Nobody Did It Better
Tony Gwynn, 1960-2014.
Jun 30, 2014, Vol. 19, No. 40 • By JEREMY ROZANSKY
The Hall of Famer Greg Maddux once explained his pitching success by pointing to a road a quarter-mile off. At that distance, he observed, you couldn’t tell whether a car was traveling 55, 65, or 75 miles per hour. So it was in pitching. Unless the batter is tipped off by a hitch in the delivery or an anomalous spin, he’s left guessing at whether the ball will come at 80, 85, or 90 miles per hour. “You just can’t do it,” Maddux explained, “except for that [expletive] Tony Gwynn.”
Tony Gwynn, RIP.
Indeed, Tony Gwynn got more hits off Maddux over the course of his career than off any other pitcher, compiling a .415 average and never striking out. Maddux can be forgiven the career blemish, for Gwynn was
Gwynn died last week of salivary-gland cancer at the age of 54. Baseball fans will remember Gwynn as Maddux does: as the exception. Gwynn was a prewar contact hitter in an era of Bash Brothers and home-run chases. With his career covering almost the entire “Steroid Era,” Gwynn was one of the first players to speak out against the rampant use of steroids and amphetamines.
As baseball writers have universally attested, Gwynn was, as a superstar, neither a cantankerous recluse nor an overmanaged corporate icon. His voice may have been more distinctive than his batting stance: high, nasal, and ready to explode with laughter. It was a wonder such an exuberant man could be so patient at the plate. Most of all though, Gwynn is an exception because he never left the San Diego Padres. Though free agency obliterated expectations of loyalty, leading countless players to take their talents elsewhere, Gwynn, a southern California native who attended San Diego State University, routinely took a hometown discount to stay with his oft-hapless Padres. He became Mr. Padre. America’s Finest City’s finest.
Hitting was Gwynn’s obsession and vocation. There are two great contradictory myths we like to tell ourselves about sports. One is that the great ones are simply naturals. Beyond the way it corrodes meritocracy, such a view is flat wrong: Most of the greats are obsessive workers. But its opposite is wrong too: Greatness does not come to every hard worker. Gwynn’s greatness was in making the most of his natural gifts. A star point guard at San Diego State, he had exceptional hand-eye coordination and quick wrists. But he also spent the last half of his career with what he called “a body by Betty Crocker.” Gwynn had small hands, compelling him to use a smaller, swifter bat, good for singles but not for home runs. Gwynn nicknamed his slender bat “Seven Grains of Pain,” but he couldn’t use it against power pitchers, otherwise it’d snap. When Ted Williams first saw “Seven Grains,” he snarled that he could pick his teeth with it.
What Gwynn did best in the team pursuit of runs and wins was spraying line-drive doubles and duck-snort singles across the diamond, advancing runners, and hoping he would be advanced. When George Will needed a subject for the chapter “The Batter” in Men at Work, he chose Gwynn. Will recounts a story of Gwynn pleased by an out and distressed by a home run. He explained to Will that even though he’d made an out, he kept his shoulders square just long enough and swung with his hands leading the barrel of the bat by the right number of inches. On the home run, he complained, he had come forward with the barrel of the bat and had swung a millisecond too soon. Repeating the same swinging action several times a game over a 162-game season means a ballplayer must rely on muscle memory. Given baseball’s relentless and gradual averaging out, a well-timed swing led by the hands would produce more runs than an early swing with the hands behind the barrel. Gwynn was never seduced by swinging for the fences. He set his sights on more solid ground: generally swinging for the 5.5 hole between the shortstop (6 on a scorecard)
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