Re-imagining the Big Zone Sixties, revisited: part one
Away back in 2004 (it really doesn’t seem that long ago!), in the dim dark early months of THT, we presented a couple of articles that examined the impact that the expanded strike zone of 1963 through 1968 had on our perception of the best batting performances of the era.
Specifically, this was our methodology:
Just how dramatic was the impact of the 1963-68 strike zone? We can create a rough estimate. We take the six seasons surrounding 1963 through 1968—1960 through 1962 and 1969 through 1971—and sum up the combined total major league rates of those years for runs, hits, walks, strikeouts, home runs and so on. Then we compare those averages with those of the six years with the big zone, and interpret what we see as a pretty clear illustration of the big zone’s influence.
Here’s what these calculations reveal: 1963-68 walk rates were lower than the six surrounding years by about 15%, strikeouts were up by about 8%, and base hits were down by about 4% (including doubles by 5%, triples by 2%, and homers by 10%). The effect of all of this was to inhibit scoring overall by about 11%.
Let’s turn this into a thought experiment. Let’s take these overall major league-wide averages and tweak all actual 1963-68 statistics by just those proportions. Every 1963-68 batter, pitcher, and team will be adjusted in equal proportion: walks increased by 15%, strikeouts reduced by 8%, hits increased by 4%, and so on. This results in overall rates for the entire 1963-68 period that are equal to those of the combined 1960-62 and 1969-71 periods, but with player-to-player, team-to-team, and year-to-year proportional fluctuations remaining as they actually occurred.
Such an approach adjusts the stats of the era in a manner illustrated by this graphic:
This only shows runs (and by extension RBIs), but a similar adjustment was made to each batter’s hits, doubles, home runs, walks and strikeouts.
The articles were a lot of fun to put together, and I received plenty of nice feedback. But in the time since I’ve often thought that I didn’t quite manage to do the topic justice. It would have been better if, along with just presenting adjusted stats leader highlights, I’d presented deeper looks at the careers of the period’s most prominent batting stars, similar to the approach offered in pieces such as these. Such an approach brings the issue to life more dramatically, and allows for a deeper consideration of just how at-the-time perceptions as well as historical perspectives are influenced by players’ raw stats, even if their relative league-normalized performances are completely unchanged.
So, what the heck. It’s a new year, how about fulfilling an overdue resolution, and taking another pass at the batting stats of the mid-1960s. Over the next couple of weeks, we’ll be examining the season-by-season stat lines of all the top hitting stars of that era. However, this week we’ll allow ourselves to focus entirely on some of the period’s lesser, though quite interesting, lights.
As we proceed, remember that all adjusted stat lines are presented in blue font. For our methodology, please see the References and Resources section below.
OBP specialists
With an extra-big strike zone in the mid-1960s, the old-fashioned tactic of working the count and striving to draw walks was clearly threatened. Nevertheless there were a few non-power hitters who worked such a technique in that era.
He became a famous manager, but I suspect few people remember not only that Howser was a player, but one with an extreme statistical profile. He was just a little guy (5’8″, 155), and played perfectly to the “pesky leadoff hitter” stereotype: no power, great speed, extraordinarily difficult to strike out, slapping foul balls and working walks.
Howser’s problem was that he just couldn’t stay healthy. Following a terrific major league debut (he was a close second in A.L. Rookie of the Year balloting) he was able to put together just one more season as a full-time regular; our stat adjustment here demonstrates that Howser’s 1964 performance almost matched that of 1961. But following that he quickly receded into utility status.
