Somewhere within you, there exists a swing signature. It might not have been wired into you when you were born, but somewhere in your youth, you picked up a baseball bat, and you began the slow establishment of a swing. It’s a habit. It’s an instinct. By the time you get to the major leagues, it’s a many-layered thing, with something intrinsic in your musculature swirling with years of instruction in knots of cooperation and conflict. Not every coach has told you to do the same thing as the others. Not everything every coach has told you—not even everything they all agreed on—has applied neatly to you. What works best for the average person, after all, is not what will work best for almost any of the freaks of genetics and habit who actually make it to the highest level of baseball competition on Earth. But you did learn things that you incorporated, even from some coaches whose instruction you’ve mostly overwritten since then.

“Overwritten” is the right word, maybe. Your swing is a stylized thing. It’s personal and it’s perfect. It’s also a lattice of signatures you’ve stenciled over one another over the years. Each one that found enough of a groove to generate some of the success that got you here has stayed in you, like a tattoo stays in the skin. Laser removal isn’t an option here. You just put the new ink around what you no longer want to have on the surface.

Brice Turang has a swing signature. His might be easier to read, if you found the tattoos (he has plenty of them) that correlate to it, because like many modern big-leaguers, Turang is the son of a ballplayer. Brian Turang’s stint in the bigs was brief, but he made it there. That, surely, gave the younger Turang’s swing a head start. He bats lefty because his dad (a righty batter who tired of sliders) had a preference. He’s always had a pretty swing, because he’s always had the guiding influence of a full-fledged pro.

This year, though, Turang put down new ink over the old signature.