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A slumping Carew makes plans to bunt even as he drives to the ballpark. His technique is far more effective than the superstitious rites of old. The Yankees' Jake Powell, operating in the '30s on the then widely held belief that finding a hairpin brought base hits, once followed a woman for three miles after noticing that a large bone pin in her hair was loose. When it finally fell, Powell scooped it up, rushed to the park and —confidence restored—tripled his first time up. Al Lopez, who was a National League catcher in the '30s and '40s, once ate kippered herring for breakfast 18 days in a row trying to preserve a batting streak that lasted 17 days.
Not to Squinch. Even Carew's vices serve a pragmatic purpose. He is fond of wrapping a hunk of Red Man tobacco in two sticks of Doublemint gum and popping the wad into his mouth. The critical mass bulges his cheek, giving him—he swears—a better view of the incoming pitch. "When it's tucked in there, it makes my skin tight. When your skin is tight like that, you can't squinch your eye, which means more of your eye is on the ball. It's important not to squinch when you're up there."
The technique apparently works, for Carew's eye is one of the sharpest in baseball. He spots the ball—its speed and rotation—as soon as it leaves the pitcher's fingertips. Says he: "I can tell by the rotation whether it's a curve, slider or fastball." What is more, Carew can often actually see the ball hit his bat. Kansas City Outfielder Amos Otis has a hitter's respect for the Carew eye: "Trying to sneak a pitch past him is like trying to sneak the sunrise past a rooster." Says the New York Yankees' Catfish Hunter, who has been the premier pitcher of the American League since 21-year-old Carew was Rookie of the Year in 1967: "He has no weakness as a hitter. Pitch him inside, outside, high, low, fast stuff, breaking balls—anything you throw he can handle. He swings with the pitch; that's why he's so great. He has no holes."
To close the holes, Carew has four different stances, two for lefthanded pitchers, two for righthanded pitchers. His varying postures at the plate break with baseball tradition. Batters generally tinker with their stances only when in the dire despond of an extended slump; Carew alters his to fit the pitcher and the pitching tactics. Whatever his stance, it is taken as deep in the batter's box as he can get. If opposing catchers are not wary, he will move so deep that his left foot is completely—and illegally—out of the box. Says Carew: "The further back I am, the longer I can look at the pitch." When he has had his look, his wrists slash the bat toward the ball—quick as a striking snake. Carew has the wrists and forearms of a heavyweight, the result of a regular routine of weight lifting. He keeps a dumbbell in his locker in the clubhouse: on the field before games, he curls a 13-lb. metal bar habitually, almost absentmindedly. Says Twins Third Base Coach Karl Kuehl: "He handles that bar like it's a pick-up stick."