TRUE GRIT

It is so often said that it has become cliché: athletes need to have short memories.

• A quarterback throws an interception, he needs to forget it and get right back on the field.
• A guard gets beat on a wicked cross-over, he better be ready to bring the ball back up court.
• A pitcher gets taken deep, he needs to get a new ball from the umpire, climb back up on the hill, and attack the next hitter.

We hammer this into our kids, and deride them when they “take that at bat into the field”.

However, have you ever heard a former player interviewed?  More often than not, they can recall – with precision – every moment of their career.  Basketball players can tell you the score, the time on the clock, who set the pin screen, and who was the help defender, before they hit the big shot.  Pitchers can tell you the inning, score, batter, and sequence of pitches prior to giving up the big homerun.  Before Tony Gwynn made watching video an integral part of baseball preparation, players relied on their memory – of moments, pitches, tendencies – in order to be successful.

It turns out, having a short memory is only good in the moment.  But having a long memory makes you a better player, a better storyteller, and, in many cases, a better human being.

For many years now, I have sat either on a bucket or in the stands and spouted that bromide about “short memory” to my son and to others.  My hope was that they would “hit it and move on” (as a former professor used to say).  But, I am not sure that was always the best advice.

Pete Carroll is the cover story for this week’s Sports Illustrated.  Here is a guy who has coached on the biggest stages, made some of the biggest decisions, and failed – twice – in the biggest of moments.  But he doesn’t forget.  His memory isn’t short.  Rather, he remembers; he learns.  He takes those memories, chooses not to ignore them.  He says that when those memories “bubble up, I’m going to think about it . . . and use it.  Use it!”

When faced with adversity, how do you respond?  Do you melt under the weight of failure, or do you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and persevere?  In short, do you “use it” – use the memory of prior failures to have future success?

Not to go all psychological mumbo-jumbo again, but Angela Duckworth (a psychology professor at Penn and a frequent TED Talker) will tell you that if you are passionate and have perseverance, you have that inexplicable, enigmatic, mysterious trait known grit.  Think about it, can you define, in ten words or less, the meaning of “grit”?  Try it . . . without using human examples.  It’s easier said than said.  More likely than not, it sounds like this: “You know, he is a Dustin Pedroia-type . . . He plays like Wes Welker . . . He makes the most of his ability, like David Eckstein.”  To put it succinctly, so you can wow future dinner party guests, if you are passionate and persevere, you have grit.

As I have often expounded about (too often, I am sure, for some of you), I have had the great pleasure of watching an incredible baseball team over the past three summers.  Some of the players have changed, but the core has remained the same; the coaching staff has remained the same; and by-in-large, the outcomes have remained the same.  What has been different, however, is the manner in which these outcomes have been achieved.

Two summers ago, this team ran roughshod over the competition, losing only once en route to a state championship.  Last summer, this team faced adversity on the first day, and in one game, pulled it out.  They faced unbeatable odds later that week, and in one inning, they pulled it out.  For whatever reason, this summer the task became that much more difficult.  This summer, the boys didn’t need to pull through for just a single inning or a single game.  No, these boys had to remain passionate and had to persevere for days on end; back-to-back-to-back-to-back.  Try keeping a 12-year old’s attention for four hours, let alone four days.  And yet, these boys did it . . . twice.  Seven times in less than two weeks these boys faced elimination, and on six of those occasions, they persevered.  (We will get to the seventh in a minute.)

I don’t recount this story to brag or to shine any particular light on any particular kids (however worthy they may be).  Rather, I do so to highlight lessons that can be learned at an early age that can be used for the rest of their lives.

Winning is easy . . . psychologically so.  Losing, too, can be easy – it can happen quickly, and then it is over.  And if you are 10, 11, 12 years old, the pain disappears as quickly as the grass stains on the pants.  But staring failure in the face and overcoming it, time and again, that is hard.  That is when you take measure of a man (or woman).  That is when you determine whether or not someone possesses grit.

Our boys couldn’t prevail in that seventh attempt.  But man did they fight.  Chasing runs four different times in seven innings; tying the game three different times; down four in extra innings and still bringing the tying run to the plate before it ended.  They fought, they battled, often with tears in their eyes.  They had grit.  And now they have to deal with that feeling of working so hard; coming so close; of falling just short.  A decade’s worth of life lessons learned in two weeks, typified in two hours.  They failed greatly.

Life is hard.  More times than can ever be considered fair you are faced with adversity.  The question is, how do you deal with that?  If you are blessed with fortuna, you won’t be faced with too much until you are theoretically old enough to handle it.  Some us aren’t so lucky.  Some of us get hit at an early age and are forced to persevere.

Parenting is hard.  We, as parents, want nothing more than to take away our children’s pain.  We would love to cushion the fall or avoid the fall altogether.  But that is a disservice.  When our kids feel the pain, when they overcome the pain, when they have memory of the pain, they can use the pain to (hopefully) avoid that pain again.  But don’t fear the pain.  Find something your kid is passionate about, allow them to fail, encourage them to persevere, instill in them grit.  That may be the greatest gift you ever give.

I – and many others – have been lucky enough to have had my son play baseball for a group of coaches (no names required, they know who they are) who inspired passion and encouraged perseverance.  A group of men so dedicated to the effort, so singularly focused on the bigger picture (a potential oxymoron, I know), that they may not have even known what they were teaching, day-in-day-out, was grit.  And, for two weeks now, we have been fortunate enough to see that grit on display nearly every day/night.  On behalf of a large collective, I say “thank you”.  On behalf of my son, who, while wise beyond his years, is simply too young to truly understand the gift that has been bestowed upon him, I say “thank you”.

Little League Baseball is over.  For some, for a few months; for others, forever.  But the losses endured, the lessons learned, the love of game cemented, and the true grit instilled, those are the ultimate take-aways.  I will look back on these years; these past three summers; these past two weeks, and forever tell my son: “Use it!”

Now, the MLB trade deadline is a few hours away; let’s get ready for the Dog Days; and know that October is just two months away . . .

PLAY BALL!!

TALKIN’ TRASH

Football has showman.  From Joe Namath to Billy “White Shoes” Johnson; from Deion “Prime Time” Sanders to Terrell Owens and Chad “Ochocinco” Johnson.

Basketball has larger than life figures who operate in a different stratosphere.  From Clyde Frazier to Wilt Chamberlain; from Dr. J. to M.J.; from Magic and Larry to LeBron, and many more in-between.

But baseball, baseball has characters.  From Babe Ruth to Eddie Gaedel; from to Al Hraboski to Syd Finch; from Turk Wendell to Pedro Martinez; from Nick Swisher to Andrew McCutchen (look it up).  The number and variety of characters that populate baseball are ingrained into the fabric of the game.

And while quarterbacks can wear fur coats and defensive backs can high-step into the end zone; and while basketball players can literally leap over other humans and do things that make us shake our heads in disbelief; baseball players can make a whole lot of hay with their mouths.

Trash-talking is such a part of baseball that if you are not well-versed in it, you might find yourself out of it – the game, that is. Baseball clubhouses are notorious for being a place where only the thick-skinned survive.  And when the verbal warfare moves to the dugout and onto the field, look the hell out – or, more specifically, listen the hell up.

Ragging, smacking, trashing, talking shit, they all fall under the umbrella of acceptable baseball behavior.  But when?  At what level is that type of gamesmanship permissible?  When does it go from bad sportsmanship to “just the way the game is played”?  At what age do we think it is appropriate to get in a player’s head?  I think we can work backwards for some easy answers:

Big Leagues:  Of course.  Although, with so much room between the dugout and the field, one wonders how much actually gets heard.

