various kinds of noise and silence. Some guys will shut up when you’ve got it going just because they begrudge it, and won’t give you the satisfaction. But some are better than that.
“That... was remarkable,” Napoleon said. “You are so aggressive, the way you do that, like you have something personal against the ball.”
“I don’t,” I said, trying not to smile too much though his words felt pretty all right. “I love the ball. I just want to knock the skin off it.”
“And now it is my turn.”
“Yessirree,” I said, and handed him my bat.
He took it, looked at it. Ran his hand up and down the smoothness of it, and checked the inscriptions. Most kids went with Louisville Slugger, but I preferred Adirondack. He balanced it in one hand, then worked the grip. It was obvious that there was a foreignness about the bat to Napoleon, but it was also obvious that he appreciated a fine instrument. You could tell, in the way he was thinking about the feeling of the bat, measuring, stroking, examining it, rather than just grabbing it. He was treating the Adirondack right.
I liked that. Felt something like grateful about it.
“The bat is so different,” he said, smiling in a kind of wonderment. “The cricket bat is flat.”
“Fl—” I shook my head, in a definite wonderment. “How are you supposed to get a good whack at anything with a flat bat? Jeez. I mean it, Napoleon, I think I got to you just in time.”
I was still messing, but it was nearly the point where we had to cross over into serious business. The flat bat and all the other weirdnesses that followed my friend north were interesting, but I really thought I could help him recover from it all just the same.
“Will I show you?” I said carefully. I was careful because, while I might think I know everything in the world about hitting, I also know a guy can be pretty touchy about being shown stuff, when it comes down to it. Particularly when that guy tends to be touchy about just about everything.
“Why don’t I try it myself first.”
Like that. He’s stubborn, okay. I would have said the same thing myself.
First he tried doing what I did in the batter’s box, scuffing and digging first with one shoe, then the other. He didn’t get very far before breaking down in hysterics. “It’s just too silly,” he said, shrugging and letting the bat fall to his side.
I marched right over. “That’s because you are doing a Carlton Fisk,” I said, and went into Fisk’s famously weird and endless preparations of twisting one foot just so, like he was planting a rare delicate tulip bulb, then, about five minutes later, plant the second one. Then he did this sort of wiggle dance with his enormous behind—he wasn’t a fat guy, actually, just a guy with an uncommonly broad backside—then he would look at his bat, as if they had never met before, wave it a couple of times to see if it was loaded. Then he would address the pitcher.
“You don’t need to do a Fisk. Do a Yaz instead.” And I showed Napoleon what Captain Carl Yastrzemski did, which was basically stand like a tree with his bat raised as high above his head as he could manage while still facing the pitcher. It was hugely impractical, but it was a kind of monumental thing, like a statue to the art of
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