That 1968 stat line is pretty amazing, isn’t it. I bet you remember a few guys of that sort in Little League.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1961 25 611 108 171 29 6 3 45 92 38 .280 .377 .362 .739 1962 26 286 53 68 8 3 6 34 38 8 .238 .326 .350 .676 1963 27 205 32 50 5 0 1 12 33 19 .244 .350 .285 .635 1964 28 643 112 169 24 4 3 58 88 36 .263 .352 .329 .681 1965 29 310 52 75 8 2 1 7 66 23 .242 .374 .292 .667 1966 30 141 20 33 9 1 2 4 17 21 .235 .319 .364 .683 1967 31 151 20 42 6 0 0 11 29 14 .276 .393 .318 .711 1968 32 151 27 24 2 1 0 3 40 16 .158 .336 .186 .522
Stuck in the majors as a Bonus Baby long before he was ready, Causey looked like a bust, only to resurface several years later and prove a very useful player: defensively versatile, and with outstanding on-base ability. But for some reason—I don’t know if it was injury-related or not—he prematurely aged.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1961 24 312 37 86 14 1 8 49 37 28 .276 .348 .404 .752 1962 25 305 40 77 14 1 4 38 41 30 .252 .340 .344 .684 1963 26 560 80 161 34 4 9 49 65 50 .288 .361 .409 .771 1964 27 611 91 177 33 4 9 54 102 60 .289 .391 .399 .790 1965 28 518 53 139 18 8 3 38 70 44 .269 .356 .354 .710 1966 29 245 27 60 8 2 0 20 36 18 .246 .342 .297 .638 1967 30 295 23 69 10 3 1 31 37 32 .233 .318 .300 .619 1968 31 149 11 23 2 1 1 12 16 11 .154 .237 .204 .440
The teeniest player of his era (5’5″, 140), Pearson not only leveraged his small size into lots of walks, but also had surprising pop in his bat. It was a bad back that brought his career to an untimely end.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1960 25 82 17 20 2 0 1 6 17 3 .244 .370 .305 .675 1961 26 427 92 123 21 3 7 41 96 40 .288 .420 .400 .820 1962 27 614 115 160 29 6 5 42 95 36 .261 .360 .352 .712 1963 28 585 102 183 27 5 7 52 106 34 .313 .418 .411 .829 1964 29 267 38 61 5 1 2 18 40 20 .229 .331 .281 .612 1965 30 364 45 104 18 2 4 23 59 16 .286 .385 .382 .767 1966 31 3 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 .000 .000 .000 .000
Yet another guy who suddenly fell apart at around the age of 30. I’ve long suspected that Robinson was actually a few years older than advertised, but no SABR biographical research has ever confirmed that suspicion.
In any case, for a few years there this guy was one very tough out.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1960 24 46 7 13 0 0 0 1 11 8 .283 .431 .283 .714 1961 25 432 69 134 20 7 11 59 52 32 .310 .389 .465 .854 1962 26 600 89 187 45 10 11 109 72 47 .312 .384 .475 .859 1963 27 533 79 155 22 6 14 79 72 40 .291 .375 .436 .810 1964 28 531 92 164 18 3 12 65 81 38 .309 .400 .423 .823 1965 29 583 77 159 16 6 15 73 88 47 .273 .368 .400 .768 1966 30 345 49 84 12 2 6 39 51 30 .244 .341 .337 .678 1967 31 131 21 32 6 2 1 11 16 13 .246 .328 .350 .678 1968 32 106 7 24 5 0 1 18 8 13 .226 .281 .307 .587
He became primarily renowned for his HBP proclivity (he managed to get in the way of 50 pitches in 1971 alone), but Hunt was pretty effective at drawing walks too.
Hunt was quite something to watch. He was pretty big (6’0″, and about 185 pounds), but he had precious little power, nor did he have any speed, and he was entirely ungraceful: a non-major-league-caliber athlete in every regard. But he was just so—there’s no other word for it—scrappy. He displayed all the elegance of a rusty box of nails slid across an oil-stained garage floor. Hunt’s intensity was almost painfully vivid: this was a guy who had clearly spent his life never taking a damn thing for granted. He was a sinus headache for opponents and umpires, and he was also, by every account, a cranky and annoying teammate.
I’m much too young to have ever seen Eddie Stanky play, but everything I’ve read about him suggests that Stanky and Hunt were pretty much the same ballplayer a generation apart.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1963 22 539 71 151 29 4 11 46 46 46 .280 .337 .411 .747 1964 23 481 65 150 20 6 7 46 33 28 .311 .366 .420 .786 1965 24 198 23 49 13 1 1 11 16 18 .247 .304 .338 .641 1966 25 484 70 143 20 2 3 36 47 32 .296 .359 .366 .725 1967 26 392 49 106 18 3 3 36 45 22 .270 .357 .357 .714 1968 27 534 87 137 20 0 2 31 90 38 .257 .375 .307 .682 1969 28 478 72 125 23 3 3 41 51 47 .262 .361 .341 .702 1970 29 367 70 103 17 1 6 41 44 29 .281 .394 .381 .775 1971 30 520 89 145 20 3 5 38 58 41 .279 .402 .358 .760
The flopping sixties
Every era has them, of course, but for some reason the 1960s had far more than their share of players whose careers suddenly and unexpectedly flamed out after very promising beginnings.
