I read an interesting article this week about Colorado Rockies pitcher Daniel Bard, who was infected multiple times with the yips.
Bard started out a baseball prodigy. Even in his teens, he could throw at close to 100 miles per hour.
In one famous, high-pressure situation, while pitching for the Red Sox, Bard came on with the bases loaded.
He struck out Hall of Famer Derek Jeter with three pitches. Then All-Star Nick Swisher came to bat.
Bard first threw two strikes. But it was Bard’s third pitch that made history.
It was later called by Sports Illustrated “one of the nastiest, most unhittable pitches that the world has ever seen,” a 99-mph fastball that went straight at the center of the plate only to wildly dip into the dirt at the last millisecond.
Swisher swung through empty air and tossed his arms up in frustration. “It’s not supposed to move like that,” he said later.
All good — until one season, when Bard completely lost control where the ball was flying. He started to hit players. He sailed the ball high and hit the back stop. He threw to first base but instead the ball landed in the dirt.
The technical term for this condition is the yips. Nervousness, anxiety, whatever.
Bard had gotten tight, and no amount of deep breathing, meditation, or top-level sports psychology could help him.
That’s the inevitable intro I had to give you just to set up the following paragraph, which was the most practical and valuable I found in this interesting article.
Bard cured his yips eventually, and made it back to the Major Leagues after quitting. He even became a star pitcher once again. But the yips started to creep back in. Then the following happened:
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In the off-season, a friend who coaches at U.N.C. Charlotte suggested that he throw a two-seam fastball from an arm slot two inches higher than his usual position. Bard had spent years tinkering with his arm slots, to disastrous effect. But he understood his body and his mind better now. Instead of instructing his body, he tried imitation, thinking of pitchers with higher arm slots and mimicking them. The ball hissed out of his hand and sank. That fastball became his best pitch.
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In case it’s not clear, what I found interesting was this idea to mimic and imitate successful people, rather than tinker with your technique.
This can apply to whatever you’re doing.
Say copywriting.
One option is to sit down and say,
“All right, what’s the level of sophistication in this market? Should I use the if-then headline formula here? Or the how-to? Or the case-against? Or maybe it’s best to lead off with authority, to diffuse the readers’ skepticism?”
That’s the tinkering option.
The other option is mimicry. You set aside all the talk about sophistication and headline formulas and authority. Instead, you sit down, rub your hands together and say,
“Right. Say I’m John Carlton. In fact, let me put on a Hawaiian shirt. What would I focus on here? What kind of headline would I write if I were John?”
Is mimicry the optimal way to learn?
I don’t know. It prolly depends on your own psychological makeup.
But it’s almost sure that most skills are taught and learned via the tinkering approach, with almost no thought given to mimicry. That’s a shame, because mimicry can be a great way to get better, and fast, and painlessly.
But on to work:
It’s true, my Copy Riddles course does break down copy into component parts, and instructs you on what to do. It even gives you a tinker-y checklist of how to write good copy, from alfalfa to zucchini.
But the real strength of Copy Riddles is the mimicry part.
Write copy… see what A-list copywriters like John Carlton did with the same prompt… then do it all over, while mimicking, imitating, or channeling those A-list copywriters.
For more info on this approach, which has been endorsed by Major Leaguers like Gary Bencivenga, Parris Lampropoulos, and Gary Halbert, take a look here: