A Personal Journey: From the Diamond to the Boardroom
I never imagined I’d watch the game I love and feel like a stranger to it. As a former collegiate and minor-league ballplayer who hung up the spikes for a career in banking, I’ve seen baseball from both the dugout and the boardroom. In the finance office, I learned to trust numbers and the importance of efficiency. But when I apply that lens to today’s Major League Baseball, what I see makes my heart sink. The soul of baseball – its culture of situational skill and strategic nuance – is disappearing, sacrificed at the altar of analytics, revenue, and raw power. It feels like watching an old friend lose their way, and it hurts on a deeply personal level.
Remembering Baseball’s Human Rhythms
The game had a rhythm and texture that went beyond the box score. As a young player, I was taught that every roster spot had a purpose. There was the pinch-runner who’d dash in to steal a base in the late innings, the bunt specialist who could drop one down when a single run mattered, the lefty bullpen arm brought in to face one tough left-handed batter (the classic “LOOGY,” or Lefty One-Out GuY), and the light-hitting utility infielder whose defensive wizardry saved countless runs. These were the situational players – the role-players and unsung heroes who turned baseball into a beautifully choreographed dance of decisions. Fans knew them and loved them: the Dave Roberts steal that turned a 2004 playoff series, or the way a crafty veteran like Ozzie Guillén would bunt a runner over in a tight game. Those moments weren’t just about stats, but about heart, strategy, and timing.
Today, I look at MLB rosters and I struggle to find those specialists. The game’s decision-makers have prioritized versatility and power over specialization. The designated hitter is now universal wiping away many pinch-hitting and bunting decisions. Relief pitchers must face a minimum of three batters, a rule that has all but abolished the LOOGY role. Front offices, armed with piles of data, have largely decided that tactics like the sacrifice bunt or hit-and-run are “inefficient.” The result? A game that may be optimized for output, but has lost much of its texture and soul.
The Disappearing Art of the Situational Player
To appreciate what we’ve lost, consider the situational player in his many forms. These specialists weren’t superstars, but they filled crucial roles that could tip the balance of a game. Some examples of the roles that have faded in today’s game include:
- The Bunting Specialist: Once upon a time, every team had a few players – often middle infielders or pitchers – who were expert bunters. In tight games, laying down a bunt to advance a runner was a common strategy. Today, with power prioritized, sacrifice bunts have nearly vanished. In 1998, MLB teams executed 1,705 sacrifice bunts; by 2024, that number had plunged to just 429. Teams now average barely a dozen successful bunts in an entire season. The craft of bunting – squaring around, deadening the ball, giving yourself up for the team – is a lost art.
- The Pinch Runner & Base-Stealing Threat: The situational speedster – think of Herb Washington in the 1970s (hired exclusively to pinch run) or the likes of Matt Alexander. They’d enter the game, swipe a critical base, and suddenly a single or a deep fly could score the winning run. As stolen base attempts declined in the 2010s (in part due to analytics showing the risk often outweighs the reward), teams stopped reserving spots for one-dimensional speedsters. It’s telling that, until rule changes in 2023 gave stealing a boost again, the stolen base had been in steady decline for decades. Young players today are rarely taught to run; they’re taught to slug.
- The Defensive Replacement: Not long ago, if you had a lead late, you’d bring in your slick-fielding shortstop or outfielder to lock it down. Everyone knew their part: the defensive specialist might hit .220, but his glove was golden. With today’s emphasis on carrying maximum pitchers on the roster, benches have shrunk – there’s often no room for a glove-only player. Moreover, teams value positional flexibility, so they’d rather have a utility player who is “okay” at several positions than a maestro at one. The poetry of watching a brilliant fielder in a do-or-die inning – think of defensive wizards like Endy Chávez or Defensive Replacement- Luis Sojo – is becoming rarer.
- The LOOGY (Lefty One-Out Guy): This was a bullpen role born in the 1980s and 90s, epitomized by specialists like Jesse Orosco or Mike Myers, who made careers out of one thing: getting one left-handed batter out in a critical spot. It added drama and chess-match strategy – when would the manager deploy his secret weapon? However, the new three-batter minimum rule (instituted in 2020) has essentially erased this specialization. Managers can no longer play matchup checkers in the late innings to the same extent. While the rule was meant to speed up the game, it also removed a layer of strategic decision-making. As a former lefty pitcher myself, I empathize with those crafty southpaws who suddenly found themselves without a job description.
