"A baseball swing is a very finely tuned instrument. It is repetition, and more repetition, then a little more after that"
About this Quote
Reggie Jackson calls the baseball swing a finely tuned instrument, a metaphor that collapses brute strength into craft. The man known as Mr. October, famous for tape-measure home runs and 563 career blasts, insists that power is born from precision. A swing is not a single motion but an orchestration: the load, the stride, hips clearing, hands staying inside, eyes tracking spin, barrel path staying on plane. The timing window is measured in slivers of a second. Nothing about that is casual. Repetition chisels away noise until only the essential movement remains.
The cadence of the line matters: repetition, and more repetition, then a little more after that. It suggests an ethic of marginal gains, the humility to accept that mastery is not a leap but a long accumulation of nearly invisible improvements. That final phrase, a little more after that, acknowledges a boundary that keeps receding. Even after a three-homer night in the World Series, the cage awaits in the morning. The swing is always in need of tuning.
Jackson knew volatility as well as glory. He struck out often, lived on the edge where max effort can unravel mechanics. The antidote was not swagger but ritual. Tee work. Soft toss. Film study. Thousands of deliberate reps so that under postseason lights the body plays the music without thinking. Calling the swing an instrument also hints at listening: to the pitcher, to the count, to the body’s feedback. Tuning means small adjustments, not wholesale reinvention.
Beyond baseball, the line mirrors any demanding craft. A musician practices scales, a writer revises sentences, a surgeon repeats motions until hands learn what the mind cannot calculate fast enough. Talent starts the song; repetition keeps it in tune. The art lies in embracing the monotony with the faith that, somewhere, the little more after that becomes the difference everyone notices.
The cadence of the line matters: repetition, and more repetition, then a little more after that. It suggests an ethic of marginal gains, the humility to accept that mastery is not a leap but a long accumulation of nearly invisible improvements. That final phrase, a little more after that, acknowledges a boundary that keeps receding. Even after a three-homer night in the World Series, the cage awaits in the morning. The swing is always in need of tuning.
Jackson knew volatility as well as glory. He struck out often, lived on the edge where max effort can unravel mechanics. The antidote was not swagger but ritual. Tee work. Soft toss. Film study. Thousands of deliberate reps so that under postseason lights the body plays the music without thinking. Calling the swing an instrument also hints at listening: to the pitcher, to the count, to the body’s feedback. Tuning means small adjustments, not wholesale reinvention.
Beyond baseball, the line mirrors any demanding craft. A musician practices scales, a writer revises sentences, a surgeon repeats motions until hands learn what the mind cannot calculate fast enough. Talent starts the song; repetition keeps it in tune. The art lies in embracing the monotony with the faith that, somewhere, the little more after that becomes the difference everyone notices.
Quote Details
| Topic | Training & Practice |
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