The greatest hitter of all time, and the greatest left fielder ever, sat in a wheelchair at the pitcher's mound at the 1999 All-Star Game in Boston. The current All-Stars surrounded him, to get a look at, and maybe get a word with, the great man. They knew if Ted Williams had been playing today, he'd be the best hitter in baseball, as he had been 50 years earlier.
|  | | Ted Williams was honored during the World Series last year as part of the All-Century team. |
We all know his numbers: .344 lifetime average, 521 home runs, 709 strikeouts (Sammy Sosa has nearly that many the last four years), 2,019 walks (more than Mark McGwire and Ken Griffey Jr. combined), two Triple Crowns and nearly a third, last man to hit .400 (and the only American Leaguer ever to hit 20 homers in a .400 season) and, never to be understated, missed nearly five full seasons due to World War II and Korea. If he had played those years, he would have hit approached 700 home runs and would have been the all-time RBI leader.
Williams's statistics separated him, but his presence did so even more. Other than Babe Ruth, no player in history commanded our attention like Williams when he stepped to the plate. At an Old Timers game in Boston in 1982, Williams, then 63 years old, walked to the cage for batting practice. All of Fenway Park, including all the players (Hall of Famer Bobby Doerr was among them), stopped to watch. Williams smacked the first pitch into the bullpen in right-center.
John Wayne would have had to play the title role in the Ted Williams Story, as he was that powerful and that passionate. No one ever loved to hit more than he, to talk about hitting more than he, to teach hitting more than he. Williams and Padres star Tony Gwynn have talked hitting many times, the first of which, several years ago, left Gwynn completely intimidated and in awe. Williams maintained, in a very loud voice, that being able to handle "the ball inside is what has made so many great power hitters."
Gwynn didn't quite understand; he, after all, wasn't a power hitter. The next year, Gwynn hit the most homers of his career, almost all of which came on inside pitches. The next time he saw Williams, he said, "Mr. Williams, now I know what you mean." Ted just smiled.
Paul Molitor, a future Hall of Famer, once attended a gathering of batting champions and great hitters. He entered the room and spotted Williams, who was in the corner speaking with Joe DiMaggio. Williams saw Molitor, abruptly ended his conversation with Joe D., walked briskly across the room, shook Molitor's hand and said, "You're a great hitter, I love watching you hit."
Molitor, one of the brightest and most well-spoken players of his time, could barely speak. The greatest hitter ever had just blown off the best living player to come speak to him. When Williams asked, "What are you thinking when it's 1-0 and the pitcher throws a slider in?" Molitor didn't know the proper answer, so Williams told it to him.
"He knew me better than I knew me," Molitor said.
That is Williams, highly inquisitive on so many subjects. A high school principal met him for the first time a few years ago after a series of strokes had robbed Williams of his huge physical prowess. "You must be really disappointed," Williams said.
"No," said the principal, "meeting you is the biggest thrill of my life." And the two men talked, mostly about the principal's high-tech camera, which fascinated Williams. Most things did. On a private jet to Cooperstown one summer, he discovered that Rick Vaughn, the public relations director for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, had once been a very good college pitcher. "Show me how you throw your slider," Williams said. The two talked baseball the whole way.
"You know what I would have done if I hadn't played baseball?" Williams asked.
"What?" said Vaughn.
"I would have studied the human brain."
That is Ted Williams. The Science Of Hitting? That wasn't just the name of one of Williams' books, it was his way of life. And now Williams is the master of hitting. When he managed the Washington Senators/Texas Rangers from 1969-72, he turned lousy hitters (Eddie Brinkman, for one) into at least decent ones. "He could teach hitting better than anyone I've ever seen," said Tom Grieve, one of his former players.
Williams wasn't nearly as interested in the rest of the duties of managing; third-base coach Wayne Terwilliger often did the signs on his own. Once, during spring training, there was a dispute among the Senators on the proper way to execute a rundown. Finally, the players and coach went to Williams to settle the argument. Williams listened to both sides, and immediately became bored and annoyed.
"Ah, screw it," he said. "Let's hit."
ESPN The Magazine's Tim Kurkjian writes a weekly column for ESPN.com. | |
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