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Visual Clues

by Dave
Tuesday, May 12, 2009

In my humble opinion, there is no better feeling in all of sport than that which happens when you hit a ball really well and come to the split-second realization that not even hurricane force winds can keep that shot within the confines of the park.   I don't think anything else comes even particularly close.   We can debate the point later, if you like, but we need to move on from there now.   To me, even though nothing comes close, not even in baseball/softball, the next best thing, though way behind, is the feeling of being on the bases.   It can also be the worst feeling and these two possibilities are what I would like to examine today.

First of all, there is a very good feeling that comes with the moment of total clarity one experiences when, for example, one is three steps into the run to first and realizes the ball has just gotten past the outfielder.   It is time to turn on the wheels.   You are going to, at least, second base.   A similar feeling happens when you dive back into first, realize you are safe, and then look up to see the ball screaming down the line with nobody nearby.   You're going to third, if you can get up quickly and turn on your speed.   Yet another example of that moment of clarity on the basepaths occurs when you're on first and you see the bat come off the ball and take aim for the rightfield line.   You are all out around second and probably reaching third, if not home.

These moments of clarity on the basepaths cause an exhiliration on the part of the baserunner as she realizes she is free for at least the next 6 seconds.   No decision need be made.   Just GO!!!

Where base running becomes far more confusing, far more disconcerting, far more stressful, happens when you get those tweeners, those moments when you are unsure whether, as the Clash song says, "should I stay or should I go, now?"   Almost every player has, by the time they are 15, had the experience of being doubled off base because they were off too far, thought they needed to go, and somebody made a good play on a liner or hump-backed liner.   There are other experiences like being nailed by the catcher while on third because you drifted off too far; getting pickled on a grounder on which you were not forced; getting nailed at third while legging out what will go down in the record books as a double - especially if you hit it with two or no outs; or otherwise making a bad decision on the bases - more so if it turns out the base coach wanted you to do something else.

We have base coaches because we recognize that the baserunner cannot always know exactly where the ball is, cannot always make the decisions by herself.   A runner on second can and certainly should check where the outfielders are before a ball is struck but you can't pay attention to what you are doing on the play, know where the ball is and be 100% certain that the outfielder has made a good or bad play on it.   Runners from first cannot always see the ball get past the RF and they need that coach to tell them to go or stop after a basehit.   That's why third base coaches are so critical and that's why so many head coaches prefer to stand by third when their teams are up.   The runner needs help to tell them: up, down, round the bag, hold the bag, score, etc.

Similarly, runners going to first shouldn't always know what to do next.   We train hitters to focus their eyes on the point of contact, hit it and go.   They have clues about where the ball is going but they need to focus on their path to first and cannot frequently make the decision to go for second.   They often do not see the ball bounce off the outfielder, high into the air, and land 20 feet away.   The base coach must assume that role.

So base coaches are critical to successful base running.   But they must make themselves completely understood by the runner, sometimes more than one, within a split second.   And that communication is what I want to focus on today.

For all you parents, coaches, and yes, base coaches out there who do not exactly remember what the sensations of a baserunner are, I want you to perform an exercise.   Get yourself a regulation batting helmet and put it on your head.   Now, run in a straight line as fast as you can.   Now for step two, run around a regulation softball diamond as fast as you can.   Place someone at the two basecoaches' positions.   Have those folks tell you something really important as you pass them.   Now tell us what they told you.   I'd be willing to bet you can't tell me what was spoken to you!

If you cannot perform this exercise, let me remind you what it is like to run around the bases with a batting helmet on your dome.   First off, even uif you are a slow runner, the wind whips through the ear holes.   It creates quite a racket.   You cannot here anything "true."   What you get is more like an extremely loud seshell held up to your here.   WA ... WA ... WA.

If there are fans screaming while you run, you really don't hear them very well.   You get the notion that people are screaming but you aren't sure why.   Did someone make a great catch?   Is the ball rolling to East Jabib?   Is there going to be a close play on you?   You don't know what direction the screaming is coming from.   You don't know what they are yelling.   It is just meaningless noise which combines with the sound of the air running through the ear holes.

