Obsession

I am not a fan of the sabermetrics push, this seeming willingness to reduce analysis to numbers. It began with baseball but is spreading not only to other sports, but apparently everywhere. And while numbers can be important, as with many other things in life they aren't necessarily the know all be all.

Me Pops liked to talk about Frank Lary, a pitcher on the Detroit Tigers sixty years ago. He was nicknamed the Yankee Killer because he had extraordinary success against that New York team. I'm sure the sabermetricians have an explanation for why, but I suspect it was really only simple fate. Sometimes things just happen, they just are what they are. Lary owned the Yanks. That's how it was. Is an explanation necessary, helpful, or even obtainable by reason and analysis? I doubt it.

As I said, it's going beyond baseball. The absurdity is, it seems, to be found in other areas. I stumbled across an article the other day which declared, after thorough analysis of the structure of various Beatles songs, their hit In My Life,  a truly wonderful song, was with a 98% chance of accuracy written primarily by John Lennon. We should be astounded by that revelation...except that virtually everyone connected to the song (although, to be fair, Paul McCartney debates the point) have long conceded that it was a Lennon tune. Why are we even analyzing it then?

I mean, how much more can we know, how much more useful information can additional study bring? Especially when there probably isn't a worthwhile final answer, as with that old Yankee Killer Lary. Sometimes it's simply how things happened, nothing more.

Perhaps it helps you to know that a certain right handed batter is more likely to hit a double at 3:12 on a Thursday afternoon in Cleveland with runners on first and third with one out in the fourth and an easterly wind of 8 MPH off of a lefty pitcher who was drafted from Vanderbilt in the second round, was born in Decatur, Illinois, and had blue eyes. Well, there you have it. Place your bets on such hyper trivia. But you'll have more fun just enjoying the game, watching to see what actually happens rather than anticipating bare chance.

Moving On

Today's missive is courtesy of the Department of Trivial yet Interesting Information to Baseball Fans.

Baseball fans know that teams have sometimes changed cities. At least three have moved twice (one of them, uh, thrice): the Braves, Athletics, and Orioles. The Braves were in Boston, Milwaukee, and currently Atlanta; the Athletics Philadelphia, Kansas City, Oakland, and next, supposedly, Las Vegas. The Orioles began in Milwaukee, ventured to St. Louis, and call Baltimore home these days. There are other instances of franchises finding new locales as well. But does anyone know about the teams who nearly abandoned their original home towns?

Cleveland seriously looked at relocating to Minneapolis in the 1950s. The St. Louis Browns were all set to move to Los Angeles for the 1942 season, but World War II and its travel restrictions got in the way. The St. Louis Cardinals nearly moved to Houston, but the Busch family and beer money saved them (and forced the Browns to move to Baltimore in 1953). It's all trivial yet interesting stuff to baseball wonks.

But what always gives me the opportunity to wipe my forehead and say, "Phew! That was a close one," is that the American League almost moved my beloved Detroit Tigers to Pittsburgh in the early 1900s, to compete directly with the National League's Pirates. Detroit was the smallest city in the AL at the time and the Powers that Be questioned whether it could support major league baseball. Thankfully that move did not happen. And we showed 'em that Detroit is a worthy baseball town, didn't we, Tiger fans?

The Old Ball Game

We, myself, me Pops, and me Grandpa Joe, all lived within two blocks of the Shop, the old barn where we worked when we weren't telling tall tales. It wasn't unusual for any one of us to head home for this or that reason during the work day.

Joe left for his house on some errand early one afternoon. About ten minutes later, the phone rang. "Bill, I think Joe's collapsed out on Hancock street," a worried neighbor told him.

Dad bolted from the Shop. He was quickly on Hancock, but could see from well back it wasn't his father laying along the curb. Still, whoever it was ought to be checked. Me Pops went up to him. 

The man on the ground was face up, staring into the clouds. "You okay, fella?" Dad asked him.

"Oh yeah. I'm just watching the ball game," the guy answered. 

