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A FAREWELL TO .300 HITTERS
Jack Mann
September 26, 1966
Batting is a dying art, mortally wounded by night games, big gloves, scientific defenses, unending lines of relief pitchers and the unreasoning stubbornness of the batters themselves
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September 26, 1966

A Farewell To .300 Hitters

Batting is a dying art, mortally wounded by night games, big gloves, scientific defenses, unending lines of relief pitchers and the unreasoning stubbornness of the batters themselves

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The owners could shorten the schedule, cutting it at the front end to obviate those frigid-digit ordeals held in April in all but four of the major league cities.

They could give the players an occasional Monday off, making up the difference by scheduling an occasional Saturday doubleheader for all those wonderful fans.

They could cut out a few night games, at least on getaway day, making honest men of themselves and eliminating those nocturnal odysseys that drop the players into the next town too weary to take batting practice.

The owners could instruct their umpires to enforce the rule against the spitter. Or they could legalize it, taking a psychological weapon away from all those pitchers who stand out there slobbering but really don't know how to throw a spitter.

Or they could, very simply, call A. G. Spalding and tell him to let some air out of the baseballs before the next shipment. If they did that, everything else would take care of itself.

They won't, of course. They'll give away bats.

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