Culture
Torpedo bats are making a lot of noise — but they’ve been quietly in MLB for a few years
Two days after the New York Yankees’ offensive outburst in the Bronx made torpedo bats the talk of baseball, Cincinnati Reds shortstop Elly De La Cruz decided to try one for the first time in batting practice. By the end of the Reds’ 14-3 rout of the Texas Rangers on Monday night, the 23-year-old slugger had used it to go 4-for-5 with two home runs, a double and seven RBIs.
“I just wanted to know if it felt good,” he said, “and it definitely does.”
But while the bats have only recently become a major storyline across the league, it turns out that experiments with the uniquely shaped bats that caused a national uproar over the weekend have actually been happening quietly across baseball — and for a long time.
“It became viral,” New York Mets manager Carlos Mendoza said Monday. “But it’s nothing new for us.”
Aaron Leanhardt, a 48-year-old Miami Marlins coach, has been credited by many with being the brains behind the bats, which were first highlighted when Yankees players used them in a franchise-record nine-home run performance and 20-9 win over the Milwaukee Brewers on Saturday.
“There were definitely some major-league players that swung it in the big leagues in 2023,” Leanhardt said Monday. “As well as some minor-league players who swung it in some real baseball games in 2023, and it just kind of built up throughout 2024 into what it is today.”
The bats won’t be under the radar anymore. Players across the sport have started asking the manufacturers for their own versions of the bats. Retailers started selling them to the public online. Chandler Bats is now offering a model designed for Yankees third baseman Jazz Chisholm Jr. for $239 per bat. Victus is offering three models, one a signature Anthony Volpe version, while Marucci has a Francisco Lindor “torpedo pro exclusive” bat for sale.
The bats differ from traditional models due to their torpedo shape, which comes from redistributing its weight so that the most dense part, or the “sweet spot,” is closer to the handle.
Birch seems to be the preferred wood for the bats, which were designed to help hitters make truer contact in an age where more and more pitchers are throwing 100 mph and offering nastier repertoires than ever thanks to technical and analytical advancements.
Major League Baseball has said the bats are completely within its rules.
“It’s kind of exciting,” Los Angeles Dodgers infielder Max Muncy said. “We just had a long conversation about (how) in the 170 years and whatever that baseball has been around, the number of changes to the baseball bat has been minimal.”
For decades, most players swung bats made of ash until Barry Bonds helped popularize maple bats in the late 1990s and early 2000s.
“I mean,” Muncy said, “everyone swung ash for 140 years and then you had one guy swing maple, and then they came out with birch, and really, that’s been all the changes. There’s been different shapes, but there hasn’t really been anything as drastic as maybe what this is right now.”
The hype around the bats made for an unusual scene at LoanDepot Park on Monday. The Marlins made Leanhardt available to reporters outside of their dugout. When he was with the Yankees last season, Leanhardt didn’t speak to the media.
“There’s a lot more cameras here today than I’m used to,” he said. “ … It’s definitely been surreal for the last couple of days.”
Leanhardt — through conversations with coaches, players, MLB and bat companies — developed prototypes that eventually landed in the hands of Yankees players. Chisholm, Volpe, Cody Bellinger, Paul Goldschmidt and Austin Wells are among the Yankees using them this season. However, right fielder Aaron Judge — perhaps the best power hitter in the game — said he will not.
In a video posted to Instagram, Brett Laxton, a bat maker for Marucci Sports and a former big-leaguer, said that Yankees slugger Giancarlo Stanton was using one of their torpedo bats when he hit seven home runs in the postseason last year. Rookie Jasson Domínguez also told reporters that Stanton had been using one.
Trevino was with the Yankees last season. He said he first picked one up in spring training in 2024.
“At first, I was like, ‘No way,’” he said. “Then I tried it. I liked it.”
Trevino then used them during workouts and spring training games before taking them into the regular season. He added there’s a complicated process for making the bats. It starts with designers taking the model with which a player is already familiar and adjusting it. He said he’s been able to order barrel sizes in small, medium and large.
“It’s making your barrel bigger where you want to hit the ball,” Trevino said.
“Maybe the eureka moment really was when players started to point to where they were trying to hit the ball and they noticed themselves that it was not the fattest part of the bat,” Leanhardt said. “They noticed themselves that the tip was the fattest part of the bat and everyone just looked at each other like, ‘Well, let’s flip it around. It’s going to look silly, but are we willing to go with it?’
“At the end of the day, we were able to find guys who were willing to go with it.”
Though word has traveled fast around the game about the new style of bat, not everybody has been sold on them.
