Don’t let the Google machine fool you; bunting is not an Old World-certified, seed-eating songbird, or a hooded sleeping bag for babies.
…well, yes, both are perfectly canon, but for the sake of this column, we’re riffing on a different kind of bunting. The kind that deserves your urgent attention.
Forget robo-umps. If we’re talking about preserving the integrity of baseball, the path forward isn’t removing the human element—it’s restoring the lost art of “small ball.”
The bunt is baseball's vinyl record: scratched, shelved, and deemed outdated in the era of launch angles.
But enough of the stomach-turning, near-vomit fuel every time you see a once-heralded top prospect turned bust absolutely self-combust when called upon to lay one down.
Sure, you’d think he, of all people, would have something so fundamental down pat at this point—before you remember that every MLB player was the best player in their hometown. Thus, he was never thoroughly instructed on how to perform a task that someone of his ilk, compared to his peers, would never be commanded to do in-game anyway.
Hey, Mr. 5-tool: the game is bigger than your .217 batting average. That’s why Major League Baseball (MLB) needs a designated bunter.
Like kickers in football, these would be specialists—roster additions whose sole job is to bunt, especially in high-leverage situations with the game on the line. Each team carries two: a starter on a modest $1 million contract and a backup making the league minimum.
They aren’t there to mash—or mash potatoes—they’re there to tap one soft enough back to the pitcher, insofar as he cannot nail down the lead runner, or place one along either baseline with the ample slickness and precision required to leave only chaos in their wake.
Modeled with some inspo from the replay review challenge system, each game, a team gets three bunting attempts. Miss the first—whether it’s a sacrifice or a classic drag—and the backup gets his shot. Miss again? No more bunts for you!
High risk, high reward. A manager’s dream, a traditionalist’s delight.
The designated bunter can replace anyone in the lineup at any time. But starters pinch-bunted for are only allowed to re-enter once.
That decision—who to sacrifice, when, and for what return—brings back the kind of tactical maneuvering that has been lost to three-run homer hopes and five-man fireman bullpens.
Plus, it reconnects the amateur game to the pros. Youth coaches might finally teach bunting again, not just gloss over it in favor of barrel barrages and swing planes.
What’s more: there's a lane here for high baseball IQ gamers—guys who can’t hit bombs but still know how to win with a Louisville Slugger violin—making it to the biggest stage with a different kind of bang.
Of course, nothing stops a designated bunter from taking actual hacks if he must—lest he loathe facing the wrath of his manager, should his gutsiness backfire. If he fouls his way to a two-strike count, he can make like Joaquin Phoenix in “Signs” and swing away. Or, if he’s feeling momentarily defiant—who are we to stop rebels with built-in wiggle room for causes within the confines of their contractual clauses?
After all, when the designated bunter digs in for his at-bat, those corner infielders are going to be creeping alarmingly in—so a fake-bunt slash cup-check or headhunt might be just what the doctor ordered (literally), for bunters to command respect; these ponies ain’t one-hit wonders.
Think of them as trick-play merchants—unsung heroes of bygone times now preparing in the cage all day for songs finally sung, ever enveloped in new world glory. And if both bunters go down by botch or by running two-seamer to the crotch? That’s on you, Coach. Have a third-stringer on the bench ready to wreak havoc the good-old-fashioned way.
The game needs this. Hell, I need this. With the stolen base back in style and shifts restricted, a properly placed bunt can break defenses.
It can manufacture runs with more creativity than power-charged bombs ever could. It can make pitchers uncomfortable—requiring them to become more versed in PFPs (pitcher fielding practice), make fielders uncertain, and keep fans less glued to their phones as they slide toward the absolute edges of their seats.
Instead, we’ve got a game obsessed with chasing 100 mph “splinkers” and 90 mph “sweepers.” Whatever happened to splitters? 12-6 curveballs?? The sanctity of maintaining arm health???
Better question: what happened to the bunt?
The answer: it got Moneyballed out of existence. Granted, an incredible movie—but it’s 14 years old at this point, and mutely promoting a concept heading for a quarter-life crisis.
Ergo: a new revolution is in order. Who’s with me?
It’s time to restore balance to the force; to make our pastime’s playmakers value finesse again. With the lefty specialist on life support, the bunter commands not just eternity in large—but consideration in general.
And let kids know about alternative, more intricate paths to the show while we’re at it. Not everyone can be Aaron Judge. That’s what makes him Aaron Judge.
At the lower levels: what’s the point of carrying a 30-man high school varsity roster if your game plan runs like a “pass the ball to…” basketball offense with one guy taking all the shots?
Get these guys out of their broccoli hair-laden buntings, have them bunting by 3 o’clock on the dot and don’t let them stop until the last late bus has pulled into the parking lot.
A designated bunter won’t just bring strategy back—it’ll bring eyeballs, diversity, and a refreshing reminder that baseball was not built on power, nor popularized on power alone.
Power put asses in seats—and now it’s high time we put in a collective effort to keep them there.
This game isn’t about home run highlights. It’s about winning. Sometimes, a well-placed drop does exactly that. That’s why Jake Taylor didn’t have any reservations about squaring up and legging one out at the end of “Major League” (1989)—another all-timer.
So let’s make the movie a reality. See you at the bunting cage. I’ll be the one bunting (with no Machiavellian, get-rich-quick scheme in mind, heart, body and soul whatsoever).
Until you start bunting, too.