Yesterday, manager Don Mattingly gave Yasiel Puig a day off because he's in a "slump."
I can't stand that word (old memories, perhaps), but everyone knows what it means. Puig is struggling mightily and has just five hits in his last 48 plate appearances. Tim Brown wrote about the approach the Dodgers are taking with the moppet:
The plan, Don Mattingly said, was to give Puig a day or so out of the batter's box and out of his own head. That way, Mattingly said, Puig could work on some of the issues that have plagued him, habits such as plate discipline and pitch recognition, rather than expending energy on game preparation. Mattingly likened it to teaching your kid to swim; you could stand on the dock and watch him thrash around 'til he figures it out or you could haul him out of the lake and show him how to tread water. This was a haul-him-out-of-the-lake day, gasping.
Mattingly described Puig’s scuffles beautifully -- giving us insight the way only a man who has experienced sucking in a deep breath while panicking can. Yes, Donny did it less often than most men, but he gets it.
The exact look of a ballplayer’s “slump” varies, but they all follow the same cycle. Drowning is the worst part, but unfortunately, you must experience death before coming back to life.
Allow me to explain.
Stage 1: "I'm fine, tomorrow's a new day."
In Stage 1, you're likely coming off a pretty good stretch. You’ve driven a ball in the gap and had a dribbler or two squeak through recently. Nobody in your clubhouse has noticed a trend, but you've punched out a few times more than your normal rate. Perhaps you're 0 for your last 7 or 8. No big shakes.
Stage 2: "My timing is off."
In Stage 2, you’ve gone three or four games with subpar results. Your hitting coach is starting to hound-dog your ass. "How ya feeling?" he casually asks, sniffing around. The two of you get in the cage. You work on your rhythm. You've got this. After all, it's been less than a week.
Stage 3 "I'm not sleeping well."
In Stage 3, your condition becomes serious. It's been over a week, and you haven't struck a single ball well. You start to talk about bad luck. You're not as hungry in the morning. You start to question your ability. You feel awkward in the batter’s box, like your first plate appearance of spring training. "What am I doing wrong?" you anxiously ask any teammates who will listen. Your postgame chats with reporters are filled with rationalizations. "Everyone goes through rough stretches." You can still breathe, but just barely.
Stage 4 "I'm drowning."
As Stage 4 develops, you begin to feel sick. You come home and ask your wife, "Okay, what am I really going to do with my life?" You wonder if you're going to be traded, sent down, or released altogether. You take way too many swings in the cage. You tinker with your mechanics in batting practice and in games. Twice a day, you lie to a teammate and yourself saying, "I think I figured it out." You ask your teammates for their bats. You try a huge leg kick when you've never used one in a major-league game. You pray, even though you're not religious. It's been 14 days since you felt normal.
Stage 5 "I'm dying."
At the beginning of Stage 5, you haven't yet seen the light. You're still fighting, but your hands are bloody from too many passes off the tee. You seek out your “good” video. As your teammates pass by and gingerly say "Hello," you muster up enough energy to say, "Hey, just over here looking at swings when I was still a decent baseball player." You make last ditch efforts, like sitting on pitches in your at-bats that the pitcher rarely throws (like Wainwright's change up). “Fuck it” becomes your primary vocabulary. Finally, you just give up. You walk to the batter’s box and simply don't care what happens. You've died.
Stage 6 "I'm alive."
In Stage 6, you hit the “I don’t care” point and have moved beyond it. You’re more relaxed, perhaps because you don’t have the energy to be tense. You groggily stroll to the plate, dragging the bat behind you. You stroke a crisp line-drive single up the middle. You can see the light now. Getting to first base feels like you finally puked after feeling nauseous for three weeks straight. It feels like the room stopped spinning. You sleep. The season continues. This is your rebirth.
In 2011 my friend Craig Counsell, NLCS MVP and former teammate, went through a 0-for-45 slump. I asked him how he felt at his worst.
"I think embarrassed is the best word, because I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong. I always thought I could make an adjustment and everything I tried failed."
There is no cure; you just have to ride it out. Right now, Puig is drowning. He’s hit Stage 5. He only has one stage to go. For the Dodgers, his imminent return to life couldn’t come at a better time.
