Big Moe

                                               

BIG MOE

     “I didn’t have baseball idols when I grew up, and I didn’t pattern myself after any of the Cubs players when my dad took me to Wrigley Field. My father was from the old country in Russia and didn’t know a thing about baseball and didn’t care about sports. Sports were something that interfered with business. In those days, the Irish kids idolized the Irish players and it was the same with the Polocks and Italians and Germans. All I had was Moe Berg, and he played across town for the White Sox

     “As I developed, I worked out my own techniques and simplified hitting and fielding. I didn’t want to be a power hitter who hit long fly balls, because fly balls were almost always easy outs in the big parks, unless you hit one out, but most of our games were played in sandlots, and if you had power, like I did, they played you a hundred miles away and allowed you singles and doubles. I practiced a level swing that was slightly down on the ball, my right wrist on top, so I hit everything with a topspin and made ground balls hop and skid and take wild bounces so it was tough for outfielders to stay with the ball. When I hit the ball on the meat of the bat and pulled it, the ball curved toward the line, and because of my short compact swing, I stood close to the plate and pulled the ball while protecting the outside of the plate. I learned to hit down on the low ball and drive it on a low rise or a high bounce. And I tomahawked the high pitch and hit sinking liners. When I played pepper I choked up on the bat about six inches and made sure as I followed through with my swing that the knob of the bat passed between my wrists and forearms, which automatically kept my right shoulder level. This way I never dipped my shoulder or hitched. This little exercise developed strength in my wrists and shoulders and quickened my bat, and the quicker my bat became the more confident I was I could hit anybody, no matter how hard they threw. This confidence allowed me to keep my weight back and my bat cocked until the last split second, so I didn’t lunge or get off balance against curves or off-speed pitches. I learned to NEVER look for a curveball, because if you guessed curve and was wrong, the fastball was by you no matter how quick your hands were. And you could get beaned. But if you looked fastball, you were always ready, could adjust, and as far as I was concerned a curveball was easier to hit than any other pitch, because you picked up the spin halfway from the mound and waited, and always slowed yourself down and tried to go up the middle, like hitting off a tee. Even at a young age, I was developing what you call ‘a philosophy of hitting.’ I adopted a style that fit my physical abilities. I was an infielder, and infielders didn’t hit for power. Just hit line drives and drive everybody nuts. Be a tough out. Choke up on the bat an inch or two with two strikes and don’t strike out. Guard the dish and bow your neck. Wear the pitcher down, discourage him by fighting off his best stuff until you get a fat one you like and drill it.

     “One afternoon at Wrigley Field I saw the greatest right-handed hitter of all time, Rogers Hornsby, and watching him gave me another piece to add to my philosophy of hitting. He stood deep in the box in a closed stance and hit every ball where it was pitched, and his style was like a ‘second coming’ to me, a revelation, like some people get religion. He hit the outside pitch down the right field line, in the gap between right and center and up the middle. He sent the pitch up the middle anywhere he wanted to. He took the inside pitch down the line or between third and short or into the alley in left-center—blue darters. His hitting was like poetry and the next day I went to the sandlots and kept my old stance and mechanics but instilled some of the things I’d seen watching Hornsby. He wasn’t that big a man but his swing was level and uncomplicated and leveraged from his ass and legs, and his bat was lightning quick and he hit the ball so hard he froze people in the field. Now I was able to get more of my body into the ball and began to drive it farther, and hit rockets that dehorned infielders—and I noticed people were playing me deeper in the field. I became a terror. Everybody wanted me on their team. I felt strong and unbeatable on the field. I had my own style. Walking down the streets of Chicago, or riding my bike five, ten, fifteen miles across town looking for a bigger, better game, I had a sense of who I was—a hitter. A ball player. People waved to me on the streets and asked about my game. At synagogue all the Jewish kids and their parents treated me like a crown jewel, because already I had a reputation as a good ball player going places

     I’d found my calling.

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