"Ah. Well, who's winning?" Me Pops returned.

"I don't know. I just got to my seat." About then an ambulance pulled up. Apparently Anxious Neighbor had, rightly, already called one. Dad had done his duty, so he stepped back for the EMTs to do theirs.

The Bird Game

I don't know how many Tiger fans remember this date, although I'm sure many do: June 28, 1976. Fifty years ago today. I call it the Bird game: it was the game which shot Mark Fidrych to national fame. I watched it as a sixteen year old, and it is (outside of World Series wins, and then only arguably) my favorite Tigers' game.

Rookie Mark Fidrych, nicknamed the Bird, threw a complete game 5-1 victory over the New York Yankees in a nationally televised Monday night contest. My son found a copy of the event on a VHS tape at a rummage sale and picked it up. The tape was labeled simply, The Fidrych Game. We watched it the day before Memorial Day. Yes, I still have a tape player hooked up to my TV.

Fidrych was a character. He groomed the pitchers's mound, he talked to himself, he thanked the players behind him after good plays. He was certainly unique.

I was struck by how quickly the game was played: I counted typically only 8 - 9 seconds between pitches. That's how you're supposed to play: keep it moving. But far more than that was watching the simple, childlike excitement of the Bird as he pitched. He put on no airs, there was no bravado. He was not grandstanding. He was just playing baseball. And having fun at it.

Then the cheers after the last out were amazing. Tiger Stadium rocked with the chant, "We want Bird! We want Bird!" until he came out for the curtain call. The broad smile, the happiness on his face; he was just so sincere. You don't see that on athletes, and that's a shame. Games should be fun more than anything else, even, perhaps especially, at that level.

The chills still ran down down my spine years later, watching that game with my son. Detroit Tigers fans who never saw the Bird missed something that can't be found even on World Series championship teams. They missed the most deserving player ever to don the Old English D. He may even be the most deserving player ever to take the field in a Major League Baseball game. Fidrych loved the game, and the fans loved him for it.

Anticipation

One of my favorite things about baseball is that you can savor moments, at least more so than in many sports. In hockey, and I do like hockey, goals seem to come up suddenly, indeed almost unexpectedly. Blink and you miss. But baseball? The moments allow a certain enjoyment because they tend to build.

Take the Columbus Clippers game which the Ohio Cosgriffs and I were at last Saturday. The home team won, but it was a slog. They weren't hitting very well, and then the second baseman couldn't complete a double play in the top of the seventh inning, which allowed the lead run to score for the visiting Omaha squad. As that night's match could only be seven innings by rule (it didn't start until after 9 PM because of a rain delay, and in the minor leagues any game beginning that late is seven rather than the typical nine innings) that run loomed large. 

Columbus, then, was down 2-1 as they came up for their last at bats. When the first hitter struck out, it looked bad for the Mudville Nine. But the second batter drew a walk, and a pinch runner who was presumably fleet footed was sent to replace him at first base. A bit of hope was felt by the crowd.

Batter three swung mightily at the first pitch he saw yet missed for a strike. But on the next pitch he connected for a moon shot, a huge, arching fly ball which caused the crowd to jump to its collective feet. The ball sure appeared to be a home run off the bat. Yet you must wait and see. You get to anticipate that happiness which you know approaches.

The ball sank around ten rows beyond the left field wall. Cheers erupted. Columbus wins 3-2 on what is known as a walk off homer, because technically the batter doesn't have to jog around the bases, the contest being decided.

He did, of course, and the patrons could revel in that, their patient fandom rewarded with the late victory. 

Sure, walk-offs as such can happen in other sports. But they aren't as magical as in baseball.

MiLB

The Ohio Cosgriffs and I went to the Columbus Clippers game last night. The Clippers play in the highest baseball minor league, the Triple-A level. It's pretty good ball.

Huntington Park is their home field. It's cozy; seats around 10,000 I'll hazard to guess. It's a nice stadium, pretty much downtown in Ohio's capital.