“None of the players have said anything about using them,” Houston Astros manager Joe Espada said. “I have never held the bat or seen one of them. I know some of our guys in the minor leagues were using them, but I’m not going to comment on a piece of baseball equipment I’ve never seen.”
“I don’t have a big opinion,” Reds manager Terry Francona said. “I think if you go back and look at where some of these pitches were (thrown against the Yankees), it might not be the bat.”
“I guess it’s this craze,” Dodgers manager Dave Roberts said. “I just haven’t dug into it. It’s certainly early, and there’s people talking about it, but I don’t think any of our guys swing that bat, so I’m not sure what it is.”
Several players said they put in orders for their own torpedo bats after seeing the Yankees’ power surge over the weekend.
“I have learned absolutely nothing other than that they look like bowling pins,” Dodgers utility man Enrique Hernández said. “I ordered some. All of the cool kids are doing it.”
A real question remains: Do they actually make a difference?
“I think that’s still up for debate,” said Minnesota Twins catcher Ryan Jeffers, who has been using a torpedo bat. “I don’t think it’s going to be something that’s an end all, be all for everybody, that everybody’s going to start swinging these bats and become better hitters. I think this might work for some people and might not for others. For me, I’m giving it a little bit of a trial period, see how I like it. The thoughts behind them seem good, but I think there’s still a lot of trial and error with it. It’s so new.”
“I had teammates last year (with the Yankees) that asked me if I wanted to try it, but it never caught my attention,” Mets right fielder Juan Soto said, according to the New York Post. “But, yeah, I would try it.”
And are they here to stay?
“I don’t know,” Detroit Tigers first baseman Spencer Torkelson said. “I feel good with my bat right now. I’m not going to change anything. But maybe one day.”
“It might be one of those phases … that comes and goes,” Jeffers said. “I think time will tell.”
— The Athletic‘s C. Trent Rosecrans, Fabian Ardaya, Dan Hayes, Will Sammon, Chris Kirschner, Cody Stavenhagen, Matt Gelb, Britt Ghiroli and Chandler Rome contributed to this story.
(Top photo of Elly De La Cruz: Jeff Dean / Getty Images)
Now that we’ve memorized the first half of our poem, let’s learn a little more about the man who wrote it. (Haven’t memorized anything yet? Click here to start at the beginning.)
For most of his life, Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-73) was a star. He was widely read, quoted, argued over and gossiped about, achieving a level of fame that few writers now — and not many then — could contemplate. His New York Times obituary did not hesitate to call him “the foremost poet of his generation.”
Celebrity of that kind is ephemeral, but Auden’s words have continued to circulate in the half century since his death. Maybe you’ve heard some of them before. In the 1994 film “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” his poem “Funeral Blues” is recited by Matthew (John Hannah) over the casket of his lover, Gareth (Simon Callow).
In the Gen-X touchstone “Before Sunrise” (1995), Jesse (Ethan Hawke) regales Celine (Julie Delpy) with an impression of Dylan Thomas reading Auden’s “As I Walked Out One Evening.”
In both these scenes, the characters use Auden’s poetry to give voice to a longing for which they otherwise might not have words. Auden’s poetry is often useful in that way. It speaks to recognizable human occasions, and it isn’t always all about him.
“The More Loving One” might not be something you’d quote at a funeral or on a date, but it is almost effortlessly quotable — the perfect expression of a thought you never knew you had:
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Ken Burns, filmmaker
The word “I” occurs five times in this stanza, but we don’t know much about the person speaking. His personality is camouflaged and revealed by craft.
Auden, born in the northern English cathedral city of York, began practicing that craft as a schoolboy, and honed it at Oxford. Not long after graduating in 1928, he was anointed by critics and readers as the great hope of modern English poetry. A charismatic, divisive figure, he gathered acolytes, imitators and haters.
He swam in the intellectual and ideological crosscurrents of the 1930s, drawing Marxism, psychoanalysis and mystical nationalism into his writing. Assimilating a daunting array of literary influences — Old English and Ancient Greek, French chansons and Icelandic sagas — he forged a poetic personality that was bold, confiding and seductive.
His love poems of that era were candid, discreet dispatches from a calendar of feverish entanglements, wrenching breakups and one-night stands, usually with other men. He also wrote about the feverish politics of the time — class conflict; the rise of fascism; the Spanish Civil War — in ringing rhetoric he later disavowed.
In 1939 Auden moved to America, acquiring U.S. citizenship after World War II. In New York he fell in love with Chester Kallman, a young American writer who became his life partner.