For whatever reason, perhaps because the reality of wearing a helmet is a buit like being in a very close space, you usually can hear yourself breathing.   Your breaths are very loud in your head.   And when they combine with the air rushing through the ear holes, the screaming from the sidelines, whatever your base coach is trying to tell you, and the sound of blood rushing through your head as the adrenaline levels rise, they create something which is generally referred to as a din.   I suppose if you've ever seen the movie "Saving Private Ryan," the feeling of running the bases with a batting helmet is kind of like that moment in the movie in which Tom Hanks' hearing has been shattered by an explosion and then it starts to come back to him.

I hope I made the point that the baserunner does not have hearing acuity as she races around the bases.   For that reason, there are three things I'd like you to consider.   First of all, anything spoken must be done in a loud, clear voice which is limited to a few sounds that are are clearly discernible from others.   Second, all clues, instructions, etc. must be handed out at the correct moment.   Finally and most importantly, she needs visual clues.

We have all made mistakes as base coaches.   At one fairly recent game, I had a girl on third who does not have a ton of experience.   The ball got away from the catcher.   I told her to "hold, hold, hold."   She heard "home, home, home."   Using her own judgment, she would have gladly held.   But this is a great kid, an obedient kid, a kid who absolutely puts her full faith in her coahes and does everything they tell her to do.   She went for home.   The pitcher and catcher were able to meet at the plate, exchange pleasantries, discuss what they had done the day before and what they planned to do after the game before they noticed that there was a girl running towards home.   They stopped their conversation briefly, tagged her out, and then went into the dugout to continue with the discussion.

I walked off the field a little confused while trying to figure out what she was thinking.   It came to me as I approached homeplate.   So I said to her, lying there on the ground, completely dejected, "did you think I said, 'home'?"   She looked up at me, with tears in her eye and said, "yea, isn't that what you said?"   I blinked and said to her, "you see? I told you I would make more mistakes than you ever could.   That was my fault."

I want to stop the diatribe for a moment and re-emphasize a very important point.   It is absolutely critical for coaches to acknowledge blame when they deserve that blame.   Heck, it can be important for them to take on blame when there is some question as to whether it is theirs or not.   But when they make some sort of error, it is necessary to let everyone know it was their fault.

Trust me, the kids know their coaches are no infallible.   They still may like and respect them.   That's probably more so if the coaches admit when they make mistakes.   The worst thing in the world to a player happens when they do something that results in a bad outcome when they thought that's exactly what the coach wanted them to do, and the coach turns around and blames them.   I've seen this a thousand times and while it may not be readily apparent to anyone that the kid harbors resentment, trust me, they do.

They know they are not to blame.   They are not fooled into believing that the coach wanted them to do something else entirely.   They know it is that idiot coach's fault.   And by not accepting blame, you are setting them up to do the same at some later point.   That's just plain stupid softball.

Several years ago.   I watched as a third base coach botched play after play.   With a sizeable lead and a ball into the gap, he held runner after runner from second at third.   Down by a run with the team's best hitter coming up with no or two outs, he played aggressive.   Worse still, his clues were all verbal and done at library speaking level.   Even worse, sometimes they were contrary instructions.   "go, no, stop."   After the play was over, this guy had the cojones to walk back to the dugout saying, "I told you to stop."   Of course, now his voice was louder, loud enough to hear from any place in the park!

Please understand that I hold no contempt for the coach who says "go" and then needs to say "stop."   I think we all have been there.   A good friend an d former assistant made that particularly mistake the other day.   I know because I could hear him do it.   I'm not sure if the girl was safe or out though because I was two fields away from that game and couldn't see the play.   All I say is, if you need to reverse what you have already told a baserunner to do, say it loud enough so that God and the Devil can both hear it.