- The Contact-Hitting Hit-and-Run Expert: In the past, lineups often featured at least one contact hitter whose job was to put the ball in play and avoid strikeouts. With a runner on the move, this batter could slap the ball through the hole – the classic hit-and-run. Players like Placido Polanco or Tony Gwynn (though Gwynn was much more than just a contact hitter) excelled at these situations. Nowadays, with strikeout rates through the roof, the hit-and-run play is nearly extinct. Few batters are skilled or coached in the art of deliberately guiding a pitch to a location. Why? Because hitters are often taught to swing for extra-base power, even with two strikes. Making contact has taken a backseat to maximizing damage. And if they strike out? So be it – that’s just an out, says the analytics mindset.
These role players added something intangible yet vital: rhythm, humanity, and strategy. They forced managers to manage – to make little moves that the opposing skipper would counter. The games within the game (bunt or swing away? steal or stay put? stick with the starter or go to the lefty specialist?) created tension and texture. As a player, I relished those mental battles on the field. As a fan, I miss them dearly.
By the Numbers: Power Up, Ball in Play Down
It’s not just nostalgia talking – the statistical trends bear out how dramatically the game’s style has shifted. Over the past few decades, MLB has trended toward an all-or-nothing style: blazing pitch velocities, booming home runs, and a whole lot of strikeouts. What’s disappearing are the base hits, the stolen bases, the bunts – in short, balls in play.
The decline in batting average might not alarm some observers. But it’s symptomatic of a larger trend: a disappearance of the singles-and-doubles game in favor of the feast-or-famine outcome. In my playing days, a .300 hitter was revered and a strikeout was something to be avoided. Today, a batter can hit .230 with 30 home runs and still be considered extremely valuable. The new thinking is that it’s better to strike out sometimes if it means you drive the ball when you do hit it. As a result, contact hitting for its own sake has been de-emphasized at every level.
It’s not hard to see the connection: pitchers today are training for velocity like never before. When I was coming up, hitting 95 mph on the radar gun was rare and impressive. Now 95 is commonplace – almost expected – and many bullpen arms top 98–100 mph regularly. Teams covet pitchers who miss bats, and they coach them to rear back and fire with maximum effort on every pitch. The sheer velocity arms race has tilted the balance in favor of the pitcher in many ways. At the same time, hitters have adjusted their swings and approaches to aim for extra-base hits, which inevitably means accepting more strikeouts. In the early 2000s, striking out 150 times in a season would get you labeled a free swinger; now it might barely raise an eyebrow if you’re hitting jacks. The result is a game where the ball is simply not put in play as often as it used to be.
And what about those radar gun readings? The radar gun is baseball’s new power meter, and it’s gone haywire. Pitching velocity has risen dramatically, further contributing to the strikeout surge. In 2008, the average MLB fastball was about 90.5 mph; by the mid-2010s it was over 92, and today it’s touching 94. More tellingly, the share of pitches thrown at 95+ mph has skyrocketed. Two decades ago, a 95 mph pitch was a shock; now, nearly one in every three pitches in the 2020s is 95 or above (versus under 10% in the 2000s). When the game turns into a velocity and power showcase, it naturally sidelines the finesse player and the small-ball tactics. You can’t bunt a 98 mph heater very easily, and you can’t steal first base if you’re striking out.
The data also shows that balls in play are shrinking as a percentage of plate appearances. In other words, more plate appearances are ending in those “three true outcomes” – strikeouts, walks, or home runs – with nothing for the defense to do. In the 1990s, roughly 70% of at-bats resulted in the ball being hit into play. Fast forward to the last few years, and only about 60% of plate appearances end with a ball in play. That’s a huge change in how the game looks and feels. Fewer balls in play means fewer brilliant diving catches, fewer bang-bang plays at first base, and generally less of the athleticism and situational excitement that hooked so many of us on baseball in the first place.