Minor Leagues:  Without question.  You don’t think that hit path and arm angles are the only things they teach in the Minors, do you?  This is where the craft of talking smack gets perfected.  A lot of mediocre players with a lot of failed dreams take out their aggression on (1) those in even worse straights than them and (2) those with whom they are green with envy.  (If you want to see/hear this writ large, watch the HBO movie “Long Gone”, in which a batter tells a pitcher to ask his sister to stop changing the color of her lipstick as she is leaving rainbows . . . Suffice it to say, he gets hit in the head by the next pitch.)

College:  This is where the skill gets learned and honed.  Go watch a college baseball game and tell me if you ever see a player (save a pitcher currently in the game) sitting on the bench.  The term “bench jockey” is a misnomer – these guys are “railing jockeys” and they hang there the entire game getting hoarse talking bull to the donkeys on the other side of the field.  And don’t ever let them know you hear them.  If they sense you have rabbit ears, you are a sitting duck, and they will dog you until you break.

High School:  This is the training wheels for trash talk.  Guys are trying it out, seeing if they like it, and/or if they are any good at it.  Coaches tend to be somewhat lenient as the language is pretty innocuous, with just an occasional zinger.  And high school coaches, by in large, are trying to relive their glory days, so they actually enjoy the barbs.  Add to this that some high school players are on the verge of professional baseball – and in some cases, Major League baseball.  So, they better get ready to get ridden, and hard.  Right, rook?!  Come on now, bonus baby!  You throw pus, meat . . .

Below High School:  This is where the ground gets shaky.  First off, the trash talk is relatively pedestrian; it simply isn’t that much fun.  Next, it’s too easy.  What’s the point of trying to get into a kid’s head if the door is wide open and you can walk right in?  Where is the challenge in that?

But, joking aside, should we be allowing 11, 12, 13 year old kids to rag other 11, 12, 13 year old kids?  Should we allow fans to do the same?  Have we lost all sense of righteousness and/or morality?  Or, have we simply sped up this process by having our boys play such competitive baseball, and so often, at such an early age?  Have we, in our zeal to win, fomented this type of behavior?  If our kids have Mike Trout’s Nike Lunar Vapor cleats, and Brandon Phillips’ Wilson A2K glove, and Big Papi’s fluorescent Franklin batting gloves, and Adam Jones’ Kaenon sunglasses, and Miguel Cabrera’s Evoshield shinguard, shouldn’t they be treated like Big Leaguers – warts and all?

While I am not certain, I think the short answer is: “No.”  Try as they might, they are not Big Leaguers; they are not even high schoolers.  Our kids need time to develop – physically, mentally, and emotionally before the added stress of negative outside influences are brought into their athletic sphere.  To put a different spin on it, could you imagine some stranger reading, commenting, and ultimately panning your seventh grader’s science project or book report?  “Nice word choice; mix in some grammar; come on now, he’s got no sentence structure.”  Would that ever be acceptable?

There are further, better reasons, other than the simple shock to the conscience, not to allow this behavior.

According to Deborah Yurgelun-Todd (Professor of Psychiatry; Director, Cognitive Neuroimaging Laboratory, at The Brain Institute; Associate Director, Mental Illness Research, Education, and Clinical Centers, Salt Lake City VA Health Care System) (Ed. Note: I just love that title), the brains of teenagers and adults respond differently to the outside world.  With respect to emotional information (cheering or jeering, for instance), “teenager’s brain may be responding with more of a gut reaction than an executive or more thinking kind of response.”  When that happens, you are more likely to get “an impulsive behavioral response, instead of a necessarily thoughtful or measured kind of response.”

But these are great players, you say.  We put them into amazingly stressful situations – at younger and younger ages – and they still respond, you think.  So what can a little jawing do to them, our super-kids?

Well, according to Frances E. Jensen, MD (Professor and Chair of the Department of Neurology at the Perelman School of Medicine, Univ of PA), the teenage brain is in “a paradoxical time of development.  These are people with very sharp brains, but they’re not quite sure what to do with them.”  The teenage brain is only about 80% developed, so if we think our kids have some special mental acuity at a younger age, we may just be fooling ourselves.  All of the experts maintain that development of a mature thought process takes time.

Sara Johnson (an assistant professor at the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health) tells us that “adolescents start to have the computational and skills of an adult –if given time and access to information.”  And Sheryl Feinstein (author of Inside the Teenage Brain: Parenting a Work in Progress) tells us that “in the heat of the moment, their decision-making can be overly influenced by emotions, because their brains rely more on the limbic system (the emotional seat of the brain) than the more rational prefrontal cortex”.

So, putting aside my sister’s psychological mumbo-jumbo, we now know that early teens are simply too young to handle being ragged.  And if you think it is just middle schoolers, think back to the last time someone made fun of you in front of a bunch of people.  Did you use your prefrontal cortex (i.e., were you rational) or your limbic system (i.e., were you emotional) in your response.  My guess is the vast majority of us are limbic all the way.  So you can only imagine (truly, it is impossible to think like a teenager) what it must be like for that 12-year old pitcher to hear: “This guy can’t throw strikes; he’s got nothing; he’s in trouble”.

There has been a ton of research on cheering and the effect it has on athletes in the heat of battle.  However, there is very little research on this topic as it relates to youth sports.

With respect to adults, Robert Nideffer (a psychologist for the U.S. Olympic track and field team in 1984 and 1988, who has worked with Navy SEALS) states that “crowds can provide a lift when athletes are nearing exhaustion.”  He says an “emotional boost is more likely to help in the Olympics in situations where an extra boost of energy is required because reserves are depleted and you need the extra adrenaline”.  But that, too, comes with a caveat.

Researchers says that, in general, crowds can improve performance in sports that involve strength, endurance, or teams.  But, for athletes competing in technique and finesse sports like gymnastics, archery, golf, riflery, or tennis, that rush of adrenaline from a roaring crowd can throw off timing, waste valuable energy, and even impair cognitive function.  And that is the effect on adults.

Think about that next time someone catcalls a Little League batter right before the pitch is thrown.

So, sit in the stands, cheer on your team, stay positive, refrain from getting into Little Leaguers’ heads, and . . .

PLAY BALL!

FOUR DAYS IN JULY

The following was written at approximately 3pm, on Monday, July 20, 2015:

Around 7pm tonight, regardless of what the scoreboard reads, regardless if our boys are racing around the outfield holding yet another banner (that would be eight, by my count) or wiping their eyes in the outfield grass, tears will be shed.  If the latter, by the boys; if the former, by the parents and family members in attendance.

It is fitting, in so many ways, that this game is being played on our field, in our park, in our town.

If we are on the wrong end of the game, our boys will finish their Little League careers right where they started, and bring to a close a chapter – more like a book – of their lives that has provided us and them with too many memories – and smiles – to count.  They will leave their field one last time, knowing that they left it all out there.  Rare is the group of kids who could do what they have done just to get to this moment.  Three wins in three days; battling against bigger and stronger opponents (did anyone see Rose’s thighs?), freaky weather (who has ever had a summer game delayed in Southern California for lightning and thunder?), and a blind and capricious umpire.  And yet, they did it.  They played together – the Fearless Fourteen – each making a contribution to help us travel the “Road to Monday”.

