Anatomy of a Slugger

 

 

 

 

 

Baseball season is in full swing.

Neighborhood ball diamonds are a flurry of activity as players & teams strive for greatness.

The unmistakeable sound of bat meeting ball takes me back years ago to my own scrappy play on the fields.

The choking dust blowing as an ump calls balls & strikes.

The rythmic chatter lulling a batter to “Swing!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My ball career began as a member of the lowly “Pilots.”

A motley collection of Johnny Bench wanna-bes.

Our intrepid leader was Coach Smokey.

That’s me standing next to coach in an obvious attempt to brown-nose more playing time.

What you can’t see in the picture was how Coach Smokey got his name.  He was never without a cigarette.  Lucky Strikes were his favorite, and ours too, as no one on the team could escape the cloud of second hand smoke.

We didn’t have a team trainer—we had a team respiratory therapist!

 

 

 

But enough about the team.

This is about me.

The makings of a .200 hitter and the anatomy of a future slugger.

 

First, my stance.

I show good balance.  Head up.  Knees bent.  Feet shoulder width.

 

But let us take a closer look…..

 

 

Oh my God.  Look at the size of that head!  It’s almost as big as a strike zone!

Hard pressed to find a ball cap–much less a batting helmet to fit this cranialpod.

 

It’s also good to bat with an open mouth to catch bugs or an errant fastball.

 

 

My arms?  Well let’s just say I was following the Olive Oyl exercise program.

Hangman has bigger muscles!

 

 

A good swing begins with a solid foundation.

That’s why I wore low-cut Converse.

Who needed spikes?  Not me!

Especially when you just happened to have socks that matched the Pilots’ team-color.

Athletic AND a fashion plate?  Guilty as charged.

 

 

 

Finally the power of a swing comes from the mid-section and we see I was sporting the requisite pot-belly popular with so many baseball players.

(Hey you get hungry in right field!)

I kept it under wraps by wearing a leather belt with my baseball pants.  You don’t see too many big-leaguers today wearing a dress belt.  Wonder why?

Or course you can’t see the atomic wedgie I got going on the backside.  Typically, baseball players fiddle with their crotch in the batter’s box–but not me.  As I would step up to the plate I needed to do a reach around to pull everything out of the crack of my ass.  (Sing along with me…”Buy me some peanuts and bu-ut crack.”)

 

There you have it.

The complete insight into my ball career as a member of the Pilots.

Take this knowledge & put it to use as you enjoy the boys of summer.

For now you know the “Anatomy of a Slugger.”