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Despite his strength and bat speed, Carew completely avoids the modern hitter's greatest weakness: the instinct to pull the pitch on the shortest line to the nearest fence. The lust for the long ball and the glory of homers has contributed as much to the decline in high-average hitters in the post-World War II era as the oft-cited rise of relief pitching. Trying to cream a fastball low and away is a sure way to strike out. Rod
Carew does not strike out very often (52 whiffs last year). Nor are his many hits limited to a third of the playing field as is the case with most pulling power hitters. A lefthanded hitter (who throws rightie), he sprays the field like a grounds keeper's sprinkler; inside pitches are pulled, outside pitches go rocketing into left field, and, on the odd occasion when a careless hurler puts one down the pipe, the ball goes up the middle. Opponents cannot concoct a latter-day version of the Williams Shift—loading the defense to blanket a portion of the park—in hopes of stopping Carew. He thus has a lot of territory where they ain't. His ability to hit to all fields, coupled with natural speed and bunting prowess, is Carew's biggest advantage in his chase for glory.
Despite a long career at the top of his sport, Rod Carew is the least-known star in baseball's galaxy. He works his wonders in Bloomington, a suburb of Minneapolis-St. Paul, cities owned—in the national mind, if not in reality—by Fran Tarkenton, Mary Tyler Moore and blizzards. Carew's feats have gone virtually unnoticed by the national press. Without argument the outstanding hitter of his generation, he has appeared on the cover of the Sporting News—baseball's Bible—only three times in more than a decade. In an era of jocks selling everything from perfume to pantyhose, Carew has made no commercials despite handsome looks and a charming, magnetic personality.
Even when it comes, recognition has sometimes been careless and absentminded, casually askew. In Carew's playroom is a 2-ft.-high trophy—the Joe Cronin Award—all polished wood and gleaming brass. The American League presented it to the great lefthanded hitter in recognition of his fourth consecutive batting championship. On top of the trophy stands the likeness of a batter —a righthanded batter.
Skinny Kid. Carew is fonder of the Medal of Honor given to him by his native Panama. Says he proudly: "I'm the only athlete ever to have won it." The feeling reveals something of his deep and continuing attachment to his Latin background. Although he has now lived in the U.S. longer than in Panama, he has not sought American citizenship. Asked by a reporter what it would be like to be an American folk hero, he replied with some astonishment: "I'm a Panamanian citizen. How can I be an American folk hero?" He explains: "I've kept my citizenship because to most kids down there I'm a national hero, someone they look up to. I think if I become a U.S. citizen they would think that I let them down."