Is Timmy back? If so, where did he go in August? Using Pitch/FX data, BP's Eric Seidman wrote this analysis of Lincecum's troubles before Tim went out and dominated the D-Backs through six innings last night. Like an old pitcher late in the season, Seidman takes longer than usual to warm up, so I'll summarize and condense his main points:
With his "stuff" slightly worse than in his Cy Young years, I've suspected all along Tim's woes are mechanical, which then become psychological. Or the other way around. The red flag was his attempt to go "over the head" with his windup. A guy just doesn't do that in the middle of a pennant race if he's not flummoxed. Throwing a baseball exactly where you want it requires an extremely complicated and conflicting series of mechanisms -- think of assembling a tiny model ship inside a bottle while running the 110-meter hurdles -- and Lincecum's are more complicated than most. Even if every muscle feels fine, a twinge of doubt or a piece of the puzzle out of place can cause a bit of tightness in one spot, which makes a fastball a tick slower, or miss by six inches, or a change-up hang above the knees instead of diving toward the dirt. In other words, slightly less "stuff."
It's a weird balance. A pitcher needs intense focus on every pitch. You hear Krukow talk about it all the time -- just you and the catcher's glove. That's literally the feeling as you stare into the target from the mound, that your eyes are burning a path through the air that the ball will soon travel. But too much intensity, and your fingers grip just a little too tight, you rush through your motion, or you lose track of the baserunners. People who meditate say they can watch their thoughts float by like clouds. To our everyday minds, it's an almost paradoxical state of being, so hard to achieve; it's what athletes often call being "in the zone," or jazz musicians "in the pocket." You're just there, senses sharply tuned, mind clear, muscles relaxed but ready to fire. Of course, athletes often add a layer of competitive zeal for motivation, something I don't imagine happens with meditation. (I'm going to zen the shit out of this dirtbag!) I've never seen a yoga class in which participants finish a great pose and punch each other in the chest.
So, back to the question: Has Lincecum regained his form? It all depends on the context. If the Giants were locked in a scoreless tie last night and he gave up the three runs in the seventh, there would be less talk today of "Timmy's back." The "Pitchers Need to Know How to Win" crowd, thankfully on the wane, would chirp that a true ace would keep his team in the game, no matter what. (Ha.)
Wait a sec, you might be saying: You just went through this psychobabble zen stuff about the right amount of focus, but you think it's ridiculous to judge pitchers on W-L record? Isn't knowing how to win also a key mental aspect of the game?
I'm glad you asked. Balancing mind and body for the best possible performance is the pitcher's responsibility. The offensive and defensive performance of his teammates is not. Getting out of a tight spot with the game on the line -- or dominating an opponent -- and having a "W" attached to your resume are two different things. Often they match up quite nicely, sometimes they don't. If your teammates score one or zero runs for you, or they boot the ball in key situations, it's hard to will your team to victory.
Perhaps a clever video guy will soon post frame-by-frame comparisons of Lincecum that show how he fixed a tiny mechanical flaw. Perhaps Tim started meditating. Or weightlifting. Or he decided to go out and, as Aubrey Huff might say, shove the ball up the opponent's ass. Is Timmy back? At this point in the season, a much more relevant question for me is this: Did the Giants win?
His fastball velocity is down, sure, but a dropoff of one MPH isn't deadly. The real issue with the heater is the movement. Not only is Lincecum throwing the pitch slower, the numbers confirm the scout's take that his pitches lack bite. His off-speed pitches, however, are not showing signs of a substantial drop. The changeup could be perceived to be less effective due to a half-inch drop in both movement components, but these changes are not as substantial as the drop in horizontal movement for the fastball. What seems to be happening is that the off-speed pitches are ever so slightly less effective, while the fastball is no longer as intimidating. This could lead to hitters becoming more comfortable in the box, especially if their confidence goes through the roof when they see an ace changing his mechanics to help solve a perceived problem.When you have no way of really knowing whether a pitcher has nagging injury problems or personal problems -- parts of a player's life we as fans can't get access to unless the player allows it -- it's nice to have pitch data. Amid so much we don't know, at least we can say "Lincecum's fastball is a touch slower lately but not drastically so."
With his "stuff" slightly worse than in his Cy Young years, I've suspected all along Tim's woes are mechanical, which then become psychological. Or the other way around. The red flag was his attempt to go "over the head" with his windup. A guy just doesn't do that in the middle of a pennant race if he's not flummoxed. Throwing a baseball exactly where you want it requires an extremely complicated and conflicting series of mechanisms -- think of assembling a tiny model ship inside a bottle while running the 110-meter hurdles -- and Lincecum's are more complicated than most. Even if every muscle feels fine, a twinge of doubt or a piece of the puzzle out of place can cause a bit of tightness in one spot, which makes a fastball a tick slower, or miss by six inches, or a change-up hang above the knees instead of diving toward the dirt. In other words, slightly less "stuff."
It's a weird balance. A pitcher needs intense focus on every pitch. You hear Krukow talk about it all the time -- just you and the catcher's glove. That's literally the feeling as you stare into the target from the mound, that your eyes are burning a path through the air that the ball will soon travel. But too much intensity, and your fingers grip just a little too tight, you rush through your motion, or you lose track of the baserunners. People who meditate say they can watch their thoughts float by like clouds. To our everyday minds, it's an almost paradoxical state of being, so hard to achieve; it's what athletes often call being "in the zone," or jazz musicians "in the pocket." You're just there, senses sharply tuned, mind clear, muscles relaxed but ready to fire. Of course, athletes often add a layer of competitive zeal for motivation, something I don't imagine happens with meditation. (I'm going to zen the shit out of this dirtbag!) I've never seen a yoga class in which participants finish a great pose and punch each other in the chest.
So, back to the question: Has Lincecum regained his form? It all depends on the context. If the Giants were locked in a scoreless tie last night and he gave up the three runs in the seventh, there would be less talk today of "Timmy's back." The "Pitchers Need to Know How to Win" crowd, thankfully on the wane, would chirp that a true ace would keep his team in the game, no matter what. (Ha.)
Wait a sec, you might be saying: You just went through this psychobabble zen stuff about the right amount of focus, but you think it's ridiculous to judge pitchers on W-L record? Isn't knowing how to win also a key mental aspect of the game?
I'm glad you asked. Balancing mind and body for the best possible performance is the pitcher's responsibility. The offensive and defensive performance of his teammates is not. Getting out of a tight spot with the game on the line -- or dominating an opponent -- and having a "W" attached to your resume are two different things. Often they match up quite nicely, sometimes they don't. If your teammates score one or zero runs for you, or they boot the ball in key situations, it's hard to will your team to victory.
Perhaps a clever video guy will soon post frame-by-frame comparisons of Lincecum that show how he fixed a tiny mechanical flaw. Perhaps Tim started meditating. Or weightlifting. Or he decided to go out and, as Aubrey Huff might say, shove the ball up the opponent's ass. Is Timmy back? At this point in the season, a much more relevant question for me is this: Did the Giants win?