If we are able to pull this off, it will be one of the greatest stretches of baseball I have ever witnessed.  On Thursday night I texted Mike to say that the documentary, “Four Days in October” was required viewing by the team.  I am not sure who watched, but I know Jake and I did.  Over four nights in October, 2004, the Red Sox “shocked the world” (in the words of Kevin Millar) and came back from a 3-0 deficit to the Yankees, winning four straight, winning the pennant, allowing them to eventually win the World Series.  Those were the same odds we were facing Thursday night.  And, if we win, we will have done what the Red Sox did – battling the elements (Game Six was delayed due to rain – sound familiar?), dealing with fatigue (Derek Lowe pitched Game 7 on 2-days’ rest, and then pitched 6 innings giving up 1 run – sound familiar?), and overcoming questionable umpiring (however, in Game 7 in New York, the umpires overruled themselves twice to get the call right – as of now, we have not been so lucky).  Thus, in so many ways, we have taken the road of the 2004 Red Sox, and if we win, will have followed in their championship footsteps.

Win or lose, it has been a pleasure to watch these boys play for the past seven years; it has been amazing/exhausting/exhilarating/years-off-life-taking to watch these boys play these past three summers; and it has been an honor to have made such good friends and watch all of us grow – as players, parents, and a community.

Either way, Mazel Tov!

__________________________________________________________________________

And now we know what happened.  Duke threw the game of his life (and yet, we hope he has a few more of those in him); Jagger led off with a game-tying homerun; our opponent stopped fielding the ball; and we kept piling on runs.  When Jack’s liner softly fell past a drawn-in infield, the fight was officially over, and the celebration began.

These “Four Days in July” are something that we won’t soon forget.  4 days, 3 mercies, 2 walk-off homeruns, and 1 opponent essentially having their hearts ripped out to the point that they simply had no heart left to even make a routine play.

Over the past three years we have been treated to so much, there is really no telling when and where this journey will end.  Dan Chasek asked this back in June, 2013: “Why not us?”  After what I witnessed last weekend, I have no earthly reason why not.

PLAY BALL!!

BROADCAST BLUES

Ryan Seacrest makes $15M per year for “American Idol”.

Alex Trebek earns $10M a year for “Jeopardy”.

David Letterman was making about $20M per year when he retired from “Late Night”.

Katie Couric got paid $15M a year – for 5 years – to host the CBS Evening News.

Suffice it to say, people a heck of a lot smarter than me think that there is value in having a qualified host.  The above people, and countless others, wouldn’t be paid so much if they didn’t make the viewing experience even better for the consumer.

Which begs the question, why don’t Major League teams live by the same credo?  Why do they believe they can hand any ex-ballplayer a microphone and call it a broadcast?

There is a lot of talk in the ether about baseball being boring and hard to watch and that the games are too long.  I cannot necessarily disagree with any of that, but I do think that viewing the game could be immeasurably improved by making changes in the broadcast booth.

On way too many occasions I have had to turn off a Wednesday evening or a Sunday afternoon game because of the long pauses or disjointed rants or annoying conversations or pointless patter of the broadcast team.  It often feels like they are up there having a great ol’ time, the audience be damned.  And a great many of these so-called “broadcasters” get a pass for past performance on the field.

We tolerate Hawk Harrelson because he was a decent ballplayer and tells great stories about golfing with the legends.  Truth be told, he should “Be Gone!”

We were forced to listen to Joe Morgan tell us how he did it – which was always better than any current player.

Steve Stone often just served as the straight man for Harry Caray, who was too sauced to know the difference (I know, I know, Harry was a legend and a billy goat will shit on my pillow for even implying that Harry was a Cubs fan and Bud man).

Don’t even get me started on Don Sutton in the TBS booth.  He is only marginally better than Pete Van Wieren, but the whole lot of Braves announcers could have their own wing in the Broadcasters Hall of Shame.

Turn on the TV in any hotel room in any city in America and you are almost guaranteed to be turned off to baseball.  Why do we, why do to the teams, why does MLB, allow this?  Do you think GM runs out a bunch of former mechanics to the showroom floor and expects people to buy cars?

A few weeks back I was watching Sunday Night Baseball on ESPN.  In the broadcast booth were John Kruk, Curt Schilling, and Dan Shulman.  Now, I could give you chapter and verse about Curt Schilling the bombast, the holier than now personality, and the right-wing kook.  But, say what you will, the guy knows baseball – and he knows how to communicate it.  That night – watching in my family room – I was treated to a master class in the game of baseball.

Krukkie and Schill talked pitch-by-pitch strategy – from both a hitter’s and a pitcher’s perspective.  They discussed defensive alignments and how and why shifts were or were not used.  They explained why the call on the 1-1 pitch was so important.  They talked about different preparation techniques that play a significant role in the actual game.  They called the viewers’ attention to the catcher making adjustments based on the batter’s positioning in the box.  And they called pitches – Schilling was able to decode the catcher’s signals with runners on base and proceeded to call each pitch for half an inning; and he then explained to the viewers how he did it.   The guys looked ahead to later innings and potential reliever-pinch hitter match-ups, and why it made sense to at least get pitchers throwing in the bullpen – if for no other reason than mental strategy.  When there was a slight lull in the game, they discussed issues related to team travel and how those affected the players and the manager’s in-game decisions.  All the while, Dan Shulman kept us abreast of the play-by-play.

It was like watching Da Vinci paint; it was like Robert De Niro discuss acting or Martin Scorcese explain directing; class was in session, and we were all students of the game.  Had your less-obsessed significant other been tuned in, he/she would have learned more about baseball over two innings than they would with season tickets.  Had your son or daughter been watching, they would have left the room a considerably better baseball player.  It was that great.  And, if the people in power actually cared about the consumers, it could almost always be that great.

Why can’t a broadcast booth be lively and alive?  It should be as if we have stumbled into a bar where two or three guys are watching a game and we are allowed to eavesdrop on their conversation.

If MLB wants to grow the sport; if they want people to become students of the game such that young kids prefer it to (or like it just as much as) football or basketball; if MLB wants to appeal to a new generation, they need to make the game fun and interesting.  And if they want the whole family to enjoy the game, then they need for people to at least have a cursory understanding of everything that is going on in the twenty seconds between pitches, and the often minutes that elapse between any meaningful action.  How can this be accomplished?

This is so easy: Get better announcers.  Demand that each team employ quality play-by-play guys and gals and color commentators who not only understand the game but understand how to explain it to the masses.  Would it shock you to know that the average NFL game is twenty minutes longer than the average Major League game?   MLB games just feel longer.

Our viewing habits on Sunday afternoons during the fall tell us that we have no issue sitting on the couch for long stretches of time watching a sporting event.  It’s just that the producers of Major League Baseball seem to go out of their way to ensure that the viewing experience is akin to watching grass grow – and that just gets you to the 7^th inning stretch.

Who couldn’t listen to Vin Scully wax poetic for hours on end?  Sure, there is only one Vinny, but there are many Dan Shulmans, and Jon Millers, and Duane Kuipers and Mike Krukows, and Boog Sciambis, and Gary Thornes, and Joe Bucks, and Tim McCarvers (I know this may roil some of you), and Dave O’Briens, and Bob Costases, and Steve Physiocs, and Sean McDonoughs, and Victor Rojases, and Al Leiters, and Steve Berthiaumes, and Thom Brennamans, and many many more out there.  How many do we need?  30, 60?  That is all.  Cast the net wide; t hey can be found.

If I have to hear John Sterling announce another “A-Rod with an A-Bomb” or “Gardner plants one in the seats”, or listen to Suzyn Waldman drone on like a bitter housewife at her Tuesday night Mahjong game, I will go crazy.  Do we really need Ted Leitner butchering the English language or Jerry Remy homering all throughout tha yahd?

