Moneyball - Michael Lewis [89]
A few days earlier Mabry had complained to Feiny about his lack of playing time, and Feiny had tried to help him out. “You know, John,” he’d said, “maybe you want to try taking a few pitches.”
That night Mabry had played—with Feiny’s voice in his head. The first time he came to the plate he took the first five pitches he saw—till the count was full: 3–2. The next pitch he took a giant hack at, and struck out. The television camera read his lips as he walked back to the dugout. “Fucking Feinstein,” he said. Mabry wound up walking twice and one of those walks led to a run that won the game; still, it was unclear whether he had forgiven Feiny—or even if he thought Feiny needed forgiving.
Mabry, too, is playing tonight. He sees the tape of Moyer, and wants to discuss him.
“This guy is hard to prepare for,” Mabry says. “He chews up young guys because he feeds on their aggression.”
“He’s just so different from everyone else,” says Hatty. “You’re gauged for harder speeds. You almost have to remember your old high school swing.”
“He preys on your aggression,” says Mabry, making whatever Moyer does sound slightly vampirish. “He makes you think you can hit pitches you can’t even reach.”
“If it’s not a strike, how hard it is to lay off?” asks Feiny. He’s still staring into his own screen, watching Alex Rodriguez at bat.
“Oh, it’s hard,” says Mabry. On the screen Moyer doesn’t seem to be pitching so much as tossing. I’ve seen less arc on ceremonial first pitches.
“Just lay off the bad pitches, John,” says Feiny teasingly.
“Feiny,” says Mabry testily. “You ever been in a major league batter’s box?”
Feiny doesn’t answer.
“I’m telling you,” says Mabry, turning back. He points to the screen, on which Moyer tosses another cream puff. “You see that coming at you and it looks like you can hit it three miles.”
“So just don’t swing, John,” says Feiny.
“Yeah,” says Mabry, turning around again to glare at Feiny. “Well, the time you don’t swing is the time he throws you three strikes.”
“He is a really smart guy,” agrees Hatty, looking to settle the dispute. “He’s tough to plan for.”
But Mabry is still staring at Feiny, who is refusing to stare back. “Feiny, have you ever faced a major league pitcher?”
“No, John,” says Feiny, wearily, “I’ve never faced a major league pitcher.”
“I didn’t think so,” says Mabry. “I didn’t think Feiny had ever faced a major league pitcher.”
That looked as if it might be a conversation-stopper. Then David Justice walks in. He sees that they’ve been watching the tape of Moyer and knows instantly what they’re arguing about. They’re arguing about the price of greed in the batter’s box. Your only hope against a pitcher with Moyer’s command of the strike zone, Justice says, is to give up on the idea that you are going to get rich and satisfy yourself with just making a living. “You think you can hit it out,” says Justice, “but you can’t hit it at all.”
“Exactly,” says Mabry.
“Which is why you don’t swing at it,” says Feiny.
Mabry just gets up and leaves. When he’s gone, Hatteberg considers why everyone doesn’t prepare for Jamie Moyer as he does—by watching tape, imagining what will happen, deciding what to look for, deciding what he will never swing at. “Some of the guys who are the best are the dumbest,” he says. “I don’t mean dumbest. I mean they don’t have a thought. No system.”
Stupidity is an asset?
“Absolutely. Guys can’t set you up. You have no pattern. You can’t even remember your last at bat.” He laughs. “Arrogance is an asset, too. Stupidity and arrogance: I don’t have either one. And it taunts me.”
He soon needs to stop thinking about playing and actually play. During the game he’s as finicky as ever. He waits for pitches like a man picking through an apple bin at a grocery store, looking for the ripest. The first time up, the fruit’s no good. He just stares at the first four pitches, all millimeters off the plate, and walks down to first base. His second time up, Moyer throws strikes. Hatteberg watches the first go by, and fouls off the second. With two strikes he thought