It was a complicated relationship, starting as a passionate affair and enduring through decades of domestic companionship and creative collaboration. Kallman’s refusal to be sexually exclusive wounded Auden, a dynamic that poignantly shades this poem’s most memorable couplet:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Yiyun Li, writer
In America, Auden distanced himself from the radical politics of his earlier career and embraced Anglican Christianity. His intellectual preoccupations shifted toward religion and existentialism — to the kinds of big questions we think about late at night, or when we look to the sky.
Making the leap from wunderkind to grand old man without seeming to stop in middle age, he became a mentor for several generations of younger poets. He was a prolific and punctual contributor of reviews and essays to various publications, including this one, for which he wrote a rave of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Fellowship of the Ring” in 1954.
Through it all, Auden devoted fanatical attention to the finer points of poetic technique. His notebooks are full of numbers, word lists and markings that show just how deep this commitment went. He counted every syllable, measured every stress.
He gathered rhymes and other words with a lexicographer’s zeal and a crossword puzzler’s precision.
The third stanza of “The More Loving One” is a miniature showcase of Auden’s skill. Of the four epigrams arrayed before us, it may be the most technically perfect.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
W.H. Auden, poet
The rhythm is flawless, without an extra syllable or an accent out of place. The grammar is also fastidious. Here is a single sentence, springloaded with equivocation, beginning with one idea and sliding toward its opposite.
This quatrain is the poem’s ideal formal representation of itself, a kind of proof of concept: four lines of impeccable iambic tetrameter in an AABB rhyme scheme. The by-the-book regularity of this stanza should give you a leg up in memorizing it, and you can test yourself below!
But the rest of the poem is an argument against perfection, just as it is a celebration of uncertainty and humility — as we’ll see tomorrow.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.Your first task: Learn the first two lines!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
PERMANENCE, by Sophie Mackintosh
Sophie Mackintosh’s novels are always speculative in some way, with either the author or her characters forging a world governed by its own logic and rules. In their boldness and their ability to convey the violence of patriarchy, they recall the work of Jacqueline Harpman — not only the cherished “I Who Have Never Known Men,” but also “Orlanda,” her wild riff on Virginia Woolf’s “Orlando.”
Like Harpman, Mackintosh has a spare and confident hand. Her work is sometimes described as dreamlike; certainly, its contours are sketched with rapidity and confidence and relatively little detail. Her prose operates according to the same principle, at once lyrical and precise, like this from her second novel, “Blue Ticket”: “On the ground was a dead rabbit, disemboweled. Still fresh, the dark loops of its insides glistening like jam.”
When Mackintosh writes about masculine power, she does so in a way that articulates both its seductions and its terrors. Her newest novel, “Permanence,” is less explicitly concerned with the structure of patriarchy, but it has the same erotic charge as her earlier work, the same preoccupation with social prohibitions and the thrill that comes from breaking them.
Like “Blue Ticket,” “Permanence” turns on a highly pronounced binary. In “Blue Ticket,” adolescent girls are issued either a blue or white ticket on the day of their first period. A white ticket denotes a future of marriage and children, a blue ticket one of work — even, it seems, a career. The divide is stark and self-evidently faulty, its coarseness an expression of the brutalizing regime the characters are trapped in.
“Permanence” features a similar opposition, neatly delineated. Clara and Francis are conducting an illicit affair. One morning, they wake up in an alternate reality where they are openly living together. The novel shuttles between these two worlds, one ordinary and familiar, the other a curdled paradise for adulterers.
The thinness of this “city of impermanence” — “fluid, cohesive and yet disparate” — emerges at once. The sky is “uncannily blue,” the newspaper bears no date, the edge of the city is marked by “a slick ring of water, as far as the eye could see.”
Still, a boundary cannot keep the other world from seeping in. Initially, elegantly, this is a problem in the structure of desire. Having been provided the life they dreamed of, in which their longing for each other is fully met, Clara and Francis begin to experience, to their uneasy surprise, boredom and discontent.
Without absence, the intensity of their desire for each other wanes. They even begin, or at least Francis does, to long for the relief of their ordinary life: “Another day ahead of them of petting, giggling, lying around. It seemed insubstantial suddenly, though only the day before he had felt he could do it forever.”
Soon enough, it becomes clear that the problem between Francis and Clara doesn’t lie in the outside impediments of the world they live in, but in their relationship itself. Francis remains troublingly himself — a married father of a small child, reluctant to leave his family, however much he is in love with Clara: “He did love her, and he did want to be with her. … But he already had reality elsewhere, reality which he sometimes felt trapped by, he would admit, but which he could not truly imagine cutting loose.”