Big George was late to reach the major leagues, but it wasn’t for lack of talent. First he was completing his education at Tennessee State University, then he played for a season with the Kansas City Monarchs. At age 23 the Cubs’ organization signed him, but then his minor league development was interrupted by a hitch in the military.
But he finally got to the big leagues, and in his third season Altman blossomed. Fast as well as powerful, Altman put together back-to-back All-Star years and seemed primed for a good long run.
The Cardinals swung a big trade to acquire him, but in St. Louis Altman’s power output dropped way off. The next season the Mets picked him up, and Altman’s offense fully imploded. In this adjusted view, Altman’s post-1962 decline doesn’t look quite as severe as it did in real time, but it remains a stunner.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1960 27 334 50 89 16 4 13 51 32 67 .266 .330 .455 .785 1961 28 518 77 157 28 12 27 96 40 92 .303 .353 .560 .913 1962 29 534 74 170 27 5 22 74 62 89 .318 .393 .511 .904 1963 30 469 69 132 19 7 10 52 54 86 .281 .356 .416 .772 1964 31 426 53 101 15 1 10 52 21 65 .237 .272 .346 .618 1965 32 198 27 48 7 1 4 25 22 33 .242 .317 .356 .673 1966 33 187 21 43 6 0 6 19 16 34 .228 .290 .351 .641 1967 34 18 1 2 2 0 0 1 2 7 .111 .200 .222 .422
Kirkland had a tremendous minor league career and looked for all the world like a superstar in the making. He became a good major leaguer, but couldn’t break through as a star, until suddenly at the age of 28 Kirkland utterly and permanently lost the capacity to hit for any kind of average.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1960 26 515 59 130 21 10 21 65 44 86 .252 .315 .454 .769 1961 27 525 84 136 22 5 27 95 48 77 .259 .318 .474 .792 1962 28 419 56 84 9 1 21 72 43 62 .200 .272 .377 .649 1963 29 431 56 102 14 2 17 52 52 92 .236 .319 .393 .711 1964 30 254 24 54 12 0 9 39 27 52 .213 .287 .362 .650 1965 31 315 42 75 9 1 15 60 22 60 .238 .287 .421 .709 1966 32 164 23 32 2 1 7 19 18 46 .196 .278 .342 .620
He was one-dimensional, but the single dimension this free-swinging, slow-footed first baseman offered was hitting the ball real hard. Then regression took hold like a python and just wouldn’t let go until it had squeezed every ounce of life out of Whitfield’s production.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1962 24 158 20 42 7 1 8 34 7 30 .266 .299 .475 .774 1963 25 349 49 90 18 3 23 60 28 57 .259 .313 .526 .839 1964 26 296 32 82 14 1 11 32 14 54 .277 .310 .442 .752 1965 27 473 54 142 24 1 29 100 18 39 .301 .327 .538 .865 1966 28 507 65 126 16 2 30 86 31 70 .248 .292 .463 .755 1967 29 259 27 58 10 0 10 34 29 42 .225 .302 .380 .682 1968 30 173 17 46 8 0 7 35 10 27 .265 .307 .428 .735 1969 31 74 2 11 0 0 1 8 18 27 .149 .315 .189 .504 1970 32 15 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 3 .067 .125 .067 .192
A college star at Kent State, the redheaded Rollins was an All-Star Game starter as a major league rookie after fewer than 100 games in the minors. He followed that up with a terrific sophomore performance, but that would be the high point. Within a few years Rollins was a garden-variety utility man.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1961 23 17 3 5 1 0 0 3 2 2 .294 .400 .353 .753 1962 24 624 96 186 23 5 16 96 75 61 .298 .374 .428 .802 1963 25 537 83 169 24 1 18 67 42 55 .315 .364 .462 .827 1964 26 602 96 167 26 10 13 75 61 74 .278 .344 .421 .766 1965 27 474 65 122 23 1 6 35 43 50 .257 .318 .345 .663 1966 28 272 33 69 7 1 11 44 15 32 .253 .292 .409 .701 1967 29 342 34 86 12 2 7 43 31 54 .252 .315 .356 .670 1968 30 205 15 51 5 0 7 33 12 32 .249 .289 .371 .660 1969 31 187 15 42 7 0 4 21 7 19 .225 .270 .326 .596 1970 32 68 9 15 1 0 2 9 6 9 .221 .280 .324 .604
The poster boy for the Bill James observation that a young player exhibiting “old player skills” often doesn’t have much of a development path ahead.