There are at least 194 colleges in the United States offering Radio and Television Broadcasting programs.  There are at least 240 Minor League baseball teams.  There are countless guys like me who sit in the stands or on their couch and give a running commentary on the game.  Are you – and by you, I mean MLB and the individual teams – saying that you cannot find 60 people better than our current crop?  And we don’t even need a full 60 – I listed eighteen above and you all could probably list a handful more.

We need to be rebel against this onslaught of mediocre announcing.

We need to make listening to the game fun again.  We need the days of Red Barber and Mel Allen.  How about that?!?

We need to have people with microphones in their hands that will educate, excite, and entertain.  We need a little showmanship combined with a lot of knowledge.  We need “great communicators” (Ronald Reagan actually did play-by-play of Cubs games that he had never seen – he “recreated” them via telegraph feed).

So write to your cable company; write to your favorite team; write to Rob Manfred; hell, write to your congressman.  Or, better yet, write to the sponsors of the games – tell them you will stop watching and listening and stop buying their products unless and until they change the quality of our product.

Or, if all else fails, turn down the volume on the TV, turn up the volume on the radio, and let Vinny carry you home from “wherever you may be”.

PLAY BALL!!

TWO STRIKES . . . YOU’RE IN

People ask me all the time why I love baseball so much.  And to that question, I have a very simple answer.

It’s not the beauty of 60 feet + 6 inches, and the fact that those additional 6 inches make all the difference in the world.  It’s not that each ballpark is different, and the various dimensions play a role in the game – often serving as a tenth player.  It’s not that the defense starts each play and is the only side allowed to touch the ball.  It’s not that each campaign stretches over three calendar seasons, which allows the season to unfold in a languorous manner, wherein no one game is dispositive, and yet every game counts.

No, the number one reason why I love baseball so much is the two-strike pitch.

I love the build-up, the excitement, the payoff, the let-down, and the repetition of the moment.  I find nothing more exciting, and nothing that takes more time off my life, than the two-strike pitch.  And, for maximum agita, there is nothing better than the 3-2 pitch.  No other sport has a similar moment.

Sure, in basketball you have last second shots (see Sampson, Ralph or Fisher, Derek).  But once that ball has been in-bounded and the shot released, the moment either happens or it doesn’t.  Either way, the moment is gone.  There are no do-overs.

Football has the two-minute drill and the Hail Mary Pass (see Flutie, Doug).  And again, save for a penalty calling the play back, once the play is done, it’s done.  I will grant you that football may be the closest facsimile, as a team can repeatedly stare down its fate and continue its march to eventual pay-off or heartbreak.  But again, each moment is slightly different (different down, different field position, different personnel, different amount of time on the clock, etc.).

Hockey, golf, tennis, soccer?  None of them have “it”.

But in baseball, you can – and often do – relive the same moment over and over again.  A virtual Groundhog Day (Moment?) that can happen on what seems to be a perpetual loop, and you never quite know when it will end.

The two-strike pitch provides that anticipation.  The 3-2 pitch is great because there is no room for error; the pitcher has to come in or the batter will stroll to first base.  On a 3-2 count, the batter is especially attuned to the pitcher, knowing the small margin, and is fighting for his (or her, hello Mo’ne Davis) proverbial life.

If you are an active viewer of the game, you see this coming.  The batter either takes a first pitch strike our “just misses” one.  The cat and mouse game has begun.  Maybe the pitcher gets ahead and now the batter is in a defensive posture; or maybe the pitcher starts behind and the batter has the upper hand.  But, some how, some way, we end up at a two-strike count.  And we, as fans, try to guess who will outsmart whom; or, as they say on MLB Network, “who kept their cool?”

This is where the lack of a clock (game, pitch, shot, or otherwise) makes baseball beautiful.  The batter keeps one foot in the box (per the new rules) and readjusts his helmet and batting gloves; he smacks some dirt off his spikes; digs in and waggles his bat.  Meanwhile, the pitcher goes behind the mound and picks up the rosin bag; steps to the rubber and takes a deep breath; he checks the sign from the catcher, and either shakes him off, in which event the excruciating delay is further prolonged, or he nods in assent.  With his glove poised in front of his face, the pitcher begins what seems to be an interminable windup, and then lets the horsehide fly.  We watch this with agonized anticipation; and time seems to slow to a stop.  Our hearts find their way into our throats, while our stomachs somehow move southward.  The tension could not be any greater.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the batter breaks the air with his massive swing.  And we, with breath bated, watch as . . .

He fouls the pitch back to the screen; or down the line; or just off the catcher’s glove.

And we still have a two-strike count.  Rinse and repeat.  And then deduct another 10-15 minutes from the back end of your life.

In no other sport can you get this type of anticipation, build-up, release, and, ultimately, failure to produce an outcome.  And, in baseball, you cannot run out of time.  Time is both your best friend and your worst enemy.

In football, you know that one way or another, this pain will end in 30 seconds; 24 seconds (or less) in basketball (of course, a team could always call a timeout, but that is a red herring).  In baseball, this moment of stress can last for what seems like forever.

And as desperately as you want it to end, some part of you wants it to last evermore.  Can you imagine any other moment in your life where you are on the brink of exultation, but it is staved off over and over again, being postponed indefinitely?  People would (and do) pay good money for that kind of thrill.  And yet, you can get is for free on television every night for nearly seven months.  You can get it for free at your local Little League ballpark nearly every afternoon every spring.

The letdown we all experience when the season ends is partly attributable to this feeling.  Rock stars rely on drugs to approximate what they feel on stage.  Athletes refer to the camaraderie of the clubhouse, hanging on for a season or two too long, not wanting to lose that feeling.

For us, the fans, it is the two-strike pitch that forces us to dedicate way too much of our free (and not so free) time watching a languid game played in a park where players in their home whites go to battle using pearls and maple wood and fine leather.  It is the anticipation of the moment, the prolonged absence of action followed by a glimmer of hope, culminating in the lack of culmination.  Let’s face facts, we are flat out junkies.

Baseball will never be football, nor basketball, nor soccer, nor tennis; and for that, we are grateful.

In case you have forgotten, in case you haven’t had a hit for some time, below are – for my money – the two best two-strike moments in baseball history (added bonus for occurring in the World Series).

(This is simply the best when you add up foul balls + power + youth vs. experience + the situation):

(A razor-close second best when you add up foul balls + injury + experience vs. experience + the situation):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0smIeeH55HA

PLAY BALL!!

FANATICS

What is your first reaction when you hear the word “fanatic”? Is it positive or negative?

With the possible exception of the Phillie Phanatic, who brings joy to patrons, players, and the occasional coach, I would imagine the properly-spelled “fanatic” doesn’t conjure too many kind thoughts.  Outside of that oversized, fluffy green doll, I think it is safe to say that we tend to have a jaded – if not fearful – view of fanatics.  Whether it is religion, politics, war, or sports, we don’t want to live next door to – let alone share a meal with – a fanatic.

With that in mind, would it surprise you to know that the word “fan” is derived from the word “fanatic”?  Makes perfect sense, no?  Some sources actually believe that the word “fan” was, in the late 19^th century, a shortening of the word “fanatic”, relating specifically to baseball enthusiasts.  I guess that’s fitting.

