The Second Act Of A.J. Hinch

In 2010, the manager was a failed experiment. Now he’s a World Series winner. What changed? Only the entire philosophy of MLB.

- Tim Keown

George Springer had snagged thousands of baseballs out of the air through his 28 years, most without a thought, but he had never caught one that possessed such power. Catching this ball—a lazy, unambitious sigh off the bat of the Yankees’ Greg Bird—required conscious effort. As soon as it landed in Springer’s glove, ending the American League Championship Series, the calculus changed: Now, what to do with it?

He jammed it into his pocket and started to run toward the pitcher’s mound, where everyone associated with the Astros was about to meet. But this baseball, bouncing with every step, was the heaviest 5¼ ounces he could ever imagine. This baseball carried responsibility.

It was tempting but hubristic to keep it for himself. It would be cool to have, but what had he done to deserve it? Chance had sent the ball his way, not fate. He, one of 25, had simply caught it.

Springer ran and screamed and surveyed the aftermath of victory. For the most part, he got what he expected: jubilation and relief and maybe a glint of disbelief from his teammates as they rushed out of the first-base dugout like bats from a cave.

But toward the end of the exodus, Springer saw A.J. Hinch race out of the dugout, the first-to-third smile on his face. It’s strange how many memories that smile evoked, and how quickly they arrived: the way Hinch managed the shredded nerves and panicked uncertainty during Hurricane Harvey; the text messages Springer and his teammates received when Hinch knew they were struggling or needed a day off; the quiet equanimity—“It’s OK to fail,” Springer says, “just know why you failed”—that sanded away the rough edges of a long season.