To put it another way, the game has shifted toward outcomes that isolate players rather than connect them. A strikeout is a pitcher vs. batter duel with no one else participating. A walk is a passive result. A home run is one swing that renders the defense moot. Contrast that with, say, a bunt or a steal or a hit-and-run: those involve coordination between teammates, and a response from the opposing team. They engage multiple players in a chain reaction. Those chains are what gave baseball its unique chess-like quality. Without them, we’re left with a fireballer and a slugger playing one-on-one, while everyone else mostly stands around. As someone who’s been both the guy at the plate and the one in the field, I can say the current style of play can at times leave you feeling like a bystander.
Another revealing metric is how long starting pitchers stay in the game, which reflects strategic shifts in how teams deploy their staff. Managers used to ride their horses deep into games; complete games were a badge of honor, and a starter going 7+ innings was commonplace. Now, teams pull starters earlier to optimize matchups and keep arms fresh (or to get flame-throwing relievers in sooner). The average innings per start has steadily decreased, removing another situational decision point – the question of when to yank a starter.
In the late 1990s, a starting pitcher averaged just over 6 innings per start. Two decades later, that average had dropped under 6, and since 2020 it’s been hovering around 5 innings. That means by the fifth or sixth inning, you’re almost guaranteed to see a parade of relievers. While that strategy can be effective (fresh arms, favorable matchups), it has side effects: fewer late-inning comebacks against tired starters, fewer tactical sacrifices, and often a less personal feel – you don’t get the drama of a starter gutting it out in the 8th at 110 pitches. I remember the days when an ace going the distance was electric; now, even workhorses are usually capped at around 100 pitches.
From Craft to Power: A Cultural Shift in Coaching and Development
How did we get here? The easy answer is “analytics” – the wave of data-driven decision-making that swept through front offices in the 2000s and 2010s. But this isn’t an anti-analytics rant; analytics have brought many positive insights and corrected some old misconceptions. The deeper issue is a cultural shift in what baseball teaches and rewards. The emphasis on power metrics trickled down from the majors to every level of the sport.
As a college player in the late 90’s and early 2000s, I remember spending entire practices on situational drills. We’d run through bunt defenses, practice hit-and-run timing, and do endless rounds of “fundamentals”: hitting behind the runner, executing sacrifice flies, taking the extra base on a single. Coaches prized players who could execute the little things. If you were a fringe player, being fundamentally sound was your ticket to more playing time.
Fast forward to now, I don’t even have to speak with coaching friends still in the college or minor-league ranks, and they tell me how the development priorities have changed. Practices devote more time to building raw power and velocity. Hitters do drills to increase their launch angle and exit velocity, aiming to drive the ball deep. Pitchers focus on weighted-ball programs and mechanics to add a few ticks to their fastball, because that’s what scouts notice. To oversimplify it: hitting a 430-foot homer in batting practice will turn heads; laying down ten perfect bunts in a row likely won’t. Young players know this. They see what gets them drafted or recruited – the radar gun reading, the home run totals – and they tailor their game accordingly.
The decline of the situational player is partly a self-fulfilling prophecy. If teams no longer value those skills, players stop cultivating them. Why would a prospect spend hours practicing bunt technique if he knows he’ll never be asked to bunt? Better to hit the weight room and try to add 3 mph to his swing speed. Why would a young pitcher learn the nuances of, say, holding runners or pitching to contact to induce double plays, when he’s being told that missing bats is the way to earn a roster spot? In the minors today, a pitcher who pitches to weak contact but doesn’t light up the radar might get overlooked, whereas a reliever throwing 99 (even if wild) will get chance after chance. The incentives are clear, and players and coaches adapt to them.
This cultural shift extends beyond skills to mindset. The situational game taught patience, teamwork, and the acceptance of a small role for the greater win. As I was taught growing up that a successful sacrifice – one of those “give yourself up” plays–was just as valuable as a base hit. It instilled a team-first mentality. In contrast, the modern approach can sometimes breed a more individualistic mindset: every pitcher wants to throw the hardest, every batter wants to hit the farthest. It’s not that teamwork is gone – baseball is still a team game – but the opportunities to practice self-sacrifice on the field are fewer.
