Slumps: Words From Baseball Legends

Lou Gehrig: “A slump is something you can’t see or hear or feel. But it’s there all the time.”

The Slump is a sneaky critter. It hibernates in batters’ minds and emerges at random times to gnaw on the victim’s psyche and monkey with his swings and timing. It afflicts .320 and .220 hitters alike.

Everybody – teammates, coaches, batboys, bartenders, wives – offers advice and surefire cures, to no avail. The afflicted may tinker with his stance, swing, grip on the bat, order of putting on his uniform, route to the ballpark – all to no avail.

And then one day The Slump goes back to sleep. Or it doesn’t, and the victim goes back to the minors -- or the farm.

Here is what two of baseball’s greatest hitters had to say about slumps - by Norman L. Macht.

Harry Heilmann

Harry Heilmann hit .342 over 17 years, most of them with the Detroit Tigers. Four times he led the league, batting over .390.

“Your stroke gets off. You can see the ball as well as ever, but you are doing something: your stance is a little different, or a hitch develops in your arms or shoulders. But whatever it is, it throws your stroke off just enough to make you pop up or hit the ball into the dirt instead of on a line.”

“You don’t know what it is you’re doing, of course, because if you did, you would stop it instantly. But some day the fault works itself out and your slump is over.”

Harry Heilmann: “When I was in a slump, I would quit trying for base hits and just try to hit the ball back to the pitcher…”

“When I was in a slump, I would quit trying for base hits and just try to hit the ball back to the pitcher, the idea being merely to hit the ball straight and, if possible, on a line. After a day or so, usually, I would begin to get a little lift into my swing and I would be driving the ball over the pitcher’s head into the outfield.”

Lou Gehrig

Lou Gehrig hit .340, including 393 home runs, over 17 years with the Yankees.

“A slump is something you can’t see or hear or feel. But it’s there all the time. You feel you’ll come out of it the next time at bat. And then you don’t, and it begins to make you mentally sick.

The only way to get over it is to fight it, every day. I had a slump in 1929 and Miller Huggins [the manager] thought I should be benched. But I begged him to leave me in there to fight it.

The worst part of it is going back to that bench. You’ve left a man on base, or broken up a rally by knocking some silly roller to the infield or striking out. And then you have to walk back to that silent bench. There’s nothing to say. You just sit there, and you don’t know what to do with your hands.

You get a lot of advice: You’re not taking your cut . . . you’re going for bad balls . . . you’re lunging at the ball . . . standing too far back in the box . . .

You go up there nuts. You foul off one on the handle, so you move back a little. Then you foul off one on the tip of the bat, and you move up. Then you foul one off your knuckles. And if you do hit one right, it goes at somebody, or foul by a foot. Then one of these days I’ll just hit one, and I’ll know it’s over.”

Cal Ripkin Jr.

As steady and consistent and dependable as he was, Cal Ripken was not immune to the slump bug. And when it bit, he tried everything to kill it.

He fiddled with his stance, shifted his feet, changed his grip on the bat, moved up or back or in or out in the batters box. He always came out of it, but never really knew what had caused it.

Pete Fox

In the end, the simplest explanation for slumps may be the most accurate: It’s all in your head. A hitter goes 0-for-a-series and begins to think he’s going to be 0-forever.

Case in point: Pete Fox. 

During a 13-year career with the Tigers and Red Sox in the 1930s and ‘40s, including three World Series, outfielder Pete Fox consistently batted around .300. In 1935 Detroit was fighting for the pennant. In June Fox was struggling at the plate. His average sank to around .260. Teammate Elden Auker described what happened next.

Pete wound up talking to a psychiatrist in Chicago who told him, “Your problem is your mental attitude. You’re down on yourself. You have to change that. You should be the sparkplug of the club.”

That session changed his whole personality. That afternoon he comes out to the ballpark. In the clubhouse he tells us, “From here on in, just call me Sparky.” He finished the year batting .321.

Fox batted around .300 thereafter and wound up hitting .298 for his 13-year career.