Over the last 125 years, society has mellowed (one would hope).  And excepting 10¢ beer night (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DeTpnOzoPdw) and some unruly people in the bleachers, it seems that, in time, baseball “fans” on the whole have become something different/better than “fanatics”.  (As an aside, I am not sure the same can be said of soccer “fans” who seem to be every bit the “fanatics” of years past.)  But before we start to feel too good about ourselves, remember that – even though we have lost the fanatic tag – we still follow our teams and the game with the devotion of a fanatic.

According to Webster, a fanatic is a person “marked by excessive enthusiasm and often intense uncritical devotion”.  And a fan is “an enthusiastic devotee, follower, or admirer of a sport, pastime, celebrity, etc.”

This all begs the $64,000 question: Where is the line; at what point do you stop being a fan and become a fanatic?

For instance, is it “excessive enthusiasm” or just plain “enthusiastic devotion” when you paint your face with your favorite team’s colors/logo?  How about naming your child after your sports hero?  Or decorating an entire room of your house?  Having season tickets or watching every game on television (70% of Los Angeles cannot do that with the Dodgers, natch)?  In a vacuum, it is very difficult to draw the line.

We know, of course, when someone leaves that line in the dust: When you throw batteries at opposing outfielders; when you beat the other team’s fans in the parking lot; when you threaten to kill a guy for interfering (arguably) with a play on the field.  In those instances, we are dealing with fanatics, and society needs to step in before someone gets (even more) hurt.

So, while we can sometimes see the line between “excessive enthusiasm” and “enthusiastic devotion”, how about “intense uncritical devotion”?  Is dialing in to sports radio and calling for the manager to be fired considered “intense uncritical devotion”?  Is burning a player’s jersey when he leaves the team “intense uncritical devotion”?  Is wearing the same t-shirt for every game of the World Series to ensure that the Baseball Gods smile favor down on your team “intense uncritical devotion”?  I guess “intense uncritical devotion” is in the eye of the beholder.  And if you have ever tried to talk reason to a crazed sports fan (oftentimes referred to as a “fanatic”), try not to look into the eye of that beholder, as you might now like what you see.  Napolean once said: “There is no place in a fanatic’s head where reason can enter.”

“Uncritical devotion”, as its own concept, is difficult to deal with.  When intensity is added to the mix, look the hell out.

Intense uncritical devotion leads people to say and do things that – if they were in their right, logical, Namaste-inclined mind – they would never say or do.  Sometimes we appreciate this intense uncritical devotion – these are the fans that still come to the ballpark in the dog days of August because, “you never know . . . string a few wins together and we might be right back in the race . . .”  Sometimes we hate it, like when they call Clayton Kershaw “a bum” because he has walked two batters.

But what about when people start coming up with crazy conspiracy theories in support of their (or against someone else’s) team?  Does that reek of “intense uncritical devotion”?  These conspiracy theories are prevalent in all sports, and they – like the truth – are “out there”.

•  Celtics fans (as well as many others) believe the referees fixed Game 6 of the 2002 NBA Western Conference Finals to ensure the Kings lost.

• The people of Arkansas think Sonny Liston was KO’d by Muhammad Ali’s “phantom punch” in 1965.

• Red Sox haters still claim that Curt Schilling put ketchup on his sock in Game 6 of 2004 ALCS.

• Any basketball fan outside of New York City thinks that the only way the Knicks got Patrick Ewing in the 1985 draft was because the NBA froze their lottery envelope.

• Chicagoans can never believe that Michael Jordan took an early retirement to fulfill his lifetime dream of playing baseball, but that David Stern made him step away due to illicit gambling activities.

• And, of course, Dodger fans on both coasts believe that the “Shot Heard ‘Round the World” would never have happened if the Giants hadn’t been stealing signs from the centerfield scoreboard.

It’s not just kids who say the darndest things.

So the next time you are sitting in the stands, or walking through the parking lot, or waiting on hold for some talk show, or typing a pithy reply to a Tweet or Facebook post, ask yourself the following questions: In the sober light of day, when all emotion has been stripped away, is what I am about to do or say reasonable?  Am I being an enthusiastic devotee or am I showing intense uncritical devotion.  If the former, fire away.  If the latter, think twice, then a third time, and then go with discretion – it is always the better part of valor.

Be a fan, not a fanatic.

PLAY BALL!!

p.s.  The inspiration for this post was some recent events I have witnessed and heard about.  But, I guess this topic is in the zeitgeist, as in this week’s Sports Illustrated (you will get it in the mail in a few days) there is a review of a book entitled: “Fanaticus: Mischief and Madness in the Modern Sports Fan”.  I wrote this before seeing that.

 

THE BLIVET

As an ode to my mom, who never missed an opportunity to say something whacky or just plain funny, I present to you the “blivet”. Sure, we could go with Webster, and tell you that a “blivet” is also known as a poiuyt, devil’s fork, or widget.  I could explain to you that a blivet is an undecipherable figure, an optical illusion, and an impossible object; something that appears to have three cylindrical prongs at one end which then mysteriously transform into two rectangular prongs at the other end.  Here, stare at it for a while.

But no, that is not what I am talking about.

Long before there was ever the concept of the Urban Dictionary, my mom was extolling the virtues and vices of the “blivet”, which, in her and UD’s world, is defined as 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag.

What, on God’s green earth, you ask, does this have to do with baseball?  Ah, I am glad you asked.

Every day I pick my son up from baseball – be it a game or a long practice – and each time I am treated to a protracted delay while he tries to put all of his equipment into what I deem to be an already very large bag.  My son is truly shoving 10 pounds of shit into a 5 pound bag.  He then turns it upright, rolls it to the car, and allows me to wrench my back lifting it into the trunk.  Who needs all 10 pounds of this shit?  Not to get all “get off of my lawn”, but in my day…

…In my day, we rode our bikes to the park and to practice.  If we were lucky, we had a bat (usually wood, although that changed in the mid-’80s) that we held across our handlebars, with our lone glove on one end of the bat and our cleats tied to the other.  We held on for dear life (no helmets required), and then rode home at dusk.  In between, we played some pretty good baseball.

While I acknowledge that riding your bike to practice today is both impractical and against all societal norms, the rest of it could theoretically still hold true.

Alas, that is not the case.  Here is a brief summary of what currently resides in my son’s baseball bag (and yes, I am 89.4% to blame for this): 1 very expensive, totally unnecessary, top of the line, aluminum (or composite, who the hell knows) baseball bat; 1 pitcher’s glove; 1 outfielders’ glove; 1 first baseman’s glove; 1 catcher’s glove; a set of shin guards; a chest protector; a catcher’s mask; a batting helmet; multiple pairs of batting gloves; 2 different arm sleeves; a few loose baseballs; 2 wrist protectors (one a custom Evoshield and another off-brand that actually provides more protection); an odd wristband; and a pair of cleats.  He isn’t a player so much as he is a section of Sports Authority.

As I have previously written, I remember with great clarity the day I got my first first baseman’s glove, which upped my equipment tally by 33.3%.  My son could lose a $200 mitt in his bag and forget it even exists.

Each kid today must have his own helmet – heaven forbid lice gets spread.  Each must have his own bat – when did the Easton corporation perform a mind meld on every Little Leaguer such that his life is incomplete if he doesn’t have the latest SL or Mako model?  Each kid must have multiple mitts.  How could a fielder ever handle first base with a glove that has individualized fingers?  Some players now sport two pairs of cleats – rubber for Little League and metal for travel ball.  Cleats that, ostensibly, he will out grow before he wears out.  And each player must have a high performance bag to carry all this swag – be it a cool backpack with slots for multiple bats (really?) or a bag with wheels to protect their precious lumbars.  When did this happen?  How did this happen?  Why did this happen?