Baseball brings out the kid in you. Just setting foot in a new arena brings back all those memories of going to games with me Pops and me family. Looking over the old baseball uniforms and equipment on display; the smell of the food; the deep, lush green grass, the bright white bases against the well raked brown soil on the diamond; there's not much better places on Earth than a ballpark. 

I think I'll go again sometime.

Own It

I recently read an article which claimed that the two sports with the oldest average fan base are baseball and golf. The average baseball fan is 58; for golf, it's 62.

What are two sports I watch far and away more than any others? Baseball and golf.

Old age. I am owning it.

Balky Marty

A few years ago I was at a Tigers game with an old friend. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. 

Cloyce and I are both fairly avid baseball fans. We know the rules and what to watch for, although if I may say I'm better at it than he is.

We were sitting along the first base side of the diamond, just about right in line with the pitcher. In this case it was a left hander, so we had a really good look at him. 

Before I go on you need to know what a balk is in baseball. Among other illegal actions, if the pitcher is ruled to have started his throwing motion he must either throw a pitch to the batter or throw to an occupied base, one with a runner on it. If he fails to do either, runners move up. It keeps the pitcher from faking his intentions.

At one point the Tigers had a runner on first; we were playing Baltimore. The Orioles pitcher barely lifted his right foot, then put it back down again without doing anything else. You had to watch very close to see it, but I caught it. "He balked!" I said out loud. The next instant the home plate umpire called time, indicated balk, and motioned the runner on first base to advance to second.

"How did you see that?" Cloyce asked, awed and amazed at my baseball prowess. 

"I came here to watch a game. Didn't you?" I asked in all haughtiness. I mean, you're supposed to see things like that if you're really paying attention, right? 

To this day Cloyce will occasionally look at me and ask, "Balk?," as though he still can't believe it. But hey. I call 'em as I see 'em.

Baseball Theology

I exchanged several text messages with a good friend of mine yesterday. We're both huge baseball fans and both Catholic, so I knew he would get the joke. But I believe most anyone will appreciate the following quip as well.

At one point Nick texted that it seemed most people's baseball memories begin at about 8 years old. I agreed, citing theology. 

You see, the Catholic Church teaches that the age of reason is 7. Typically it's at seven years old we are able to differentiate and appreciate the good from the bad, the right from the wrong, the well from the ill. So I responded it makes perfect sense that we would learn to love baseball by 8. We've reached the age of reason.

I can't think of a better explanation.

 

Philly

I am just returned from a trip to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My sons and I took in a ball game at Citizens Bank Park, the home field of the Philadelphia Phillies. It was a dull game until the 10th inning, when the home team won on a two out bases loaded two run single. The crowd went home happy. 

Citizens Bank is the most recent stadium we've visited. It's not the best but it isn't bad. It is a better place to watch baseball than my hometown Detroit Tigers' Comerica Park, where most seats are simply too far from the field. We sat in the third deck of Citizens yet every bit of a hundred feet nearer the action than at a comparable spot in Comerica. The Philly skyline was clearly visible. Honestly, it's more impressive than Detroit's. Oh, and we had ice cream in small collectible baseball helmet bowls. Ice cream tastes better in baseball helmet bowls. It's just science.

We spent Sunday more or less walking Philadelphia. I have pictures of the Liberty Bell and the chamber of the Continental Congress in Independence Hall. It wasn't the cathartic experience which I as a history wonk expected. Independence was declared in that room, and the Constitution formed. Our Founding Fathers debated great things there and history literally made. I'm glad to have seen it. I simply wasn't as moved as I had always imagined I would be.

We posed by the Rocky statue on the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum and spent a sublime half hour or so in the quiet of the Basilica of Sts. Peter and Paul, a massive and beautiful Church. The three of us ate a too expensive but nonetheless very good pepperoni pizza at a somewhat high end pizza joint (high end pizza joint?) and had desserts of what the locals called Water Ice. It's basically a thick frozen Coke and available in several flavors. You need a spoon to eat it and man oh man, the cherry one I had was outstanding. My sons expressed the same sentiments for the banana and peach flavors they each respectively chose.

