Floyd "Babe" Herman on hitting, being hit and life with the Brooklyn Dodgers

Outfielder Floyd ‘Babe’ Herman looking resplendent for the Brooklyn Dodgers

Floyd “Babe” Herman was a 6-foot-4 left-hand-batting outfielder who scorched NL (and, briefly, AL) pitchers for .324/.532 career batting and slugging marks 1926-1937 with the Dodgers, Reds, Cubs and Pirates, and, briefly, Detroit.

After several years in the Pacific Coast League, he returned to Brooklyn in 1945 at the age of 42 as a wartime pinch-hitter.

He was 82 when he talked about pitchers he had faced and other baseball memories at his longtime Glendale, California home on March 4, 1986. – Norman L. Macht

Babe Herman on his hitting style

I stood as far back as I could get on right-handers. On lefties my front foot was about even with the back of home plate. I tried to lock in my front foot.

I believed like Joe DiMaggio: lift up your spikes and come down in the same spot when you hit off the front foot.

Then you’re not going to get fooled. Take a big stride and they change on you and you get fooled and can’t do anything about it.

But if you come down in the same spot you can reach out or hit an inside pitch through the infield. That way you won’t fall away too far on a curve. I hit .397 against lefties one year, .393 against righties.

I was a good curve and changeup hitter.

It was tougher against hard throwers like Van Mungo and Dizzy Dean. Sometimes I would cut my swing down.

They were fast enough so you could just meet the ball and hit it out with a cut-down swing. I would rather hit against Nolan Ryan five days a week than Mungo once.

Mungo was not only faster; he didn’t care if he hit you or not. Ryan doesn’t want to hit you.

Different styles of pitcher

There were right spots to throw at hitters and not right spots. The Cubs would throw at you for future reference. French, Warneke, Root – they were tough.

In 1936 late in the year, the Cubs were fighting for the pennant. I was with the Reds.

They came in for a series and we had a meeting and decided to go right down the lineup and throw at everybody except Stan Hack. He never bothered anybody. That set off a big fight.

One of my close friends, a pitcher, asked me one day if I had told a newspaperman that he was my “cousin” out there. I denied it. He told me to look out when I came up.

First time up he knocked me down twice. Then I got up and hit a curve out of the park. Was he mad. Later he threw like a girl to me and I popped it up right back to him. “Now I know how to get you out,” he said.

Pitchers who threw a lot of crap never bothered me. I counted on three or four hits off them. Willie Sherdel, a little lefthander, I never could hit hard. His curve broke a little funny inside.

Every curve ball he threw at me, I thought I was going to hit it out of the park, but a walk or a swinging bunt was a good day for me against him. I don’t know why. I kept sneaking up on home plate to hit it better.

One day he hollered at me, “Stand on the plate if you want to. I don’t care.” I tried it once and the ump made me back off.

Dizzy Dean

Dizzy Dean had the best change of pace I ever saw, with the best motion. When I was with Pittsburgh, one day he was hanging around the bullpen.

They were leading, 1-0, when the pitcher loaded the bases with nobody out. Dean threw five or six pitches out there and Frisch called him in.

Paul Waner, Arky Vaughan and I were coming up to bat. He struck out all three of us, and he did it with his changeup. Every one of them low outside.

He’d throw the arm and body and everything at you and come up with a change of pace – every one a perfect pitch. His control was great.

A spitball didn’t give me any trouble. It was just a lousy curve. It would wave more than break. But not all of them waved. If they straightened out at the end, watch out. You’d kill somebody.

Facing the spitball, curveball & knuckleball

A good spitter, like Burleigh Grimes or Red Faber threw, the ball broke down and into a lefthander. Grimes could turn it the other way and make it break different.

The reason most batters have trouble with a spitter or knuckleball is they cut too quick on them. You have to stay with it right into the catcher’s glove.

The minute they see it’s a knuckleball, they give up. It’s just a half a swing. 

The only modern hitter who hits like we used to hit is George Brett, and he keeps getting better, charging the ball all the time.

The average player today is weak on curve balls. If they’re looking for a fastball and it’s a curve, they’ll take it. It could be right in the slot. I could always hit a fastball to left center and pull the breaking stuff.

Protect yourself against the fastball and be ready for the curve.

Hall of Famer Babe Herman

The managers I played for

I got along swell with all the managers I played for, including Pie Traynor at Pittsburgh in 1935, although he protected himself first. The Waners didn’t like him.

They’d been raised on corn liquor on the farm in Oklahoma. It was hanging in the barn. They handled it pretty good, but they were used to it.

Chuck Dressen was the smartest baseball man I ever played for, but he needed a manager for himself. He liked to play the horses and the dogs.

He’d been an exercise boy and knew all the bookies and the clearing house, where he could call and find out who was betting on what horses and then act on that.

I didn’t want Dressen stealing catchers’ signs for me. When he called some wrong or got crossed up, he said, “Four out of five isn’t bad.”

I said, “The fifth one might kill you.” I didn’t need it.

Once in the Texas League, though, I did take them. There was a catcher with Fort Worth who would spread his legs wider apart when calling for a fastball and keep them close together for a curve.

They told me he’d been doing it for years. One of my teammates, Jim Galloway, knew about it, so when he got on base he’d signal to me and I knew it was good and I wouldn’t be double-crossed.

The best thing is to make the pitcher think you’re getting the signs. When I went back to Brooklyn in 1945, five of those players had the signs down and the switch signs too on just about every pitcher in the league.

Eddie Stanky, Luis Olmo, Augie Galan – they had been with a lot of clubs and knew what all the combinations were. It would take them an inning or two to find out what they were using.

Then, if we got a man on second and he walked off the base standing up, it was a fastball. If he led off bending over, it was a curve. Then if the catcher or pitcher switched, the man on second would take off his cap. It helped.

When Dixie Walker knew a fastball was coming he killed it.

Back in Brooklyn

We had a mediocre club but finished third. A catcher, Mike Sandlock, played shortstop sometimes.

Our regular shortstop, Eddie Basinski, was a violin player with the Pittsburgh Symphony.

I went back to Brooklyn in July 1945 after 14 years. The first time up with three on, I hit one almost out of the park, missed by inches.

Brooklyn fans were rabid for the home team.

There were a lot of immigrants in Brooklyn. The main language spoken there was Broken English. They called me “Baby the Hoim.” There was an Italian produce man who would come around the neighborhood with a wagon full of vegetables to sell.

They’d invite us for a huge dinner in the basement where they lived. 

When I was hitting I never heard anything from the stands. Cincinnati was a German town. I’d look up at the stands and say, “There isn’t a good butcher in the whole bunch of you.” They’d boo me until I hit one, then they’d be all for me.

My fielding wasn’t that bad. They put [Hall of Fame] outfielder Max Carey out there to coach me and he helped me. I wish I’d had his help earlier.