(Published June 2001 in The Daily Reptile, the game program for the Canton Crocodiles
Professional Baseball Club)
I have always heard it said that a baseball team must have pitching, defense, and clutch hitting to be successful. This seemed like too simple an explanation, but after four years of Division I college baseball and five years of the profession game, I came up with the same three ingredients for winning teams. If the pitchers throw strikes and prevent the opposing team from scoring a team has a chance. If the defense makes the routine plays and avoids giving away unearned runs the team has a chance. Clutch hitting is not so easily defined. This last ingredient for winning teams involves execution, timing, and even luck.
My first season of pro baseball was one of my best. Traveling around the Northwest, my team played 80 games in three months. Pioneer League pitching was tough, and the adjustment to the wooden bat frustrated many players. I got off to a good start and kept my momentum at the plate the entire season. I was among the league leaders in batting average and collected 48 Runs Batted In. It was during that first season that I was given a nickname that I would hear for the next few years.
“Mr. Clutch.”
Although I had collected a couple of big hits throughout the season, one game would fit me with a nickname that to this day I wonder how I earned. We were playing the last series of the season, and my team needed to win two out of three games to advance to the playoffs. In game one of that series, we trailed 4-3 in the eighth. With two outs, we loaded the bases on two walks and a bloop hit. I was next to bat. The crowd of 2,500 began stomping their feet, and some of the die-hard fans that knew me by name began to yell instruction my way. “Knock ‘em in Clay!” The loud speakers began to boom the theme song to the TV show Batman. The energy of the atmosphere had me full of confidence and ready to hit. I had no doubt that I would collect the winning hit, until the opposing team’s manager made the pitching change.
I had seen the new pitcher before but had been unable to figure out his 87-mph slider and unable to connect with his 95 mph four-seam fastball. As he popped the catcher’s mitt with his warm-up pitches, the crowd continued to stir with anticipation. I was stirring with fear and self-doubt.
The bat felt heavy as I dug in to hit. The first pitch buzzed past me. The ball looked like an aspirin tablet going by. I had cocked my bat but was in no position to swing. The umpire called the pitch high. Ball one. I could not have told you where the pitch had crossed the plate. I had barely seen it. The next pitch exploded past me. I attempted a swing but missed badly. Two more pitches and the other team would be on their way to victory. The next pitch started at my head, but I had made up my mind to swing before the ball had been released from the pitcher’s hand. I flinched slightly as my bat started off my shoulder. To my surprise the pitch was a slider and began breaking over the plate. I let my swing continue and with one eye shut and my back leg buckled, I connected. The ball jumped from my bat and sailed down the left field line. I let out a sigh of relief with solid contact and watched as the left fielder gave chase. The fans took a collective sigh, and all in attendance watched the ball disappear over the fence.
The crowd erupted and I jumped up taking a few strides toward first. It was only after I had given thanks to the Lord for his mercy and good fortune that the umpire yelled, “Foul Ball!” The fans noisily protested, and I argued only because the prospect of facing another pitch from the opposing fireballer was not to my liking. The umpires held a conference and proceeded to announce the correct call had been made. I dug in tentatively with two strikes against me. The next pitch was a fast ball. It took me by surprise and was headed for the outside corner. I slung my bat at it desperately and somehow connected with one hand still on the bat. The ball could not have hit my barrel more squarely. It jumped into center field for the winning hit. We recorded three outs in the ninth and won 5-4. I was the hero. The headline in the paper read, ‘Mr. Clutch Does It Twice.” A big deal was made about the disputed foul ball. The reporter wrote about the concentration needed to step back up to the plate after the near grand slam and deliver another perfect swing. I smiled and said nothing.
A year later I would be in the midst of my worst season as a pro. My batting average barely had a pulse, and I had stranded more runners than I could count. The game we were playing meant nothing in the standings, but I came to the plate again with the power to affect its outcome. Bottom of the ninth, down by one run, and runners on first and second. I had seen similar situations that season and had grounded out or popped up. There was no reason for this game to be any different until I walked back to put some pine tar on my bat. I heard one of my teammates telling another player, “We going to win this one. There is a reason they call him Mr. Clutch.”
I hit a double. Recognizing the curveball early, I calmly snapped my bat through the zone with a perfect swing. It was one of the few good hits I had that year, but it kept the nickname alive. Two years later I overheard a scout telling a coach about me. He described me as a solid glove and one of the best clutch hitters around.
Clutch hitters have different qualities. They have to have nerves of steel, a desire to perform, a good swing, and even a little luck.
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