As to when, it must have been some time in the past 5-10 years, but maybe it happened even earlier.

As to how, that is simple.  We, as parents, allowed it to happen.

As to why, I have a few thoughts, in no particular order:

• Ubiquity.  When I was a kid, sporting goods were the purview of a single aisle at Thrifty Drugs, a small section at Sears (where they also sold fishing rod and guns), the local sporting goods store (which didn’t open in my neighborhood until I was in high school), and the occasional mail-order catalogue that found its way into our mailbox.  Today, kids are just a few clicks away from “what pros wear”.  In fact, “whatproswear.com” is an actual website that contains links to everything you see on television or at the stadium.  (And, not for nothing, this is an awesome site to get lost in, and which make you pine to be a kid again.)  Everything they could want is within reach, all they need is . . .

• Vicariousness.  If you are anything like me, when you were a kid you wanted everything you saw, but for the reasons stated above, plus parents who didn’t really care what we wanted, plus the cost of such items, that gear was unattainable.  So, if you are anything like me, you live vicariously through your kids in the swag department.  Batting gloves that match the uniform, check; cleats with cool contrasting laces, check; glove with his name embroidered on the side, check, check, and check.  If we couldn’t have that stuff, at least they can.

• The Joneses.  You gotta keep up.  This has various permutations.  The first is obvious – Little Timmy’s got it, so your guy should have it too.  That story doesn’t get much traction in my house, but that story gets told nonetheless.  But how about the fact that your kid won’t have a helmet to wear unless you buy him one?  The league doesn’t provide them, and teammates (or their parents) are loathe to let someone borrow theirs.  This is a real life issue.  Or this one: Bobby and Mikey both have $40 custom-molded Evoshield elbow guards; your kid asks for one and you laugh him out of the room.  And then he gets hit on the elbow and you feel (a) guilty, (b) like an asshole, (c) like a cheap asshole, and (d) a guilty, cheap asshole who has now lost all high ground in these future battles.  I guess Bobby and Mikey have better parents than my kid.

• Coolness.  Truth be told, the equipment is just plain cool.  Even if you never played the game, and thus have no vicariousness to deal with, you still want your kid to look cool on the field.  And, let’s be honest, the Oakley Half Jacket 2.0 XL with Black Iridium lenses and team color sock kit just look damn good (even if they spend the majority of their time perched on top of the cap rather than on the player’s eyes).  What 12-year old doesn’t need an arm sleeve – let alone a custom one with his initials or number on it?  What group of 12-year olds doesn’t need matching $150 bags with their names and numbers embroidered on them so they can hang side-by-side on the back of the dugout?  Let’s face it, the majority of the people reading this blog never wore Fonzie’s jacket, but we all hold out hope that our kid just might.

This phenomenon, rest assured, is not exclusive to baseball; it is just the world we live in today.  When I pick my daughter up from her dance studio, after her two hour practice (which, of course, includes a private lesson), I am stuck waiting in the lobby while she jams all of her dance gear into a pink, embroidered (with her name), customized (for her dance team), wheeled blivet.

For generations people have had as their solitary goal that their children have a better life than they.  In many ways, that is the American Dream.  I just don’t think, when immigrants started landing on Ellis Island in the late 19^th century, they could have ever envisioned that all of their worldly belongings – their own personal blivets – would fit into a knapsack smaller than the bag my son takes to the field every day.

And when the children of those immigrants first picked up a broomstick and a Spaldeen, and ran from manhole to manhole, avoiding parked cars and angry shop owners, I highly doubt they ever worried about modified trap webbings, BBCOR technology, or Pittards digital sheepskin leather.  They cared about the game of baseball – and getting home before the streetlights came on.

Ah well, this is the monster we created; we could always say, “no”.

So, if you can find one at the bottom of that suitcase your player rolls into the dugout, I say to you . . .

PLAY BALL!!

BASEBALL GODS

I’m a Red Sox fan.  There, I admitted it.  And I have no shame in doing so.  Of course, that is considerably easier today than it was 12 years ago.  Over the past 11 seasons, the Red Sox have won 3 World Series championships.  It’s not hard to be a fan.  After 86 years of futility, after countless near-misses, after torturing not only a fan base but an entire region of this great country, it seems the Baseball Gods smiled down on the players housed in a musty clubhouse locked underneath the then 92-year old edifice erected between Lansdowne St. and Yawkey Way.  Ah, the Baseball Gods.

Do they exist, these oft-quoted, oft-lamented, Baseball Gods?  If you are a superstitious sort, like I am, you definitely believe.  There has not been any qualitative or quantitative research done on the number of Atheist baseball fans who believe in the Baseball Gods, but I have to imagine there are more than a few.  If not for the Baseball Gods, how could you explain the crazy turns of event that seem to happen over and over again?

And the corollary to the concept is that one must go to great lengths not to upset the Baseball Gods.  It is a well worn fact that, in the midst of a no-hitter, you don’t deign to talk to the pitcher, and the announcers and fans are verboten from discussing the same.  We have now taken this to its logical and technological conclusion, to the world of social media, where this edict is now writ large (small?).  To wit:

SportsCenter ‏@SportsCenter Jun 14: DEVELOPING: Nationals P Max Scherzer has not allowed a baserunner vs Brewers through 6 innings. He has 11 strikeouts on 67 pitches.

You see any words that are conspicuously missing?

How about this one:

Baseball Tonight ‏@BBTN Jun 9: Chris Heston is having himself a pretty good game…

Or last night:

No one – with the possible exception of Buster Olney who, for reasons that are inexplicable, doesn’t believe – wants to be the guy who pissed off the Baseball Gods are caused a base hit to occur.

How about when the Baseball Gods have taken out their animus on entire organizations (see Cubs, Chicago; Red Sox, Boston)?  The Baseball Gods were big fans of the Bambino in Boston and not so much Billy Goats on the ballfield.  Is there any other way to explain, in no particular order:

• Bucky “Fucking” Dent
• Bill Buckner
• Aaron “Bleeping” Boone
• Steve Bartman
• Leon “Bull” Durham (in case you forgot, a quick reminder)

And, to that end, is there any other way to explain how fortunes change?  Go to Netflix and watch “Four Days in October” and tell me that some form of divine intervention wasn’t at play.

Or what about baseball’s biggest heel: Barry Bonds.  Did anyone – mortal or otherwise outside the City by the Bay – want him and the Giants to win the 2002 World Series?  Apparently not, as that series turned on a dime when Scott Spezio (yup, Scott Spezio, who later fell out of baseball in a haze of drug abuse and ended up being tased by the police a few months back) changed a player’s and a team’s fortunes with one swing of the bat.

The Baseball Gods are not fond of certain vices; gambling on the sport, for instance.  The White Sox (er, Black Sox) fixed the 1919 World Series. They didn’t get back to another World Series for 40 years (losing to the Dodgers in ’59), and didn’t win one until 2005.  It seems the Baseball Gods abide by some long-gestating statute of limitations.

The Baseball Gods are not kind to premature victory celebrations.  Take, for instance, the 2001 World Series, wherein the Yankees were up a run going into the bottom of the ninth of Game 7, with Mariano Rivera on the mound.  Some marketing mensa thought it made sense to cover the Yankees’ locker room with plastic and roll out cases of champagne.  We all know what happened next, as the D-Backs got to Rivera and Luis Gonzalez duck-farted his way into World Series lore.  I hope that same lackey was charged with clearing out the clubhouse before any shocked Yankee made it down the tunnel.