So, Philadelphia. Would I visit again? Indeed I would. For cherry water ice, to be sure.

The Old Ball Game

I think sometimes that I could go without sports entirely. Baseball is my favorite and the Detroit Tigers my team, and they're doing very well. Yet I've become content not watching or listening, just catching the scores the next day. In short, I generally feel I don't really miss even baseball.

Then I go to the ballpark. And it all comes back.

I was in Newark, Ohio last weekend visiting the famous Ohio Cosgriffs. We drove into Columbus to see the AAA Clippers, as we've done before. Waking through the gate, seeing the diamond, the deep green grass, being with family and seeing the other families and fans, the aromas, hearing the crack of the bat, watching the great plays (this particular game ended with a great diving catch by the Columbus center fielder to save a 2-1 Clippers win, with the tying run on third and the lead one on first and both likely to score without that play), and getting the Clippers replica jerseys which were being given away that night (we were stylin' I tell ya, the four of us in matching outfits); it all came back, why I love baseball.

I can't wait for the next game.

Tiring

It's all so tiring, life, isn't it? Everything in politics is a catastastroke, to use the term me me Grandpa Joe invented Sports are analyzed to death. I just want to see a batting average or win-loss record, that's all. The future is bright but might be dim, depending on who's doing the talking. And in all three cases, there's a wave of detail rolling over you from the ocean of media available.

I understand details, if something's your specialty. But part of the trouble with the world is the constant barrage of them, and from all sides. It's really too much. I'm not sure anyone can get it all down pat.

I wonder if that's the point. I remember a shop foreman I saw frequently when I was delivering me Grandpa Joe's welders. A big sign in his office proclaimed, 'If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull'. Don't worry about actually making sense. Overwhelm the masses with too much information to readily comprehend, even if it's nonsense. When that doesn't work, well, create a new wave.

Maybe the best thing to do is ignore it all and act on common sense. I think so. And yes, it exists. The rolling tide hasn't erased basic right and wrong from the chalkboard. It certainly doesn't keep us from understanding hits divided by at bats.

The Morning After

The Detroit Tigers began the year well, launching themselves into a huge lead in their division and the best record in baseball. Now they've lost 11 out of 12 and the expected panic is setting in. And that's why I typically don't bother to watch the games anymore.

Simply put, I've decided that sports aren't worth the emotional investment. So I don't watch. I look up the score the next day and grunt at a loss or smile at the news of a win. It keeps me off the roller coaster, and I find I can accept things more readily.

To be sure, come playoff and World Series time I'll likely watch. No; even with that, I'm not so sure. I consciously didn't tune into the Detroit Lions playoff game last football season. I'm quite happy I didn't. Who really wants to see a tank job like that? When I heard the score the next day there wasn't any crying in my coffee. I basically found myself thinking, that's not what I expected, and then went on with my day.

The hype train which sports ask us to ride isn't worth the cost of the ticket. Truthfully, sports are as bad as politics for isn't this the most important thing ever? The older I get, the more I find such attitudes tiresome.

Modern Ball

I love baseball and as a rule am not fond of the new. Anything new, although if it's worthwhile I have been known to warm up to it. I don't live entirely in the Twentieth Century; I think radio is here to stay.

There are those baseball fans who consider themselves purists to a far greater degree than myself. I don't like the designated hitter and I hate the free runner on second to begin extra innings. Yet the folks I'm speaking about like to play the game by very old school rules. It's common to find teams who play according to the rulebook of 1867 and even earlier. They assert that it's a better game. 

Um, no. The modern game with its speed and greater defense and livelier baseballs is a far greater game. The batter (sorry, 'striker') directing the pitcher (I forget his old timey name) what type of throw he'd like? Not really challenging, I would argue.