At the tender age of 21, Blefary was displaying grade-A power as well as exceptional strike zone judgment, but he was slow afoot and his defensive tools earned him the nickname “Clank.” His subsequent unraveling was gradual but inexorable, resembling nothing quite so much as the final stages of the career of a veteran slugger well into his 30s.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1965 21 467 80 125 24 4 24 77 102 68 .267 .398 .492 .891 1966 22 423 81 111 15 3 25 71 84 52 .263 .385 .492 .877 1967 23 559 76 139 20 5 24 90 84 87 .249 .347 .433 .780 1968 24 455 55 94 8 1 17 43 75 61 .206 .318 .338 .656 1969 25 542 66 137 26 7 12 67 77 79 .253 .347 .393 .740 1970 26 269 34 57 6 0 9 37 43 37 .212 .324 .335 .659 1971 27 137 19 29 3 0 6 14 18 20 .212 .308 .365 .673
We now know that Ward was two years older than he was believed to be at the time, so his collapse doesn’t appear quite as bewildering as it did. But it was still quite a fall: Ward was a top-10 MVP contender in both 1963 and ’64, and deservedly so. But back trouble plagued him from then on.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1962 24 21 1 3 2 0 0 2 4 5 .143 .280 .238 .518 1963 25 607 88 184 36 6 24 93 60 71 .303 .366 .502 .868 1964 26 545 67 158 29 3 25 104 65 70 .290 .365 .495 .860 1965 27 512 69 130 26 3 11 63 65 77 .254 .338 .382 .719 1966 28 253 24 57 7 1 3 31 28 45 .226 .302 .302 .604 1967 29 471 54 113 17 2 20 69 70 101 .240 .339 .411 .750 1968 30 402 48 89 16 0 17 55 88 79 .222 .361 .385 .746 1969 31 199 22 49 7 0 6 32 33 38 .246 .359 .372 .731 1970 32 77 5 20 2 2 1 18 9 17 .260 .333 .377 .710
He was never a star, but Wert was the next-best thing: a solid, dependable, remarkably consistent performer with the bat, and a first-rate defensive third baseman. Then out of the blue between 1967 and ’68 Wert totally lost the capacity to hit singles. He retained his grade-B home run power, but the line drives just vanished forever.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1963 24 254 34 68 6 2 8 28 28 47 .266 .339 .399 .737 1964 25 530 70 140 19 5 10 61 58 69 .265 .337 .376 .712 1965 26 615 90 165 23 2 13 60 84 66 .269 .357 .377 .734 1966 27 565 62 156 21 2 12 77 74 64 .276 .360 .385 .745 1967 28 539 66 142 24 2 7 44 51 55 .264 .327 .353 .680 1968 29 540 49 111 16 1 13 41 43 73 .206 .264 .312 .576 1969 30 423 46 95 11 1 14 50 49 60 .225 .303 .355 .658 1970 31 363 34 79 13 0 6 33 44 56 .218 .307 .303 .610 1971 32 40 2 2 1 0 0 2 4 10 .050 .156 .075 .231
Anyone who strikes out as frequently as Phillips is likely to have some difficulty sustaining a good batting average, but beyond that this young player presented the complete package of power, speed and plate discipline. Then it all just melted away.
