More Mechanics

So, what kind of hitting coach were you, Mr. Know-It-All Dad?  I’m glad you asked.  Call me Doctor, as in, Do No Harm.

For openers, only a fool would’ve goofed around with the kind of swing Clare has, and had from the first time she picked up a bat at the age of three years and ten months; it took all of three pitches before she started lining balls at my head.  From that time on, I pretty much decided to let the prodigy be.

If she wanted to bat legs wide apart like Jeff Bagwell, fine; she made two baseball All-Star teams that way.  If she wanted to go tippy-toe with her front foot, fine again; that helped her earn All-Conference both in high school and college.  The only thing that got me worked up was breaking balls away.

Clare would chase them, the bat going after the pitch and the front foot going away from the ball at the same time.  Foot in the bucket or something else, it was a bad habit that I’ve always kept after her about.  Even this spring, I’d put in my two cents about having an ever-so-slightly closed stance with the front foot pointed towards the plate.  Of all things a father and daughter could ever argue over, who knew it would be a front foot in the batter’s box?