“Permanence” might seem like an outlier in the current array of articles and books about open marriages and polyamory, and at first glance the line of distinction between the two worlds, much like the division between blue and white tickets, seems almost old-fashioned. But as Mackintosh persuasively illustrates, the familiar emotions of jealousy, infatuation and eventually indifference — these persist and can flourish in any relationship, however free of prohibition.
“You want this,” Clara tells herself, and then, “You no longer want this,” as it occurs to her that “maybe it was in absence that they loved each other best, and most honestly.”
In her work, Mackintosh devises scenarios that are bold and almost aggressively simplified. But her terrain is complexity and contradiction, and in her hands these oppositions twist and turn in on themselves.
It’s hardly a surprise when the central character in “Blue Ticket” decides to eschew her designation and have a child, declaring, “True and false were no longer opposing binaries. My body was speaking to me in a language I had not heard before.” Nor is it especially startling when discontent chases Clara and Francis from one world to the other, unraveling their relationship.
What is more disquieting is the surreptitious ease with which Mackintosh’s speculative worlds start to align with our own, allowing the reader to see how so many of the old prohibitions and conventions — around choice, around marriage — remain, somehow, firmly in place.
That moment of recognition, in a landscape that is startlingly alien, is the source of Mackintosh’s power as a writer.
PERMANENCE | By Sophie Mackintosh | Avid Reader Press | 240 pp. | $28
Maybe you woke up this morning haunted by the first four lines of W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One” — or tickled by its tongue-in-cheek handling of existential dread. (Not ringing any bells? Click here to begin the Poetry Challenge).
This is a love poem. Perhaps that seems like an obvious thing to say about a poem with “Loving” in its title, but there isn’t much romance in the opening stanza.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
Ada Limón, poet
Nonetheless, the poem soon makes clear that love is very much on its mind.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
David Sedaris, writer
The polished informality gives the impression of a decidedly cerebral speaker — someone who’s looking at love philosophically, thinking about how it works and what it means.
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Reginald Dwayne Betts, poet
Musing this way — arguing in this fashion — he stands in a long line of playful, thoughtful poetic lovers going back at least to the 16th century. He sounds a bit like Christopher Marlowe’s passionate shepherd:
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Auden’s poem, like Marlowe’s, is written in four-beat lines:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Josh Radnor, actor
And it features strong end rhymes:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Samantha Harvey, writer
These tetrameter couplets represent a long-established poetic love language. Not too serious or sappy, but with room for both earnestness and whimsy. And even for professions of the opposite of love, as in this nursery rhyme, adapted from a 17th-century epigram:
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell
The reason why I cannot tell.
But this I know and know full well
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
There is some of this anti-love spirit in Auden’s poem too, but it mainly follows a general rule of love poetry: The person speaking is usually the more loving one.
This makes sense. To write a poem requires effort, art, inspiration. To speak in verse is to tease, to cajole, to seduce, all actions that suggest an excess of desire. That’s why it’s conventional to refer to the “I” in a poem like this as the Lover and the “you” as the Beloved. The line “Let the more loving one be me” could summarize a lot of the love poetry of the last few thousand years.
But who, in this case, is the beloved? This isn’t a poem to the stars, but about them. Or maybe a poem that uses the stars as a conceit and our complicated feelings about them as a screen for other difficult emotions.
What the stars have to do with love is a tricky question. The answer may just be that the poem assumes a relationship and then plays with the implications of its assumption.
This kind of play also has a long history. Since love is both abstract and susceptible to cliché, poets are eager to liken it to everything else under the sun: birds, bees, planets, stars, the movement of the tides and the cycle of the seasons. Andrew Marvell’s “Definition of Love,” from the 1600s, wraps its ardor in math:
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
The literary term for this is wit. The formidable 18th-century English wordsmith Samuel Johnson defined a type of wit as “a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.” “The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together,” he wrote; that kind of conceptual discord defines “The More Loving One.”
The second stanza is, when you think about it, a perfect non sequitur. A hypothetical, general question is asked:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Mary Roach, writer
The answer is a personal declaration that is moving because it doesn’t seem to apply only or primarily to stars:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Tim Egan, writer
Does this disjunction make it easier or harder to remember? Either way, these couplets start to reveal just how curious this poem is. We might find ourselves curious about who wrote them, and whom he might have loved. Tomorrow we’ll get to know Auden and his work a little better.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your task today: Learn the second stanza!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
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