Michael doing some winter work...

... on a swing he has sculpted into a beautiful thing to watch. It all looks pretty good to me: his stride, hip-turn, square shoulders, right elbow, rolling hands, head position. And, of course, the proof is in the pudding; he hits it hard. I don't feel safe anymore unless I'm behind a pitching screen. I'm not sure how he arrived here, as some of these things aren't very teachable; putting it together naturally is an 'either-you-have-it-or-you-don't' situation, I've always thought. But as I said before: Grandpa Byard (who was signed by the Chicago Cubs) died on a Friday night, and on the Saturday morning that followed, Michael had a baseball game. He started to look like a hitter, as I sat and watched with watery eyes, and he's looked like one ever since. His dad can hit, too, and so can his Grandpa Mike; he has good genes :) Michael also knows how to watch the great hitters now; he observes them in their full idiosyncratic glory, their rituals and tendencies. He knows how to mimic and visualize himself with the same impressive ability and confidence. And he keeps working at it. Hitting isn't easy. It takes reps. It takes maintenance. It takes working through slumps, doubts, and inconsistent moments. But it feels great to hit a ball over a fence; to crush it, drive it, connect so purely it feels like you've just hit a scoop of ice cream. There's a lot of nuance, subtlety, instinct, anticipation, focus, precision, and cool-headedness required. It's a perfect blend of physical and cerebral skill, and Michael seems to like the challenges it offers.