For no apparent reason he would stop looking at the batter from center field, stop sizing up the pitcher from the batter’s box, and he would look right at me.
How many people can say that? If anybody else says it was them he was looking at, they are imagining it.
And then, finally, there he was. February 1975, there he was with the rest of the Sox in Winter Haven. He was doing his thing and doing it on the major league diamond, not with all the kids who were going to play maybe next year or the year after. Fred Lynn was with us, and was never going to be leaving us again.
And I had to be him. There was nothing else to be. Everyone was going to want to be Fred Lynn eventually, I was certain of that. Of course they were. Who wouldn’t? But he was mine. I had believed before anyone. So when there was the big rush to be Fred Lynn, it was only right that I would be Fred Lynn first. Well, second anyway.
His instincts were perfect. When he ran, he did not blow you away with his speed, but at the same time he appeared to reach every ball hit catchably to center field. He could not have covered more ground in less time if he had somebody driving him, and he didn’t run to greet the ball so much as he glided. He never ran the wrong way when he heard the pop of the ball off the bat, and if the hit reached the warning track or was going over the wall into the bull pen, he would time his leap perfectly and never, ever, lose a ball once he got a glove on it.
Even more than saving home runs, though, I loved to watch him come in on a short ball. As if he was somehow doing the calculations of time and distance and trajectory and drop in his head while at the same time running just like a kid who was doing it for plain fun instead of for his profession, Fred Lynn was always arriving to the spot where the ball was trying to get to the ground just in time to stop it from getting there. Flopping and sliding and tumbling all over the place, he still never seemed like he was out of control or one inch off the mark. I swore if he closed his eyes and ran straight ahead he would still wind up with the ball in his glove. And the perfect grass of the Fenway outfield would cradle him like a baby. The finest field in baseball, groundskeeper Joe Mooney’s Fenway lawn. Finest field in the world.
That world now belonged to Fred Lynn. He controlled it totally.
But the stroke was the thing. It was the most perfect and beautiful thing I had ever seen. I know that other people, like Beverly, can hear it in music. I can’t hear music. Some people see what I’m talking about in ballet, or in the shapes of sculpture.
But I don’t see that. I see it, and believe that I see somehow everything that is good and right and important, in a flawless, speedy and powerful swing of a baseball bat in pursuit of a ball.
And I never saw it perfect until I saw Fred Lynn. God gave it all to Fred Lynn.
And he gave Fred Lynn to me.
And I was going to repay him by learning to be great myself. Which was going to require some work. Beginning with the small job of turning myself from a right-handed hitter into a left-handed hitter. I was only half kidding about that. I would in time go back to the right side because I was already too far along. But I felt like I could understand what Lynn did better, I could get him down, if I did it by the numbers. By his numbers. I wanted to be over there, in his shoes, and feel it.
It felt funny. Strange at first, but not entirely foreign. I had taken a few cuts from the left side before because if you truly want to be the best hitter you can be you have to at least briefly toy with the idea of being a switch hitter. I toyed with it very briefly. Because I ran out of patience quickly when I realized it wasn’t nearly as fun working from the other side. I did okay as a lefty, but I couldn’t smack the ball the way I was used to and if I couldn’t smack it then I got frustrated, and if I got frustrated I pressed too hard and if I
How many people can say that? If anybody else says it was them he was looking at, they are imagining it.
And then, finally, there he was. February 1975, there he was with the rest of the Sox in Winter Haven. He was doing his thing and doing it on the major league diamond, not with all the kids who were going to play maybe next year or the year after. Fred Lynn was with us, and was never going to be leaving us again.
And I had to be him. There was nothing else to be. Everyone was going to want to be Fred Lynn eventually, I was certain of that. Of course they were. Who wouldn’t? But he was mine. I had believed before anyone. So when there was the big rush to be Fred Lynn, it was only right that I would be Fred Lynn first. Well, second anyway.
His instincts were perfect. When he ran, he did not blow you away with his speed, but at the same time he appeared to reach every ball hit catchably to center field. He could not have covered more ground in less time if he had somebody driving him, and he didn’t run to greet the ball so much as he glided. He never ran the wrong way when he heard the pop of the ball off the bat, and if the hit reached the warning track or was going over the wall into the bull pen, he would time his leap perfectly and never, ever, lose a ball once he got a glove on it.
Even more than saving home runs, though, I loved to watch him come in on a short ball. As if he was somehow doing the calculations of time and distance and trajectory and drop in his head while at the same time running just like a kid who was doing it for plain fun instead of for his profession, Fred Lynn was always arriving to the spot where the ball was trying to get to the ground just in time to stop it from getting there. Flopping and sliding and tumbling all over the place, he still never seemed like he was out of control or one inch off the mark. I swore if he closed his eyes and ran straight ahead he would still wind up with the ball in his glove. And the perfect grass of the Fenway outfield would cradle him like a baby. The finest field in baseball, groundskeeper Joe Mooney’s Fenway lawn. Finest field in the world.
That world now belonged to Fred Lynn. He controlled it totally.
But the stroke was the thing. It was the most perfect and beautiful thing I had ever seen. I know that other people, like Beverly, can hear it in music. I can’t hear music. Some people see what I’m talking about in ballet, or in the shapes of sculpture.
But I don’t see that. I see it, and believe that I see somehow everything that is good and right and important, in a flawless, speedy and powerful swing of a baseball bat in pursuit of a ball.
And I never saw it perfect until I saw Fred Lynn. God gave it all to Fred Lynn.
And he gave Fred Lynn to me.
And I was going to repay him by learning to be great myself. Which was going to require some work. Beginning with the small job of turning myself from a right-handed hitter into a left-handed hitter. I was only half kidding about that. I would in time go back to the right side because I was already too far along. But I felt like I could understand what Lynn did better, I could get him down, if I did it by the numbers. By his numbers. I wanted to be over there, in his shoes, and feel it.
It felt funny. Strange at first, but not entirely foreign. I had taken a few cuts from the left side before because if you truly want to be the best hitter you can be you have to at least briefly toy with the idea of being a switch hitter. I toyed with it very briefly. Because I ran out of patience quickly when I realized it wasn’t nearly as fun working from the other side. I did okay as a lefty, but I couldn’t smack the ball the way I was used to and if I couldn’t smack it then I got frustrated, and if I got frustrated I pressed too hard and if I
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