12/28/13
There's a particular moment in baseball that I enjoy more than the others, and it happens numerous times every game. It's a moment in which not much is happening and is often taken for granted and not noticed. It's the thirty seconds to a minute or so right after an out has been recorded. There's actually quite a bit packed into that brief time frame. And if the out was gained by way of strikeout, it's even more satisfying.
Here's a typical scenario: if the batter strikes out swinging, he may ask the umpire if the final pitch would indeed have been called a strike had he not swung, or if he got himself out by swinging at what would have been a ball (maybe even ball four). He may chastise himself a bit on the way back to the dugout, but usually not too much. Baseball is a game of the even keel. If the batter struck out looking, he may argue briefly with the umpire for making such a ludicrous call, but he has to be very careful. The rules strictly say that arguing balls and strikes is not allowed, but most umpires allow a little leeway. Either way, the pitcher starts a slow stroll around the mound, takes his cap off wipes some sweat from his forehead, picks up the rosin bag. Meanwhile, the infielders are tossing the ball "around the horn" in a sort of mini-celebration. Catcher, third baseman, shortstop, second baseman, third baseman, and back to the pitcher (I've always wondered why the first baseman is excluded from this little ritual). After their individual turns receiving and tossing the ball, the infielders remind the outfielders of how many outs there are. Infielders are the authorities on the number of outs. If not for them, the outfielders wouldn't have a clue.
I love that moment. A minor victory has been achieved. Cheers and attaboys and even groans and get-'em-next-times are offered from the grandstand. There's a moment of repose, a moment to exhale, but also a moment of anticipation. There's another batter on his way to take his cuts. Two down, guys. Let's get one more. Then while the batter digs in and his name is announced, the pitcher climbs to the top of the hill, gathers himself, takes a deep breath, and looks in. Let's go again.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Thursday, December 26, 2013
The Baseball Romantic
12/26/13
Today I begin my foray into the world of blogging. I've considered it for quite a while, but I wasn't sure if I had anything worthwhile to say, or if anyone would read it if I did. But I enjoy reading good baseball writing (Roger Angell, Tom Boswell, George Will, and Roger Kahn are some of my favorites), so I finally decided to try my hand at it.
Baseball is the sport of the romantic. It lends itself to purple prose. It's easy to romanticize the game's past, the green grass, the fresh air, the crack of the bat, the break of the curveball, the guile of the pitcher, the brawn of the hitter, and on and on it goes. Baseball is a delight to the senses.
It is visual art in the beauty and grandeur and charm of its parks. Also in the vivid colors of the uniforms, worn by both players and fans. A grandstand full of fans wearing the same cap as the players is a pleasant sight.
It is also performance art in the graceful ballet of the players. Middle infielders turning a double play while avoiding a barreling baserunner, the lanky first baseman's stretch, an outfielder elegantly tracking down a long fly ball and hauling it in, then twirling and tossing a rainbow one-hopper to a waiting infielder, the batter gently waving his bat toward the pitcher and then taking his rigid yet relaxed stance, then unleashing his bat in a compact, controlled, powerful arc. Speed, grace, power, elegance.
See? Purple prose.
I am a baseball romantic. I have a highly idealistic view of baseball. Maybe because I played through high school and then held various jobs in baseball, maybe in spite of all that. My writings in the future will reflect my appreciation for the skill involved in playing the game well, may admiration for the people who play and coach it (at all levels), and my attention to the subtle nuances of the game that are sometimes disregarded. I hope you enjoy it.
Today I begin my foray into the world of blogging. I've considered it for quite a while, but I wasn't sure if I had anything worthwhile to say, or if anyone would read it if I did. But I enjoy reading good baseball writing (Roger Angell, Tom Boswell, George Will, and Roger Kahn are some of my favorites), so I finally decided to try my hand at it.
Baseball is the sport of the romantic. It lends itself to purple prose. It's easy to romanticize the game's past, the green grass, the fresh air, the crack of the bat, the break of the curveball, the guile of the pitcher, the brawn of the hitter, and on and on it goes. Baseball is a delight to the senses.
It is visual art in the beauty and grandeur and charm of its parks. Also in the vivid colors of the uniforms, worn by both players and fans. A grandstand full of fans wearing the same cap as the players is a pleasant sight.
It is also performance art in the graceful ballet of the players. Middle infielders turning a double play while avoiding a barreling baserunner, the lanky first baseman's stretch, an outfielder elegantly tracking down a long fly ball and hauling it in, then twirling and tossing a rainbow one-hopper to a waiting infielder, the batter gently waving his bat toward the pitcher and then taking his rigid yet relaxed stance, then unleashing his bat in a compact, controlled, powerful arc. Speed, grace, power, elegance.
See? Purple prose.
I am a baseball romantic. I have a highly idealistic view of baseball. Maybe because I played through high school and then held various jobs in baseball, maybe in spite of all that. My writings in the future will reflect my appreciation for the skill involved in playing the game well, may admiration for the people who play and coach it (at all levels), and my attention to the subtle nuances of the game that are sometimes disregarded. I hope you enjoy it.
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