Most busted moving-the-runner plays do not invariably lead to disaster—not if at least one guy does what he's supposed to do. A missed bunt should give the runner time to dive back; a missed hit and run gives him a chance to swipe the bag. But a busted suicide squeeze offers no chance for salvation, unless it's the runner who doesn't break—in that case, his embarrassment should have no place to hide. The squeeze is full of possible perils. But if runner and batter do what they're supposed to, it's an easy run.
The key to the squeeze is letting the runner and batter know when to do it, and them knowing it absolutely, without tipping it off. If it's tipped, it's an easy out—the pitcher pitches out (far enough for the batter to have no chance of getting his bat on it) and the catcher runs the skidding runner down or throws him out. But if it's not tipped, it's almost impossible to defense. All the batter has to do is bunt the ball far enough to clear the catcher without giving the pitcher time to charge, field and throw to the plate before the runner gets there. The runner, of course, is running on the pitch—no turning back. Unless he's shackled, he should be able to beat the throw to the plate on any decent bunt.
Most teams use a special set of signs for the squeeze, being careful not to tip it off even with three people signaling—the coach, the batter and the runner at third. Receiving the sign from the coach, the batter has to give a confirming sign that he'll bunt this next pitch no matter where it's pitched—ensuring that the sign has registered and the play is on. The runner confirms too—by taking a certain stance, touching himself somewhere, spitting, or in some other non-obvious manner. With everyone on the same page, the play goes in motion—and all advantage swings to the offense, with one key qualifier: good bunters are maddeningly rare, and the squeeze brings all the pressure down upon a less-than-good bunter. If he fails in this most basic task of placing his bat head gently upon the pitched ball, then the play is blown and a run is cost.
The most successful (and spectacular) blown squeeze I ever witnessed has the runner getting a truly great jump, and the batter, having given his confirmation sign, swinging away anyway. He tops the pitch right down onto the plate, where it bounces straight up into the catcher's hands—right over the plate, fair ball. A heartbeat later the runner bowls the batter over onto that same plate, and with the batter atop a tangle of limbs, the catcher bends and tags the wrong guy's leg. The runner is safe and the batter is out, earning his rbi on his back. The umpire chuckles through the ensuing argument, shaking his head, never having seen that one before.