Chandler Simpson’s Slow Swing Is Behind His Elite Fastball Timing

Chandler Simpson’s defining offensive skill isn’t the speed that makes him a threat on the bases. It’s how reliably he gets the bat to fastballs despite swinging more slowly than almost anyone in the majors. That unusual combination helps explain how a hitter with no home runs and very little power has maintained a .302 career batting average.

Simpson’s speed remains central to his value for the Rays, who have kept him in their plans during a pennant race. He covers ground in the outfield, races out of the left-handed batter’s box, and treats a ball in the gap as an invitation to keep running. On the bases, he looks for steals and takes extra bases whenever a hit or productive out gives him an opening. A routine grounder can become a stressful play for the defense because Simpson is already moving at full speed.

That approach also reflects a trade-off. Simpson has nearly 1,100 plate appearances with the Rays and has yet to hit a home run—not even an inside-the-park one. He has never hit a ball in the air more than 355 feet. His power shortage is so extreme that even his occasional balls over an outfielder’s head tend to involve unusual circumstances, rather than the kind of authority that turns a line drive into a routine extra-base hit.

In 2025, one such ball got through the Cardinals’ outfielders, who were positioned unusually deep against him. Another, in mid-September, cleared a shallow right fielder. Twice in Boston, Simpson hit balls off the Green Monster that likely would have been caught by a left fielder playing shallow elsewhere. Those moments underline the limits of his power as much as they show what can happen when his speed and contact find a gap.

The second example came later in the season, when a ball slipped just over the head of a right fielder playing in.

A swing built to get moving

Watch Simpson closely and the mechanics make his priorities plain. As he finishes his swing, his right foot slides toward first base while his left foot steps forward, helping him launch out of the box. He appears to be running before the swing is fully over. That movement may cost him some ability to drive the ball, but it gives him a head start on the skill that matters most to his game: reaching base and turning contact into pressure.

Simpson’s swing is smooth rather than forceful. He doesn’t appear intent on maximizing impact; he wants to put the ball in play and start moving. That’s a striking choice in a sport where hitters often trade some contact for the chance to hit the ball harder. Simpson’s ground-ball approach and lack of power aren’t incidental flaws in an otherwise conventional swing. They’re bound up with a style that prioritizes contact and speed.

Yet the swing’s slow pace creates an apparent contradiction. Statcast’s swing-timing data show that Simpson is on time against fastballs more consistently than any other hitter in baseball. He’s on time 89.7% of the time against four-seamers from left-handed pitchers and 90.3% against four-seamers from right-handers. Against sinkers, those figures rise to 95.2% versus lefties and 94.0% versus righties. His whiff rate against fastballs this year was just 3.9%.

Those numbers are especially striking because Simpson’s average swing speed is among the slowest in the game. Only Steven Kwan and Luis Arráez swung more slowly this year. But their swings follow steep, adjustable paths that help them make contact across different pitch locations. Simpson’s swing is comparatively level, and the difference in his attack angle on high and low pitches is below average. He doesn’t have the same capacity to reshape his swing to meet pitches in different parts of the zone.

Why slower can mean more contact

The seeming paradox has a straightforward mechanical explanation: a slower-moving bat spends more time in the area where it can meet the ball. If a swing travels at 64 miles per hour rather than 75, the bat passes through the contact window less quickly. The slower swing can therefore offer a wider margin for timing and make it easier to touch the ball, even if it does less damage when contact comes.

Simpson’s flatter swing path adds another benefit. Kwan and Arráez use their more adjustable swings to produce a higher share of lifted balls and line drives, supporting more dependable batting averages. Simpson is less likely to make that kind of solid contact. But his flatter path can expand the range of pitches on which he can make some form of contact. For a player whose speed makes even a weakly struck ball useful, merely putting the ball in play has real value.

That distinction matters. Simpson isn’t matching Kwan or Arráez in the quality of contact, and he lacks their degree of swing adaptability. His strength is the chance to make contact at all. When he’s on time, he’s better than average at hitting the center of the ball, rather than routinely chopping fastballs into the ground or popping them into the infield. Still, his lack of hard contact keeps his slugging percentage below .400 even when he puts the ball in play. Pitchers also have little reason to fear his power enough to give him many walks.

So how does Simpson avoid getting out in front of breaking balls and off-speed pitches while staying geared for the fastball? One answer is that his slow swing gives him extra time to adjust. A hitter with a faster bat might sacrifice fastball readiness to avoid being early on softer pitches. Simpson’s swing doesn’t require the same compromise: its longer passage through the contact area gives him a broader opportunity to meet the ball.

A distinct model, not a power hitter in waiting

There may be more raw power in Simpson’s body than his results suggest. But drawing that out would likely require a mechanical change—less early movement toward first and a greater effort to drive the ball. That could produce harder contact, but it might also weaken the qualities that make him valuable now. The question isn’t simply whether he could hit for more power; it’s what he would have to give up to do so.

For the Rays, the current version offers a clear identity: a hitter who rarely strikes out against fastballs, reaches base with contact, and immediately turns every defensive misstep into a running test. His speed can make a ground ball matter, while his unusual timing skill keeps pitchers from simply challenging him with a fastball and expecting a miss. He doesn’t need a conventional power profile to make that combination work.

Simpson’s game recalls an older kind of hitter, one who depended on finding open grass rather than driving the ball over the fence. The difference is that his approach feels deliberate, not merely the consequence of insufficient strength. He and the Rays have made an old idea useful again: fastball timing isn’t only a product of bat speed, and staying ready for the fastball doesn’t require surrendering every other pitch. His best path may not be toward becoming a different hitter, but toward sharpening the unusual one he already is.