Some Baseball Talk

A foray into my love for baseball, and an attempt to see what this amazing game means.

“You could throw a grand piano at home plate and he would find a way to put it into play.” So said the announcer as I watched the highlights of the Kansas City Royals the other night. He spoke of one Bobby Witt, Jr., who leads the MLB with a batting average of .344.

This year I have watched highlights from four teams: Reds, Phillies, Dodgers, and of course the Royals. For years I have more or less ignored baseball until the playoffs. And then if the World Series interested me I'd follow somewhat. But, being a Kansas native, I've always loved the Royals.

And because I loved the Royals, I hated the Yankees. I hated the Yankees because, in my memory, they always knocked the Royals out of the playoffs. In matter of fact, they faced each other for the pennant five times from 1976 to 1981. The Royals only won once, after which they lost 4-2 to the Phillies in the World Series. Did I mention I was no fan of the Yankees?

The Royals of my boyhood years, long before the World Series drought from 1986-2014, were a formidable team. Among many notable players they had Freddie Patek, Hal McRae, Willie Wilson, Dan Quisenberry, and Frank White. Gaylord Perry even pitched for them for a season, and there was the famous Manager, Whitey Herzog. And I am not forgetting George Brett and his quest to average .400 for the season in 1980. He finished with .390 and eventually wound up as a first ballot Hall of Famer in 1999.

As I watch baseball more than ever this year, I find myself wondering what it means. I am amazed at those who love it to the tiniest detail of statistical nuance. I marvel at the athletic prowess, the stunning difficulty of hitting, the finesse of pitching. I smile at the the emphatic calls, the occasional ejection, the surprising errors, and common-place fielding excellence.

I laugh when I read about rarest plays (unassisted triple play), follow arguments on arcane rules (Can someone score a homerun without recording a hit?), or make note of unwritten rules of decorum (best to avoid going for the fence if you are 10 points ahead in the 9th). And I thrill to see how games mimic life in ways quite serious and real. There is something deep and whole in games, and it rises to the surface as I watch baseball.

I watch the mix of rules, like doubling off the runner on a caught line drive. They work because everyone agrees on what is required. The game matters, has a purpose, and can be won (or lost.) Only one can win, and the other loses; and you learn to carry on regardless.

This is all true enough. We take it for granted and sport is only possible with it. How does one make a unity of 95 mph pitches from 62 feet, screaming grounders or lofty fly balls, rounded bases, failed steals, running catches, blown calls, and scored runs? It's a daily miracle: which is to say, it's a game.

We know the reality in our bones. That's why we love to watch. Games assume a goal really matters and focus everything on that one purpose. Games assume risk – great risk. They require the whole person, and that pesky but vital annoyance of learning to work well together.

Games assume winning is a good idea. And they insist -- believe it or not -- that playing your very best matters more than winning.

In the end you put the glove away, toss the sweaty cap on the hook, get a shower and go home. When I played Little League I was always looking to the next game and just could not wait. Something way bigger than me drew me in.

Games matter, I say, and they teach us more than we ever know. I am going to keep watching. And as I enjoy the vicarious journey, I will learn again what matters, and revel in the path of going there.