A Test of the Nationals' Patience

At 45, Moyer knows his limitations. "Do I have above-average stuff? No," he said. "Do I have average stuff? No. I have below average stuff. But" -- and here, Moyer pointed to his head -- "I can beat you with this." Moyer's two-word scouting report on the Nationals? "Overaggressive. Sometimes."

On the first pitch he saw, Milledge flailed. He tapped the 0-0 pitch -- "It was two feet outside!" Harris said later -- right back to Moyer, who took several steps off the mound and fielded it just as its forward momentum died. Teammate Willie Harris, who had tripled before Milledge's at-bat, remained at third. Milledge returned to the dugout and put his helmet back on the rack. That's when Lenny Harris, who views himself as equal parts motivator and technician, told his center fielder to keep his head up. To Harris, Milledge looked dejected.

The next day at Nationals Park, before Milledge arrived for another round of early batting practice, Harris walked into the team's labyrinthine video control room, all flat-screen panels and computer monitors, and folded into an office chair.

His video screen subdivided, Harris watched two Milledge at-bats side-by-side, comparing the frame-by-frame sequence. On the left: Moyer pitching, July 30. On the right: Pittsburgh's soft-throwing left-hander Zach Duke pitching, May 1. Given such a frame of reference, Milledge's mechanical difficulties against Moyer appeared in sharp relief. Harris noted them with a series of nods and soft comments.

Harris fast-forwarded the side-by-side pitches until they shared an identical freeze frame -- ball two-thirds of the way to the plate. Against Duke, Milledge hadn't turned his bellybutton toward the ball; his hands stayed back; his body maintained textbook alignment; the "44" on the front of his uniform was still obscured by a sharp angle. But against Moyer? Ball two-thirds of the way to the plate, the "44" stared right at you. "See, right here he's flying open," Harris said. "Right now, he's trying to pull the ball. He's trying to hit home runs."

For several more minutes, Harris analyzed. He flip-flopped angles, studying the nuances. He looked at Milledge's head and hands.

Harris's worth as a hitting coach will be based on his ability to transfer his understanding of such mechanics into improvement. To date, 12 of the 19 Washington hitters with more than 50 at-bats this season are hitting below their career averages. Such a high percentage of failure provides ammo for fans who call Harris unqualified. Earlier this season, the scrutiny stressed him so much that Manager Manny Acta took him aside and told him that he couldn't control everything.

For Harris, teaching at times feels more difficult than doing, because more distance separates you from the final result. "Everything we've got, everything they need to know to succeed, it's here!" Harris said at one point, tapping the scouting report on Moyer. "But I can't do it for them. I take all the heat, but that's okay. I want the heat. They're kids."

When Milledge arrived at the stadium at 2:45, Harris turned his thoughts from Wednesday's failure to Thursday's opportunity. "Well speak of the devil," Harris told Milledge as they met.

They walked together into the bunker-level batting cages hidden in Nationals Park's lowest level. Milledge grabbed his bat. Harris positioned himself 25 feet away, behind an L-shaped cage, and lobbed 40 soft pitches. Milledge remained quiet, but for the crack of wood on ball. The coach, though, filled the air with a roaring commentary.

"It ain't hard," he said, practically singing. "Just real simple."

Crack. Crack.