Over his long managerial career, Leo Durocher’s record of developing young talent was remarkably strong. But this was one instance in which Leo the Lip likely caused more harm than good.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1964 22 13 4 3 0 0 0 0 3 3 .231 .353 .231 .584 1965 23 88 15 21 4 0 3 6 6 32 .237 .284 .398 .682 1966 24 423 76 113 30 1 18 40 50 125 .268 .345 .469 .814 1967 25 453 73 125 21 7 19 77 92 86 .276 .398 .477 .876 1968 26 443 54 110 21 5 14 36 54 83 .249 .331 .416 .747 1969 27 248 30 54 7 5 4 8 35 77 .218 .318 .335 .653 1970 28 214 36 51 6 3 6 21 36 51 .238 .352 .379 .731
This solid all-around hitter gave a head-fake with his season-long slump in 1963, then rebounded. But in 1966 he flopped again, and this time he meant it. There was no middle ground in Thomas’s career; either he was quite good or really lousy.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1961 25 452 77 129 11 5 24 70 47 74 .285 .353 .491 .844 1962 26 583 88 169 21 2 26 104 55 74 .290 .355 .467 .822 1963 27 533 58 121 13 6 10 61 61 76 .226 .306 .329 .635 1964 28 579 64 156 28 3 17 73 60 47 .269 .338 .415 .753 1965 29 527 82 147 28 4 24 83 83 39 .278 .377 .486 .863 1966 30 277 29 63 5 1 8 27 28 28 .229 .299 .338 .637 1967 31 193 18 44 4 1 2 25 17 20 .227 .290 .293 .584 1968 32 203 15 41 4 0 1 12 16 20 .202 .261 .239 .500
Hall’s entirely unusual career arc presented four distinct phases, each of which seemed to have little to do with the others. Instead they appeared as disjointed segments from random pages of Who’s Who in Baseball, crudely scotch-taped together.
Phase I was Hall’s seven-year minor league career, in which he was an infielder as much as an outfielder, rarely hitting well, either for average or power. His ascendance to AAA amounted to 164 games over three seasons, deployed in utility roles while hitting .236 with 13 home runs in 436 at-bats.
In Phase II, 1963-65, Hall suddenly found himself not only in the majors, but performing as a terrific All-Star major league center fielder, delivering excellent power and a strong average as well.
In Phase III, 1966-67, Hall was primarily a corner outfielder, a strict platoon player who almost never batted against left-handed pitching. In this manifestation Hall reliably delivered the long ball, but little else.
Then in Phase IV, 1968-70, Hall was a banjo-hitting backup outfielder, often humbly deployed as a late-inning defensive replacement and not infrequently as a pinch runner, nomadically wandering between five teams in three years.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1963 25 502 97 134 22 5 36 88 73 94 .267 .360 .549 .908 1964 26 516 67 150 21 3 28 83 51 104 .290 .354 .503 .857 1965 27 528 90 155 26 4 22 95 59 73 .293 .364 .484 .848 1966 28 359 58 88 7 4 22 52 38 61 .246 .318 .473 .791 1967 29 405 60 104 8 3 18 61 48 60 .257 .336 .423 .759 1968 30 239 21 51 7 0 2 18 30 35 .213 .301 .272 .573 1969 31 246 23 55 9 5 3 27 22 42 .224 .285 .337 .622 1970 32 79 9 13 3 0 2 5 6 26 .165 .224 .278 .502
Nobody quite confused him with Mickey Mantle, but to a reasonable degree the young Tresh presented the tremendous skill package of his superstar teammate: a switch-hitting shortstop converted to a Gold Glove-winning outfielder, with power, speed and strike zone discipline. Tresh was an exceptional talent.
The wittiest reference to the systematic unwinding of Tresh’s career was something I encountered several years ago, in a thread on BTF. Somehow or other the topic of discussion found its way to the actor Victor Buono, who was nominated for an Oscar in 1962 but five years later was reduced to hamming it up on the ultra-campy Batman TV series. Razor-sharp poster Walt Davis inquired, “What was he, the Tom Tresh of acting?”
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1961 23 8 1 2 0 0 0 0 0 1 .250 .250 .250 .500 1962 24 622 94 178 26 5 20 93 67 74 .286 .359 .441 .800 1963 25 526 101 146 29 5 28 79 96 73 .277 .388 .509 .898 1964 26 538 83 136 26 5 18 81 84 102 .253 .354 .419 .773 1965 27 609 104 175 30 6 29 82 68 85 .287 .359 .498 .857 1966 28 542 84 130 13 4 30 75 99 82 .240 .358 .443 .800 1967 29 452 50 102 24 3 15 59 58 80 .225 .313 .395 .708 1968 30 511 66 103 19 3 12 58 88 90 .201 .319 .322 .640 1969 31 474 59 100 18 3 14 46 56 70 .211 .294 .350 .644
Step aside, little pups. The Big Dog of Flops is here.
