by Paul West
Among other ills, human society remains at perpetual odds with a broadly human problem: jumping to conclusions that don’t bear close examination.
From human-on-human prejudice, to the old-time belief that rain produced frogs (no, really, that was a thing), to the moon having a dark side…one thing that makes easy-but-unreasonable conclusions so intractably tempting is how simple, and superficially reasonable, they can seem. In other words, the problem with jumping to unreasonable conclusions is that at first glance, they’re often deceptively easy. One such conclusion is the notion that throwing harder makes you a better pitcher. This has led to baseball’s widespread fixation on ‘power pitching’–throwing as hard as possible, as often as possible, with as much spin and explosive movement on every pitch as possible–and diminished arm health at every level, as well as a decrease in balls put in play.
On an out-to-out basis, in an all-other-things-considered-equal sense, of course throwing harder would make it easier to get outs. But longtime fans are familiar with the phenomenon of the hard thrower who remains surprisingly hittable, in spite of their daunting velocity. Furthermore, ‘hittable’ hard throwers often have a problem with home runs, as velocity contributes to how hard a ball is hit when the hitter barrels it.
There’s a significant difference between the impressive feat of throwing a ball with uncommon force and the complicated mix of craft and science that constitutes pitching. No matter how hard you throw, a good hitter at your competitive level can time it–even if they generally find it harder to do so. Whether or not they throw triple-digit fastballs, a pitcher’s main weapon is the creation of uncertainty in the hitter, accomplished by changes of speed and/or location.
One of the best examples of success by this method is Zack Greinke, who continued to post strong outings both well into his thirties and well past the decline of his fastball velocity; Grienke, whose fastball once touched the upper 90s, has long been renowned for his ‘mad scientist’ willingness to throw pitch mixes others wouldn’t have the courage to try–and is occasionally fond of low-60s eephus pitches. Another is Bartolo Colon, whose current public image as a jolly, jowly elder belies the leaner, rangier power pitcher he was when he first entered the league; unbeknownst to much of baseball’s current fan base, Bartolo Colon was once a fireballer–but the key to his longevity turned out to be craft. Colon remained an effective pitcher well into his forties by changing the speed and location of a fastball that rarely exceeded 90 mph. Of course, Greinke and Colon are probable Hall of Famers and, as such, qualify as outliers; but they highlight something often forgotten: you can be effective as a pitcher without relying on extreme velocity. Dontrelle Willis and Hyun-Jin Ryu are examples of pitchers who’ve had stretches of MLB success without herculean power displays; and arguably the most renowned example is Greg Maddux, (who, for what it’s worth, actually threw reasonably hard early in his career) though he was somewhat aided by the horizontally extended strike zones of his era.
Another aspect of ‘power pitching’ that’s been en vogue for a while is the extreme-spin, extreme-break secondary pitch: sliders in the mid-90s, curveballs with half-foot breaks, sweepers, and other spin-heavy hybrids. This has been encouraged, both tacitly and explicitly, by an assembly-line approach to the game that favors a parade of outcome-limiting arms to reduce real and perceived risk…and the widespread infatuation with power has affected the game at nearly every level. First and most importantly (and troublingly), it’s led to the rising epidemic of blown-out arms, from youth baseball through every professional level. It’s led to an increased rate of strikeouts, and efforts at the institutional level to encourage balls in play, to improve the perceived ‘pace of play’ to counter a preponderance of homers and strikeouts. Lastly, it’s led to a declining appreciation of a certain element of the pitching craft: the ability to manage games in long arcs. Fewer pitchers seem to be able to navigate their way through a game when they haven’t got their ‘wipeout stuff,’ because fewer of them are encouraged–or even given the chance–to manage games in such a way, without emptying the tank for as long as they can pull it off then handing the ball over to a parade of arms.
Of course, we shouldn’t go back to the days when complete games were more prevalent than they likely should have been, and pitching careers were shorter than they needed to be, for the sake of the egotism, machismo, and halcyon hero worship of the past. The ‘closer’ position evolved with good reason; third-time-through-the-order statistics are legitimate factors to be recognized; and risk mitigation is part of sports, not only at the front-office level but on the field in real time. But just as sports at is best is a combination of tangible and intangible, we would do well to remember that baseball is more than just numbers, pitching is more than just power, and success in–and enjoyment of!–sports requires more than a numbers-driven approach.
As human athleticism and performance continue to raise their ceilings, it will be reflected in the orthopedic toll exacted by something as frankly unnatural as being a baseball pitcher. But advancing human performance have been aided by improved training, nutrition, and recovery methods–all of which should help us exercise the proper amount of caution as we push the body’s limits and shepherd the game into its technologically enhanced future. This caution has to be exercised at an institutional and cultural level; because left to their own devices, the mix of competitive zeal, athletic obsessiveness, socioeconomic urgency, and numerous other factors can make the modern-day power pitcher a threat to not just themselves, but the game which they pursue and so many of us love.
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