Nor do Baseball Gods take kindly to “Bush League” behavior.  For a litany of examples, see the career high (low?) lights of one Alex Rodriguez.  He ran across the mound in Oakland – much to the dismay of Dallas Braden; he yelled “Hah, I got it” while running past the third baseman in Toronto; he smacked the ball out of Bronson Arroyo’s glove in Game 6 of the 2004 ALCS, and then claimed he did nothing of the sort.  We could do this all day with this guy.  End result: A-Rod received the harshest drug punishment in the history of the sport – without ever failing a drug test.  The Baseball Gods (this time in the form of Bud Selig) had spoken.

Lest we think the Baseball Gods only focus on the Big Leaguers, I personally pissed them off a few years ago.  After the fifth run scored in extra innings of a win or go-home game, I started making weekend plans for the next round of playoffs.  Wouldn’t you know it, the opposing team scored six times in the bottom half – culminating with a walk-off grand slam (which was preceded by a Bull Durham/Bill Buckner-esque ball through the first baseman’s wickets).  I knew I had done wrong when I opened my mouth, but thought there was no way the Baseball Gods would bother with a 12-year old baseball game.  As my daughter is apt to say, “I guess you were wrong”.

The Baseball Gods are also quick to punish what they believe are unfair outcomes.  Last week we (re)learned about Merkle’s Boner. That mistake (read: properly but questionably enforced rule) allowed the Cubs to win the pennant and then the World Series.  As we discussed, they haven’t won one since, and haven’t even been back in 70 years.  Or, how about when a coach appeals and wins a questionable (albeit, by the rules, correct) interference call early in a series, only to end up losing that series in the final game?  The Baseball Gods never forget; their power is always lurking right around the corner.

So forget Friday the 13th and black cats running across the field, it is not calendars and felines you need to be worried about.  It is the omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent Baseball Gods with whom you must curry favor.  So grab your glove (which, hopefully, no one else has touched), step over the baseline, touch second base on your way to the outfield, use the same bat over and again, draw a symbol in the batter’s box, carry a crystal in your back pocket, and then just go about your business.  Because nothing can affect your performance or the outcome of the game . . . except the Baseball Gods.

PLAY BALL!!

WHEN IS A RULE A RULE?

It is often said that lawyers are the people in society who have read the inside of the box.  We (ostensibly) know the rules, and we are charged with helping interpret those rules, enforcing those rules, and/or seeking remediation when someone violates those rules.  But what happens when a rule isn’t a rule?  What happens when there is another side of the box, the side with the rules that are seldom enforced?  (As an aside, we will cover the unwritten rules at another time.)

Situation in Point: A shortstop, in attempting to turn a double-play, doesn’t touch the bag.  This is so commonplace that is has its own name: “The Neighborhood Play”.  Abide by the specific rules of baseball, and the base runner is safe.  When was the last time that call was made?

Situation in Point: A third baseman swipes the tag down well ahead of a would-be base stealer.  The throw and tag beat the runner by some distance, but the glove (with the ball) doesn’t actually make contact with the sliding player.  We often chalk that one up to “the throw beat him”, so he should be out.  With instant replay now being utilized at the Big League level, this is probably a safe call.  But for the last 100+ years (prior to 2014), more often than not (read: nearly always), the runner was out.  Was this the right call?

How many times have you seen the strike zone expand on a 3-0 count?  Or when a pitcher is at the plate?  Or shrink for a batter with a reputation for a great eye (see Boggs, Wade)?  Again, with new technology and umpires under stricter scrutiny, this happens less often, but it still happens.  Isn’t a ball a ball and a strike a strike, regardless . . .?

Umpires have an incredibly difficult job.  The rule book looks like a phone book and reads like the Talmud.  And yet, umpires are expected to know all of the rules, recognize the play, and make the right call, all in a split second.  Not so easy to do.  So, should they be forgiven for being lenient?  Or for choosing when not to enforce the rules?

How about this one, a direct case on point: A college softball player hits her first and only homerun of her career.  Coming around first base she tears a ligament in her knee, and cannot make it around the bases.  By rule, if her teammates help her, she will be out; if she cedes to a pinch-runner, it will be a single.  Isn’t this an instance when the rule need not be a rule?  Apparently not, as it took the great sportsmanship and humanity of her opponents to help make the homerun happen for the injured player.  By the way, this happened twice – on the same day, six years apart.

(After what we have seen recently in college softball, it is worth reading these to reaffirm your faith.)

http://www.tampabay.com/sports/colleges/foes-carry-softball-player-around-bases-after-her-first-homer/481640

http://espn.go.com/espnw/news-commentary/article/10848732/espnw-florida-southern-college-softball-players-carry-injured-eckerd-college-opponent-bases-game-winning-homer

A rule is a rule, even when the umpires need to use common sense to enforce it.  A batter hits a swinging bunt down the third base line.  It rolls and rolls.  If the third baseman touches it, it will be a fair ball, and an infield single.  So, he does what any right-thinking grown man would do: he drops to his knees and blows the ball into foul territory.  Ingenious?  Not so much; the umpires rule interference, the batter is safe, and now it is the hitter who gets to blow – a sigh of relief, that is.

But, sometimes, a rule is not a rule, and umpires (or league officials) have to use common sense not to enforce it.

In 1983, George Brett came to the plate at (Old) Yankee Stadium to face Rich “Goose” Gossage.  The Royals trailed 4-3, there were two outs, and U.L. Washington (and his toothpick) were on first.  We all know what happened next: Brett hit a bomb deep into the right field seats; Billy Martin contested the homerun claiming George had too much pine tar on his bat; Umpire Tim McLelland agreed (invoking MLB Rules 1.10(c) and 6.06) and called Brett out; game over; and then Mt. George erupted.  By all accounts, Brett was in violation of the rule, and however bush it may have been, Martin (and McLelland) were right in their assessment.  However, American League president Lee McPhail disagreed, claiming that was not the “spirit of the restriction”.  McPhail overruled the rule, and allowed the homerun to stand.  The teams had to finish the game nearly a month later (with Ron Guidry playing centerfield and Don Mattingly playing second base), and the Royals tallied the victory.

The “when is a rule a rule” debate has become heated the past two seasons with respect to “foreign substances” that pitchers use to get a better grip on the ball.  Back in the day, Vaseline was the substance du jour, but that was used to gain a competitive advantage.  Hell, Gaylord Perry, a self-described cheat (his biography is entitled “Me and the Spitter”), is in the Hall of Fame (see, Bloom Back on the Rose, March 21, 2015).

In my day, sandpaper and nail files were used for competitive advantage.  Today, it does not seem that pitchers use the substances to cheat, but cheating it is (Rule 8.02(4)).  But when?  If Clay Buchholz loads goop into his hair and touches his flowing locks in between every pitch, why don’t the umpires call him out.  When Kenny Rogers had a dark streak of something on his throwing hand in the World Series, or Jon Lester had some green substance on his glove during another World Series, why were those acceptable?  And yet, when Michael Pineda loads up his neck with pine tar; or when Brian Matusz or Will Smith put a little rosin and sunscreen on their arms, let the suspensions begin.  Which rule were they violating that the others were/have not?

(As an aside/on a related note, this is one of my favorite videos: Joe Niekro trying to fling away an Emery board.)

One thing we can all agree upon is that, with respect to the field, all of the rules must be enforced, right?  Well, not always.  How many times have you seen a batter wipe away the back line of the batter’s box before he digs in a little farther back.  Rare is the umpire – at the MLB level, at least – who will redraw the batter’s box.  I guess Rule 6.03 isn’t necessarily “a rule”.  Or what about teams who over-chalk the baselines if they have especially proficient bunters?  Or teams that over-water the infield if facing a team with speedsters?  I guess umpires liberally interpret (i.e., don’t enforce) Rule 1.04.