Just what kind of a year did Versalles have in his 1965 MVP-winning campaign? Using his adjusted stats:
– Versalles’ 139 runs scored would be the most by anyone in the major leagues between 1949 and 1985
– It would be the highest total of runs scored by a middle infielder between 1936 and 1996
– His 323 total bases would be the most by an American League middle infielder between 1949 and 1982
– His 80 extra-base hits would be the most by an American League middle infielder between 1936 and 1980
All this while winning the Gold Glove and stealing 27 bases in 32 attempts. It was, simply, one of the greatest seasons any shortstop has ever achieved.
But then Zorro didn’t just lose the formula. He wrote it in invisible ink on toilet paper, locked that shred of tissue inside a double-walled tempered steel safe, and dropped the deadweight safe overboard a ship steaming across the Mariana Trench.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1960 20 45 2 6 2 2 0 4 2 5 .133 .170 .267 .437 1961 21 510 65 143 25 5 7 53 25 61 .280 .314 .390 .704 1962 22 568 69 137 18 3 17 67 37 71 .241 .287 .373 .660 1963 23 627 82 168 33 13 11 60 38 61 .268 .310 .415 .725 1964 24 666 104 178 35 10 22 71 48 82 .267 .317 .449 .766 1965 25 673 139 189 47 12 21 85 47 113 .281 .328 .481 .809 1966 26 548 81 140 21 6 8 40 46 79 .256 .314 .359 .672 1967 27 586 70 121 17 7 7 55 38 105 .206 .254 .293 .547 1968 28 406 32 82 17 3 2 27 30 78 .202 .257 .275 .532 1969 29 292 30 69 13 2 1 19 24 60 .236 .299 .305 .604 1970 30 (In Minor Leagues) 1971 31 194 21 37 11 0 5 22 11 40 .191 .233 .325 .558
What might have been
Stories don’t get any sadder than this one, of course. But poignant as Tony C.’s case legitmately is, all too often we see him portrayed as a budding superstar, who but for his terrible beaning had MVP-caliber seasons surely awaiting. Candidly, the evidence just doesn’t support that.
The most remarkable aspect of Conigliaro’s brief career was his terrific performance as a rookie at the fuzzy-cheeked age of 19. It is true that in the very few historical instances in which a player has hit that well at that age, development into greatness has usually followed.
But in the particular case of Conigliaro, what actually followed was lack of development; he didn’t regress but he didn’t progess either. When felled by the fastball in August of 1967, Conigliaro’s performance was essentially identical to what it had been in 1964, ’65, and ’66. While most players quickly develop into substantially better hitters than they were at 19 or 20, not all do; Ed Kranepool, Sibby Sisti, and Butch Wynegar are examples of hitters who never meaningfully improved upon the level of performance they established at such an age. Tony C. gave every indication of being another.
And Tony C.’s level of performance was very good, but not great. Conigliaro was a formidable hitter, but by no means an elite hitter, and his hitting was the only aspect of his game that was notable: he didn’t draw many walks, he was an unremarkable defensive right fielder, and his speed was average at best.
So just what sort of career would Tony C. have likely forged, were it not for that ghastly injury? To answer that it’s helpful to consider a couple of his contemporaries.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1964 19 409 76 122 22 2 26 58 40 72 .298 .361 .556 .917 1965 20 527 91 146 22 5 35 91 59 108 .276 .349 .539 .888 1966 21 564 85 154 27 7 31 103 60 104 .273 .343 .511 .854 1967 22 353 65 104 12 5 22 74 31 54 .295 .352 .543 .895 1968 23 (On Disabled List) 1969 24 506 57 129 21 3 20 82 48 111 .255 .321 .427 .748 1970 25 560 89 149 20 1 36 116 43 93 .266 .324 .498 .822 1971 26 266 23 59 18 0 4 15 23 52 .222 .285 .335 .620
This burly young slugger didn’t reach the majors as extremely young as Conigliaro, but Hart was called up by the Giants at the age of 21, in July of 1963. Yet, eerily foreshadowing Conigliaro, Hart’s major league debut season was ruined by not one but two hit-by-pitch injuries, the first which broke his shoulder and the second which fractured his skull.
Hart returned healthy in 1964, and was immediately a star. He proceeded to mount four consecutive highly productive, remarkably consistent seasons. Hart’s raw stats over his age-22 through age-25 seasons aren’t meaningfully different from those Conigliaro presented at ages 19 through 22; factoring in park effects suggests that Hart hit slightly better.