I want to make the point that whatever you do while coaching the bases ought to be loud.   Nobody in the place should wonder what you said.   Further to the point, you need to work out the words you say given certain circumstances.   "Hold" may seem fine but "BACK" can never be confused with "home."   There is very little which can be confused with "DOWN, DOWN, DOWN."   That particularly true if you avoid using the word "round."   "Go, Go, Go" can be confused with "No, No, No" unless you avoid using "No" at all costs.   There are perhaps less than one dozen baserunning instructions you need to utter so list those out and then decide whether any of your word choices can be confused with any other.   Choose the absolutely clearest instructions you can come up with and then stick to those without exception.

Obviously some people are going to think you a fool if you say things like this as loudly as I do.   When I was a child, I had a friend whose nickname was "big and loud."   I think he was 6-6.   The guy could deafen a person standing within 20 feet of him merely by clapping his hands together.   I don't know how he did it but he was the loudest clapper I have ever encountered.   I was once at a rock concert with him and got lost in the crowd.   I found him by following his clapping sound ... while the music was still playing.   Ev erything about him was loud.   Our mutual friends referred to me as "not as big but just as loud."   So when I say I am loud while coaching base, I really do mean it.   And you need to be too.   And keep in mind that among those who will consider you a fool for vbeing that loud, this group will not include your base runners who will be eternally grateful for receiving clear, discernible instructions.

OK, so we have gone over being loud and paid some service to the notion of deciding your word choice before youy go onto the field.   We've talked about owning at least as much responsibility as you foist upon your players, perhaps more, and owning mistakes you make, out front and in public.   But these are the smaller parts because there is something far more important.   That, of course, is visual clues.

When coaching base, particularly third, the best instructions you can give a baserunner, especially one moving towards second, are visual ones, assuming you are in the player's ordinary line of vision.   The signs should be simple, obvious, discernible, and seen.   That's simple but let's discuss anyways.

These signs or clues should be a limited language.   A player cannot process four hundred pieces of sign language within a tenth of a second, which is all you have.   A simple, violent windmilling of the arm pretty much is universally understood as "go home" or keep going.   Both arms stretched out to the sky with palms facing the runner should be understood as stop.   You can develop your own visual clues but they must be simple, limited and understood.

Also, these signs or clues need to be in motion before during and after the player looks at you.   In ordinary circumstances, you should practice giving these clues to the runner, for example, as she finds herself halfway between first and second.   What I mean is, it should be predetermined that the runner needs to pick up the third base coach at this point.   So the coach can expect that if the runner is fifteen feet off the back, racing towards second, she is going to be looking at the coach shortly.   So he or she should have already made up their minds what to communicate and begun that communication.   Then the runner, the person doing the real work here, has the leisure of being able to look for the sign from that point until she is fairly close to the bag.

There is no room for confusion so whatever visual clues you are providing must already be part of a limited language and the specific clue you are providing must not be susceptible to being confused with any other.   For example, when a base coach wants a runner from second to slide into third, the coach has to be visible to the runner, he or she must be making a signal that can be confused with no other, and he or she can do any number of predetermined things but the runner must know absolutely that she must slide.   I have seen coaches throw themselves to the ground when they want a slide.   That was entertaining for the crowd.   I'm sure some of the more highb row fans thought it unbecoming of an adult.   But I guarantee you the runner slid.

OK, I don't want to belabor the points anymore.   I've written enough for today.   But before we go, I want to rehash.   Running the bases is great, most of the time.   It can also be a bad experience, paerticularly if the outcome is bad or confused.   Runners need help.   That's why we have base coaches.   Those coaches have the responsibility to make decisions and to communicate those decisions effectively.   They must be loud, clear, preferably visual, provided at the right moment, and practiced.   Coaches make mistakes.   When they do, they should own them.   Those mistakes can be mere mistakes of communication.   When that happens, effort should be expended to correct the mistake.   Baserunners can barely hear you even if you are loud.   If you are soft-spoken, fuggetaboutit.   If you are decisive, clear, loud, and visual, you will be understood ... most of the time.

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