Here is a famous one that could easily not have been enforced.  To baseball aficionados it is known as “Merkle’s Boner”.  If you don’t know the story, it’s pretty good one:

On September 23, 1908, Fred Merkle, all of 19 years old, having played in only 38 games all year, was called for his first big league start against the Cubs in the heat of the pennant race (Merkle’s Giants were tied with the Cubs for first place).  With the game tied 1-1 in the bottom of the ninth, Merkle came to the plate with the winning run on first.  This was only his 48^th plate appearance of the season.  Merkle promptly singled down the rightfield line, moving the winning run to third.  The next batter, the light-hitting Al Bridwell, ripped the first pitch into centerfield for the apparent game winner.  Giants fans poured out of the stands and mobbed the field.  Merkle, advancing from first base, saw the onslaught of fans and (knowing what a crowd of unruly/overly excited New Yorkers might do to him) turned back to the dugout before ever reaching second base.  The Cubs’ centerfielder, responding to his teammate’s pleas, tossed the ball to Johnny Evers, who stepped on second base to record the third out.  Rule 4.09 was enforced, and “Merkle’s Boner” was born.  So much chaos ensued that the game was ruled a tie, and the teams had to meet two weeks later to decide the pennant.  The Cubbies won that game, on their way to winning the 1908 World Series.  Which, as we all know, is the last time that happened.  Which leads us to a topic for another day: The Baseball Gods . . .

As with most topics, we could go on and on.  You watch enough baseball, you will see and learn something new nearly every day.  Unfortunately, you oftentimes have to learn it by figuring out what rule was or was not enforced.

To some people, baseball is boring.  To others, it is confusing.  To us, it is beautiful.  But even to the baseball lovers and cognoscenti among us, it is truly dizzying trying to determine “when is a rule a rule”.

PLAY BALL!!!

HOW MUCH IS TOO LITTLE?

The game is over, the dugout is empty, and the field has been dragged.  One team is headed to the snack bar or the parking lot.  And the other team is jumping into a dogpile in the outfield.  The jubilation of a come-from-behind victory?  Possibly the sweet relief of a hard-fought tournament championship?  Nope, the end result of a 10-run, 4-inning mercy at the hands of a considerably stronger opponent.

In some circles, that dogpile would be players throwing haymakers at each other; blaming one player or another for not tagging up, or failing to cover a base, or over-throwing a cut-off man.  But, in this particular dogpile, you had a bunch of players who had processed the loss and moved on.  Quickly.  Too quickly for some.  Much too quickly for me.

Here is the rub: For the past few years, I have had the honor of coaching a travel baseball team.  Now, I realize that many of you immediately recoil at the thought of travel ball (although, if you are reading this blog, probably not), and all that it entails.  Trust me when I tell you that everything you have heard is exaggerated and yet totally on point.  But I digress.

Coaching this group of kids has been one of my greatest pleasures.  However, my biggest frustration with this team has not been the strike outs, or the dropped pop flys, or the sometimes circus-like throws about the field.  No, my biggest frustration has been what appears to be a lack of caring.  Now, I am not a psychologist, but I certainly play one in the dugout.  And to my knowing eyes, our boys care more about what’s for lunch than they do who’s on first.  That said, I could be wrong, and this could just be the loosest group of athletes ever assembled.

But I often ask myself (and others): How much better would we be if the boys cared more?  If they had that fire in the belly, would the outcomes to our games be different?  I see other teams where winning is the only thing.  They seem to do well.  But, I don’t live with them, and I certainly don’t coach them, so I cannot say with any certainty that that is accurate.  And, even if it is, to what end?  They are, of course, “only 12” (or 7, 8, 9, 10, or 11).

Would it be better – for the team, for the coach, for the player – if every strikeout resulted in a chucked helmet or a slammed bat?  Would tears on the mound result in more batters struck out?  Or would tears in the batter’s box mean less slow walks back to the dugout?

Can a group of young players care too much?  Can they care too little?

A few weeks back, I and a bunch of coaches, players, and fans were treated to a spectacle not often witnessed on a Little League diamond.  We got to see a young man slam his bat onto home plate with such ferocity that the dish nearly came loose (this, before a pitch was even thrown).  We then saw outrage (genuine, eye-rolling, jaw-dropping, foot stomping outrage) when the umpire deigned to call a strike.  When this young gentleman’s team lost, he threw his hat; chucked his glove; and went Paul O’Neill to the dugout.  And, for the final indignity, the player tore out the outfield grass as his coach attempted post-game condolences.  It was performance art at its most absurd.  Suffice it to say, this young Sam Kinison cared a little too much.

Is there a happy medium?  Can we get our kids to channel their desire for excellence into actual excellence, without the end result being tantrums and self-flagellation?

Or is this just hard-wired, and we cannot change the spots on our pre-teen leopards?

Or is it situational?  In certain circumstances, kids will feel the weight of the world and squeeze the sawdust out of the bat (metaphorically speaking, of course); while in other situations they stroll back to the dugout after looking at strike three without a care in the world.

I tell the kids all the time that they have chosen a vicious sport, a sport predicated on failure.  You all know the adage: Fail 7 times out of 10 and you an All-Star; only fail 6 times out of 10 and you are a Hall of Famer.  Over the past 6 years, there has been an average of nearly 1.5 errors per MLB game.  And that just counts the physical errors.  Hell, Mike Trout (everyone’s All American) struck out looking 53 times in 2013 (and was 2nd in MVP voting).  Julio Teheran picked off 8 baserunners in 2013; 5 more in 2014; and has already picked off 3 this season.  If that isn’t mental failure on the part of baserunners (at this point they should know he is pretty good), I don’t what is.

So, with that much failure at hand, how much caring is enough?  How much is too little?  How do we – on behalf of our kids – attempt to regulate this.  Should we be pleased when a player comes back to the dugout and slams his helmet but then, five minutes later, gathers himself and struts right back out to play defense?  Or is that too much emotion?  Should we be pissed when he allows a ball to go through his legs or overthrows his first base, and just laughs it off?  Or is that a healthy reaction to a game predicated on failure?  I wish I knew the answer(s).

Maybe the lesson here is that we, as coaches and parents, need to care less.  Maybe we let them fail and/or succeed in their own way, provided they are not harming themselves, their teammates, or their team.  If they do cross that line, then we pull them from the game (hard to do as a parent sitting in the stands; harder still when you are coaching your own kid).

All I know is that baseball is sheer joy.  It is frustrating as hell; it can be humiliating and maddening; it can bring outright happiness and downright despair.  But it is a beautiful thing.  There is a reason that the vast majority of the readers of this blog get a little tingle when Vin Scully intones: “It’s time for Dodger baseball”.  There is a reason we leave the office early to sit in the stands or on a bucket for 2½ hours a few times a week for months on end.  There is a reason we plan our long weekends around baseball tournaments.

And what we should want, more than anything else, more than winning or losing, more than success or failure, what we should want is for our kids – 30 years (or more) down the road – to have this same love of baseball.  We don’t want them to burn out or learn to hate the sport (as too often happens).  So, whatever mechanism they need to get there – tears on the mound, batting gloves torn from hands, giggles on the walk from the batter’s box, or dogpiles after getting their asses handed to them – we should support wholeheartedly.  Because, in the end, it is all:

PLAY BALL!!