Some people tell me baseball’s a dull game, and for the life of me I’ll never understand why. It’s one of those steadfast principles found in most of us; the devout cannot understand the faithless, the eager cannot endure the listless. I hear things like “nothing happens” and “it’s too slow” and “the season’s too long” and walk away confounded. As with all matters of personal opinion, you can always preach to the choir but don’t expect everyone to don the gowns.
If anything, baseball is all about anticipation. If you feel like you’re always waiting for something to happen, that’s a damn good thing, because as in any event, something sure as hell will. Players prepare themselves on the field, zeroing in on the moment. A batter approaches the plate, ready to make his destiny. The pitcher weighs his options, sifting confidence with responsibility. Signals get shared, the crowd settles in. The pitcher and batter briefly sum each other up. An exchange is made.
There are few things in life that make me jump out of my seat (or slump hard back in it) with the same fervor as how events unfold in a baseball game. There’s something magical about the deep fly, the race home, or the final strike that lifts you up to witness, while the clearing of the fence, the pump of the fist, the umpire’s call all make you testify. I often compare aspects of the game to aspects of other things I love in life; a pitcher’s repeated mistakes becomes his hamartia, the mid-game rally is likened to the crescendo, the untimely error provides the plot twist. Baseball is a production where everything moves and responds to one point or one moment in time, and all hopes and dreams and fears and despairs travel an average ninety miles per hour.
I’m often curious about the disgruntled fan in baseball (you’ll find them in Philly, to be sure). I tend to joke with friends that baseball is my religion, andNovember to March my hibernation. Yet I am always shocked at the fans that throw their hands up in anger, give up after the first loss or the first surrendered run or the first out, any of those types of people who forecast gloom and doom without even consulting the weather map. Such gut-wrenching expectation is vested into the rise and fall of a team, and I daresay it takes away from the joy of the game. A. Bartlett Giamatti, beloved former MLB commissioner, once said that baseball is “designed to break your heart”. For some fans, the seasons without success (or enough success) turn them into jilted lovers, cautious and scornful yet desperately hopeful.
I think that’s also why so many get disappointed with baseball from time to time. They see the past-time, which has an almost ancient feel in the American sense, as something that should be kept pristine and untarnished even if they elect to not sit through all nine innings sometimes. So when issues like payroll, gambling, strikes, drug use, steroid use, racism and other blemishes show themselves, there is such bitter resentment to be heard. Sometimes I cannot help but to laugh at the reactions, as I can think of a number of people who are not fans and do not pay for the games yet get so upset about these same infractions, as if responding to a personal affront. It’s the easiest thing to forget that baseball is an organization bent on making business, and the people therein just as human and imperfect as the rest of us.
It’s that special bittersweetness in the game that makes it so wonderful. There’s no greater feeling in watching baseball than to see your team win it all. But there are probably not many better feelings after that than seeing the opposing team beat your team well. I’ve had the luxury of witnessing both, and both are special in their own way. I argue that if you’re going to love baseball, love it like your own child; you take good with bad, success with failure, because both memories will matter just as much. We are fortunate in that we can love baseball almost as much as anything without ever having to accept real loss.
I hardly expect or hope that this late-night diatribe will change minds over to what I see, and I’d be lying if I were to say I watch every game and care about every part of the game without fail or without occasional rancor or with complete interest all the time. But the game is there for you to come and go as you please (though it’s harder in winter), and that’s why I can find it so enjoyable. So play ball, it’s a long season ahead. With spring bears the new promise, we’ll see where it takes us from there.
One word: Yes.