Of course, the game then was predicated on putting the ball in play, so there is that. If the old rules are what the participants like, all right. It can even be quaint to hear the fielders yell, wrong hander!, when a lefty comes to bat. But after that? Give me modern ball. It is a better game.

Showing my age

April is about my favorite month. Baseball begins, and the second weekend brings the Masters golf tournament.  Life is good.

Interestingly, although I hardly need another reminder of how old I am, I read earlier this week that among the major sports baseball fans average being 57 years old. The only sport with a higher average fan age is golf at 63.

Here I am at 64 and those are the two sports I watch the most.

And then I gain another year later this month, turning 65 the 22nd. Oh well.

But why let all that get you down? Baseball, golf, and my birthday: all in April. I can't think of a reason not to love the most excellent fourth month of the year. 

Happy Day

Uh, Happy New Year!

No, that's not right. Merry Christmas?

Happy Independence Day! Hmm; not that either.

Arbor Day! Yes, Arbor Day. Have a great Arbor Day. Go plant a tree.

Oh. Not Arbor Day. Thanksgiving? Don't eat too much Turkey!

Opening Day for baseball? No; off by about a week.

Not that? Then, then storm the Bastille! Remember the Maine and the Alamo! Fly the old Stars and Stripes for Flag Day! Remember your grandparents this Grandparents Day. Or Mom, yeah, Mom on Mother's Day! Treat her right!

Still not it? But I just know something's in the air today. Yet what?

Baseball is Back!

Man, it's good to watch baseball again. Even though my Detroit Tigers lost 5-4 in the opener last night, it's still a great feeling. I'm not even worried that they were 0 for 15 with runners in scoring position. The Detroits made it close. Yes, they might have won with as few as two hits with runners anxious to cross home plate. They did have two runners on with one out in the top of the Ninth who they couldn't move against a closer clearly struggling. But no need to panic. It's early.

How about that Spencer Torkelson? A home run in his only official at bat, but four walks in four other plate appearances. That makes his batting average 1.000 on the season, and his on base percentage 1.000 as well. That's a pace to hit one thousand on the year. I'm guessing that won't happen, though.

I think I'll just bask in the glow of the National Pastime this morning. Baseball for seven months; life is good. I won't worry about a thing.

It would be easier not to worry without going zero for fifteen with runners in scoring position. But I'm not panicking. No, I'm not.

Okay, maybe just a little. Yet it's early. It's early. Lot of baseball to be played yet. I'm staying calm.

Oh, but geez, we win with just a couple hits in those situations...

Michigan Baseball

Baseball brings people together; it bridges all gaps. 

Just yesterday as I entered the neighborhood supermarket (University Foods on Warren in Detroit; they're good folks) wearing my Lansing Lugnuts cap a voice said, "Hey! You're from Lansing?"

I told the young man, "No, I was at a game last year and bought the cap as a souvenir."

"Oh. Well, Lansing's my hometown. Go Lugnuts!" We did a fist bump at his instigation.

It was a cool moment, brought out by baseball. 

Wayne State Wildlife (Not What You Think)

As I approached the Wayne State University baseball diamond, aptly named Harwell Field (those who know, know) during my walk this morning, I noticed two dogs in the outfield grass. On closer inspection, they sure looked liked wolves, large and gray. I'd best keep an eye on them, I thought. It even occurred to me to wonder if perhaps I should report the sighting to someone, the police or school authorities, or the DNR, somebody.

There is a tall, wooden wall at the end of left field (it has the old left field scoreboard from Tiger Stadium on it) and I was soon behind the monolith. Clearing it beyond center, I looked around to make certain I knew where those wolves were. They were still there. Indeed, they hadn't seemed to have moved. Odd.

By the time I reached the far foul pole, they were still at attention, apparently exactly as they had been for five minutes or so. Intrigued, I stopped along a fence to study things more closely. Maybe I should call out to them? Right, Marty. Let's draw attention to yourself from a wolfpack.