So it’s sensible to estimate that had Conigliaro not been felled by the pitched ball in 1967, his performance in the seasons immediately following would likely have resembled those produced by Hart in 1964-67: excellent, but not superstar-level.
Hart’s career quickly fizzled after that, due to a combination of a chronically sore right shoulder, a thickening belly and a distinct preference for cocktails ahead of conditioning.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1963 21 20 1 4 1 0 0 2 3 6 .200 .304 .250 .554 1964 22 572 79 168 16 6 34 90 54 87 .294 .355 .522 .877 1965 23 598 101 184 31 6 25 106 54 70 .308 .365 .508 .873 1966 24 585 97 172 24 4 36 103 55 70 .293 .355 .535 .890 1967 25 585 108 174 27 7 32 109 89 93 .297 .390 .532 .922 1968 26 485 74 129 15 3 25 86 53 69 .266 .338 .466 .804 1969 27 236 27 60 9 0 3 26 28 49 .254 .343 .331 .674 1970 28 255 30 72 12 1 8 37 30 29 .282 .360 .431 .791 1971 29 39 5 10 0 0 2 5 6 8 .256 .356 .410 .766
An even more similar player to Tony C.; for all practical purposes their skill profiles are indistinguishable. (Horton threw well, and would have been a right fielder if the Tigers didn’t have Al Kaline on the roster.) Like Hart, Horton didn’t become a major league regular until he was 22, but like Hart, the performance he presented from that point forward is uncannily close to what Conigliaro had been achieving.
Horton would enjoy far more career longevity than Hart. Yet as the years went by he would encounter his share of injuries. Horton’s career got a second wind with the introduction of the designated hitter rule in the mid-1970s, a circumstance that Conigliaro very plausibly would have encountered as well.
The ups and downs and general shape of Horton’s career aren’t at all unusual; the player who remains healthy, durable, and consistent for 10 or 15 or more years is definitely the exception, not the norm. Had Conigliaro not suffered that horrific beaning, his career might have hit a different wall, as did Hart’s, or more likely it would have bounced through a typical sequence of highs and lows, as did Horton’s. Tony C. was a very good player, but his injury didn’t rob us of a great career.
Year Age AB R H 2B 3B HR RBI BB SO BA OBP SLG OPS 1963 20 44 7 15 2 1 1 4 0 7 .334 .334 .505 .839 1964 21 81 7 14 1 3 1 11 13 19 .168 .281 .298 .579 1965 22 518 76 146 21 2 32 115 55 94 .281 .351 .515 .866 1966 23 531 80 143 23 6 30 111 51 95 .270 .334 .504 .838 1967 24 405 52 114 21 3 21 74 42 74 .282 .349 .504 .853 1968 25 518 75 152 21 2 40 94 57 102 .293 .363 .571 .934 1969 26 508 66 133 17 1 28 91 52 93 .262 .332 .465 .797 1970 27 371 53 113 18 2 17 69 28 43 .305 .354 .501 .855 1971 28 450 64 130 25 1 22 72 37 75 .289 .349 .496 .845
Next time
We’ll get into the serious stars of the period.
References & Resources
Some notes on methodology:
The precise percentage differences derived between MLB 1963-68 and 1960-62/69-71 averages:
Runs: 10.5873%
Hits: 3.9586%
Doubles: 4.958%
Triples: 1.726%
Home Runs: 10.2001%
Walks: 15.4743%
Strikeouts: -7.883% (yielding a multiplier of 0.92693)
The % change in triples is too small to show up in any individual player season. I think this makes intuitive sense: in a higher-scoring 1963-68 era, there certainly would have been more opportunities to stretch doubles into triples, but correspondingly, less incentive to take the risk.
An impact of a greater rate of hits is an increase in at-bats. I used a simple method to increase at-bats: every batter’s at-bats are increased by his number of increased hits. Outs are constant, of course, and I assume as well a constant rate of double plays and baserunning outs – probably not exactly proper assumptions, but close enough for our purposes. What the increase in both hits and at-bats for batters yields is generally about an 8-point increase in batting average in the .240-to-.300 range – that is, a .270 hitter usually emerges as a .278 hitter.