As someone who now works in a data-driven industry, I understand why this happened. When you measure everything, you tend to value what you can measure best. It’s easy to measure fastball velocity, home run distance, on-base-plus-slugging (OPS), or strikeout rates. It’s harder to quantify a great secondary lead or the psychological effect of a threatening base-stealer on the pitcher. So those latter things start to vanish from the conversation. In finance, we say “what gets measured gets managed” – in baseball, what could be measured (exit velo, spin rate, etc.) got managed intensively, and what couldn’t got marginalized. Unfortunately, a lot of the situational magic lives in those unquantifiables.
Underdogs, Fans, and the Emotional Connection
Baseball has long been a narrative sport. Beyond the numbers, it’s the stories that captivate us: the journeyman pinch-hitter who, with one swing, becomes a postseason hero; the aging veteran who mentors young teammates on the fine points of baserunning; the pinch-runner who everyone knows is going to steal, and then he still does it. These stories forge a deep emotional connection between fans and the game. And very often, the protagonists of those stories are not the MVP candidates or the $300-million contract players – they are the underdogs and role players.
I think of my own childhood memories as a fan. I grew up idolizing not just the home run kings, but also the scrappy utility guy who would only get a few at-bats a week but always seemed to make them count. Fans embrace these underdog figures because they embody the accessible part of baseball. We can’t all be 6’4” Adonis-like sluggers, but we can relate to the guy who succeeds on guile, grit, and situational savvy. When those players thrive, it feels like a win for everyone and the everyman.
But as teams churn through relievers and stack lineups with high-strikeout power hitters, those moments are fewer. It’s telling that highlight reels now often consist of the same kind of plays – strikeouts and homers – whereas a highlight reel from, say, 1985 might include a wider array of feats (a perfectly executed hit-and-run single, an outfielder gunning down a runner, a dramatic squeeze bunt). The underdog heroics of a bench player are hard to come by if that bench player rarely leaves the bench because the power guys decide the game’s outcome. When I talk to fans, especially older ones, I hear a common refrain: “I miss how the game felt.” They struggle to articulate it, but I know exactly what they mean. It’s the difference between a chess match with diverse pieces and a home run derby with one outcome.
Even the pace and length of games, which MLB has started to address with new rules, tie into this. The games bloated in time, partly due to all the pitching changes and deep counts from the power-vs-power battles. Fans were alienated by the lack of action – endless pickoff throws, batters cycling through swings and misses. The human moments, like two players executing a double steal or a manager scheming a way out of a jam with a creative substitution, are what keep people emotionally invested. Without them, some of the fanbase feels a little disconnected, even if they can’t put their finger on why.
I’ll share a brief personal anecdote: a few years ago, I was analyzing the game myself, strategizing scenarios that never actually unfolded on the field that night. I was thinking outloud to my kids “This might be a good time to bunt,” or “Watch, they might pinch-run for the catcher here,” only for the batter to swing away and strike out, and the slow-footed catcher to stay in and promptly get thrown out trying to go from first to third on a single. I realized I was describing a version of baseball that existed more in my memory than in reality. My kids enjoyed the power displays, but, for instance, it’s different.
Fans form attachments to players who have identifiable roles and personalities. The situational player was often that personality – the quirky submarine reliever, the pinch runner who everybody knew was the fastest guy on the team, or the backup catcher who was basically an extra coach. As teams streamline and optimize, some of those personalities have been squeezed out. And with them goes a bit of the old-school fan sentiment. It’s hard to cheer for a spreadsheet, or fall in love with a team philosophy. We fall in love with players and moments. Take away the moments, and the connection weakens.
Why It Matters – and How Baseball Can Find Its Soul Again
Some might ask: So what? Isn’t the game supposed to evolve? Sure, it is. Baseball in 2025 is not the same as in 1925 or 1965 – and that’s fine. But I firmly believe this particular evolution – the erosion of situational play and overemphasis on power and data – has unintended consequences that do matter. It’s not just aesthetic; it affects the talent pipeline, the way the game is marketed, and ultimately the size and passion of the fan base. If young players aren’t taught variety, the game loses diversity of skills. If every team plays the same homer-and-strikeout style, you lose regional identity and strategic variety that make the sport interesting. And if fans can’t see their favorite underdog make a contribution, some of the magic that hooks a lifetime fan is lost.
