e finally admitted it. This self-styled hitting automaton who absorbed himself in every at-bat, who scrutinized a pitcher’s every nuance, and whose universe consisted entirely of deciphering a baseball’s aerodynamics on its flight to home plate, betrayed a vestige of human frailty when it came to his favorite, obsessive subject.
‘‘What a thrill!’’ said Ted Williams in the Red Sox clubhouse at Philadelphia's Shibe Park on Sept. 28, 1941.‘‘I wasn ’t saying anything about it before the game, but I never wanted anything harder in my life.’’
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