It was then that I finally realized they were fake, or were long dead wolves courtesy of a taxidermist. The plates they stood upon were kind of a giveaway. Now I'm thinking that they must be there to scare off the Canadian geese that I have often spotted waddling along the field. I must say that I was mildly alarmed as well, at least at first.

Seeking the Transcendent

If you only want to be what you already are and to be taught what you already think, there’s no real growth, no authentic dynamism possible. You’re stuck within the limits of  “Me.”

- Robert Royal

Robert Royal is the editor in chief of a website called The Catholic Thing. I found that above quote in an article of his addressing the proposed renovations of the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. You may read his opinion of that here if you like: Notre Dame Restorations

The words I lifted from his essay are among the most profound I have ever come across. In a nutshell, I think he speaks to what a good, real, and true education should speak to, and by extension it demonstrates where modern education fails miserably (at least, too often). When we stop seeking what is beyond ourselves, when the transcendent is shown the door, what too easily and readily replaces it? The "Now" or as he puts it, the "Me". 

But most people, in their deepest reaches anyway, don't want simply the "Me". They are looking for the better thing, what C. S. Lewis among others refer to as the numinous, the other than me, that thing which might be called the Divine. We know in our hearts that we lack that transcendence. We visit places such as Notre Dame to actively seek it. It is not in our schools. Indeed, I think we've outright banned it in public education. In too many of our private schools as well.

At the risk of going from the, ahem, sublime to the ridiculous, I will compare transcendent feeling to our current modes of education based on what I found in, of all things, a book titled Baseball Haiku. Haiku is a form of Japanese poetry, and baseball being popular in Japan the sport has found itself the subject of haiku poets both there and here in North America. 

Stripped to its very basics, haiku is a 17 syllable poem in a 5-7-5, three line pattern. The first line has five syllables, the second has seven, and the third five again. The authors of the book, in explaining haiku, teach that it is much more than a rhyming scheme. Haiku is supposed to be the expression of deep and profound thought in limited words. It is supposed to open a door for the reader to the numinous, based on the poet's solitary, one on one connection with it. It is an attempt to express the almost inexpressible.

When I was both a student and a teacher I remember giving and being given English class 'lessons' in haiku. Yet we weren't given that background, that essential understanding. In retrospect, I see that the idea of haiku was so dumbed down as to be genuinely insulting to the true point of it. That's because all we were told was, "See here, write whatever you want in this 5-7-5 pattern and look! You're a haiku artist!" The emphasis wasn't placed on haiku; it was placed on the student.

I assure you that my 11th Grade attempts at haiku were pathetic, and with all due respect so too were the offerings of my students when I was teaching. To the greatest degree it was due to one thing: no actual, honest understanding of haiku. Stripped to nothing but its mechanics, haiku is meaningless. As such, talking about haiku in class was meaningless. It did not have meaning because it could not, given such bare and rote instruction. The meaning isn't in the form: it's in the intent of the poet as he does his best to reflect transcendent truth. It's not something you should be doing for mere classroom credit. It's not a thin way of experiencing another culture. Haiku is about touching the eternal.

Even my poor explanation doesn't in any way get to the real point of haiku. That's greatly because you can't describe it so succinctly in one blog, just as you can't really understand it in one or two class sessions of high school. You're only playing around in a classroom and in fact not learning anything, whether about the style of expression, about yourself, or about the world around you or the otherworldly. There's no connection made between the here and now and the not here and now, the eternal. The student's mind is not made to see beyond itself, and therefore cannot expand and grow. Our education today isn't about anything quite so mystical, despite our natural longing for it. Teachers are left with the mundane drivel of making you the best you you can be, without any true consideration of what might actually do you the most good. 

When education becomes only about you, well, quite bluntly, you will not turn outward but inward. You will have little but your own selfishness and self interest indulged. You will be affirmed only in your base desires. You won't grow. You will only be, again as Royal puts it, trapped in the "Me". I don't see where that can bode well for our future.