baseball ethics, baseball history, fathers and sons, Performance-Enhancing Drugs, Uncategorized

Why the Super Bowl Makes Me Love Baseball

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I didn’t watch the Super Bowl.  Have never been much of a football fan, since my days of growing up in Texas and being virtually forced to play the sport as our school’s baseball program languished and disappeared.  I don’t respect the game: it’s full of legal cheap shots and out-of-your-mind Dionysian adrenaline… and this, mind you, is supposed to be the recipe for making a man! That’s what we always heard in Texas.

Whatever interest I retained as an adult in watching professional football (and it wasn’t much) vaporized when the “take a knee” movement swept through the sport.  I don’t necessarily condemn the individuals who participated.  I think many of them were gullible marks exploited by cynical subversionists behind the scenes.  That’s precisely the source of my discomfort: it was very apparent, I mean, that the game had become a vehicle for “social transformation” on the part of embedded operatives who want our nation to end up looking like Castro’s Cuba.

Since I didn’t watch the Big Game, I didn’t see the halftime show.  All I’ll say is a slightly tailored version of the generic criticism I would make of “kneelers”.  To these latter, I’d ask, “Why don’t you pursue whatever cause you think is vaguely represented here on your own time and your own dime?  Right now, you’re an employee who has a job to do.”  To the halftime marketers of open borders and family-hostile values, I’d say, “How about you sing an audience-appropriate song and dance an audience-appropriate dance?  Nobody’s denying you the right to work in a strip club—but this isn’t the job you were expected to do in the present venue.”

Of course, that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?  Expectation. We’re no longer allowed by our “betters” to expect anything but slaps upside the head. If taste and opinion are mainstream, they deserve to be ridiculed and undermined.  If they’re very marginal, they should be hoisted to the masthead while we all salute.  Expecting to nestle comfortably in one’s own values as one seeks a few hours of peace from the grind is… racist, or something, if one’s values are not extremely edgy.  There’s a “you need to see this” tone of re-education about it all.  I haven’t watched movies or TV shows made later than about 1980 since… about 1980, I guess—and it’s for just this reason.  I’m not interested in having my tastes constantly subverted.  I’ll watch Secret Agent reruns.

So why doesn’t baseball pose these same problems?  The kneeling movement was over on the West Coast (where, naturally, it would first break the surface) almost before it began.  Maybe the reason for that particular flame-out was because thousands and thousands of boys—millions, no doubt—go through the ritual of standing for the national anthem before their high-school or summer-league game every afternoon, from March to August.  Neither they nor their parents want to disrupt the service.  Why not?  Probably for different reasons: probably, for the parents, because they didn’t sign their sons up at no small cost just to see them desecrate the one political system on earth that honors the nuclear family while deploring rabid tribalism.  For the boys, it’s likely much simpler: they just want to fall into the rhythm of the performance.  The flag-raising is like pre-game warm-ups.  Giving the bird to it would be like skipping your preparatory swings in the batting cage or not getting your gear squared away in the dugout.  Baseball is not Dionysian.  It’s much more like Zen.  You withdraw into a meditative state that allows you to access incredible bursts of energy at just the right instant—and to recall that energy, as well, just as suddenly.  You don’t emit blood-curdling screams in baseball.  You don’t fixate on murdering the guy facing you inches away in a crouch.  You have to stay loose.  Yesteryear’s phrase was “loosey-goosey”.

You surrender to the vast sameness of things, in baseball.  You inscribe sharp differences, even aiming at the unique, within the context of that all-dominating sameness.  It’s little short of a genuine mystical experience.  The setting simply doesn’t lend itself to blowing the lid off of human limitation, history, nature, culture, the cosmos: its signature, rather, is vigorous activity within a benign acceptance.

That’s why I’ve always felt that the World Series (or “World’s Series”, as they used to say)—not to mention tournament baseball—is a kind of betrayal to the game’s spirit.  Any such attempt to bring the long season’s motions to a climax, or (of course) to make the season far less long, imposes a finality upon the universe which the universe spits right back out.  There’s always a tomorrow, and tomorrow will always bring another game.  As my all-time favorite baseball documentary (about the Negro Leagues) puts it, “There was always sun shining somewhere.”

As a practical matter, too, it’s hard to saturate the week-long ramble of the World Series with ads that subvert enduring social norms or political claptrap that insists we vote for the right Superman.  Besides, the tension of a between-innings break just doesn’t have the quality of waiting to see if one more set of downs will get the Packers on the board before halftime: there’s less nervous energy for the ad-maker to parasitize.

Could it be, too, that many, many professional ballplayers are far too imbued with culture to understand the virtues of cultural incineration?  Football recruits few stars from the Dominican Republic or Jamaica or Japan or Australia: MLB rosters are top-heavy with young men who have entered this strange new land carrying a massive baggage of ancestral habits.  The notion of trashing the very system which allows you to make millions playing a child’s game probably never occurs to them.  Now, it’s not their system… but they honor other things back home that have been much less charitable to them and their families than the “American way”.  They don’t understand the dishonor.

I’m not making a case here for “diversity”: I’m not suggesting, in other words, that we somehow elevate our system by flooding it with people who don’t understand its motive forces.  In a way, I’m saying just the opposite.  I’m saying that people who grow up in a coherent culture, even one that reduces them to miserable struggle, generally succeed in finding orientation and meaning within their cultural boundaries.  Many of them, I suspect, cannot comprehend why we would not want the same comfort of stable references when our system supplies such bounty.  Why do we Americans so enjoy tearing our nation apart?

I’ll admit that I peeked in at the Super Bowl’s fourth quarter, once my wife went to bed.  Patrick, Jr., immediately threw an interception, which prompted Troy Aikman to remark that he hadn’t so misfired throughout the whole playoff gamut.  Obviously, I was jinxing the kid… so I switched to Ancient Aliens and never gave the game a second thought.  Or maybe I grieved a little.  Patrick grew up mere miles down the road from us.  I once spoke briefly to Pat Mahomes, Sr., during the grand opening of a baseball training facility attended by both our sons.  He was still pitching for the Mets, and I tried to elicit from him an admission that the ball of recent years was juiced.  You’d think that any reliever would be willing to sign off on that proposition; but Senior paused and then replied laconically, “Well, maybe… but the steroids are a much bigger factor.”

Exactly.  Who ever raised a big stink about steroids in football?  Who cares, in football?  The running backs today are as big as downed linemen were when I was a kid; in the Sixties, nobody weighed over 250.  History is almost irrelevant, in football.  Master strategists keep finding new ways to punch the ball downfield, in football.  Forward progress—get to the goal line, and then over it.  Whatever it takes, in football.

In baseball, the Houston Astros have been plunged into ignominy for stealing signs with electronics that any good bench coach should have been able to decipher.  Pitchers are tossed from games if they ding a batter leaning over the plate; and should a “brawl” follow such an incident, nobody ever seems even to scrape a knuckle.  This isn’t a setting that you can readily infuse with notions of tearing down traditional society and building up an Irresistible Machine of the Future.  Thank God.