From my perspective, baseball needs to consciously restore some balance. I’m encouraged by a few things MLB has done in the past few years. I won’t get into what grinds my gears… The introduction of the pitch clock in 2023 sped up games and, unexpectedly, perhaps helped slightly reduce strikeouts by forcing pitchers into a rhythm. The ban on the infield shift in 2023 was designed to encourage more balls in play to become hits, giving contact hitters a fighting chance again. Yet, in my estimation, figure it out. Larger bases and limits on pickoff throws were implemented to boost stolen bases – and indeed, stolen base numbers shot up in 2023…(no comment). These rule changes show that MLB realizes something was amiss in the all-or-nothing game. And the early returns are promising: fans enjoyed the quicker pace and the renewed action on the basepaths. It turns out, people like seeing a runner steal second or a batter leg out a triple – who knew?
But rules can only do so much. The real change has to be cultural, an organizational philosophy shift. Front offices need to remember that entertainment value and competitive value aren’t mutually exclusive. A perfectly efficient team that only hits solo home runs and strikes everyone out might win games, but is it selling the full joy of baseball? Teams might consider re-allocating roster spots to specialists – not as a charity, but because deploying a unique weapon in the right spot can win games that brute force might not. We’ve seen a few managers start to buck the homer-happy trend by emphasizing contact and situational hitting (the 2014-15 Royals famously rode a contact-and-speed approach to great success). And with the new rules encouraging steals and banning shifts, suddenly, that contact hitter with speed or the bunting ability has a place again.
For the game to fully revive its identity, coaches at all levels should once again teach the full spectrum of baseball skills. Bunting, stealing, situational pitching, and hitting behind runners – these should be practiced and valued, not viewed as archaic. I’d love to see teams hire the wise old baseball heads – those retired players who were masters of situational play – to mentor young players. Imagine a spring training where a legend like Brett Butler teaches bunt techniques to a new generation, or Vince Coleman imparts base-stealing knowledge. We need to pass on that craft, or it will be truly lost. Many of the older guys are coaches, but I’m not privy to how much influence they have on the style of play the organization is looking to employ.
From a fan standpoint, MLB and broadcasters can do more to celebrate those aspects when they do occur. We have endless Statcast graphics about exit velocity; how about a graphic for a great secondary lead or a perfectly executed hit-and-run? Show the value of those plays when they happen, talk about them, give them airtime. Young fans won’t appreciate what they never see or hear about.
In the corporate world, I’ve learned that sustainable success is about balance – quantitative data and qualitative insight, efficiency and culture, short-term gains and long-term vision. Baseball is no different. The analytics revolution brought needed knowledge, but now the pendulum needs to settle at equilibrium. The game will be at its healthiest when a 101 mph fastball and a well-placed bunt can coexist; when we cheer both the slugger mashing a 450-foot homer and the reserve outfielder who comes in as a defensive sub and makes a game-saving catch. There is room for all these moments in baseball. In fact, the sport is at its best when it has all these moments.
I write this not just as a former player or a numbers guy, but as a fan who cares deeply about the future of baseball. I worry that if we don’t rediscover the importance of the situational and human elements of the game, we risk alienating the next generation of fans who won’t get to experience the rich tapestry that made us fall in love with baseball. It’s not simply about nostalgia; it’s about preserving the ingredients that make baseball a unique blend of individual duel and team strategy, of measured pace and bursts of excitement, of superstar achievements and unlikely heroics.
In the end, baseball’s identity is not a formula to optimize – it’s a story we all contribute to. The situational players, the specialists, the little guys with big hearts – they deserve to be part of that story. If we bring them back, even in new forms, we’ll not only win games in different ways, but we’ll win something far more important: the soul of the game, and the hearts of those who watch it. That, to me, matters more than any spreadsheet or scoreboard can ever quantify. Let’s hope the powers that be realize it, and steer this grand old game back toward what made it great – a balance of power and craft, where every type of player has a place, and every strategy is on the table. Baseball will be richer for it, and so will we.
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