Those who know me know that I love three things in no particular order. Baseball (specifically Detroit Tigers Baseball), fine literature, and hip-hop music. While all three intersect to a certain degree, it is American literature and baseball that has formed a deep symbiotic bond that has lasted throughout history.
Baseball is a unique sport. It is a sport embedded in antiquity while being pulled towards modernity. Despite the enormous payrolls and the rampant performance enhancing drug use, it is a game that relies on seemingly archaic practices. One is a catcher stinking his fingers in his crotch and wiggling them around in order to communicate with the pitcher, all while the runner on second attempts to decipher the code and relay what he has discovered back to the hitter. This, of course, is not illegal and there is evidence that it occurs readily.
The sport is filled with fans defined as 'purists' who vehemently hate the designated hitter in the American League for the aspect of shameless promotion it brings to the game and if asked whether they favor an expanded replay system will spit in your face. A large part of this battle against modernity is the claim that baseball is America's pasttime, and it holds its past in high regard. In no other sport are records as highly revered to the point where they take on a mythical quality. By many, players such as Jackie Robinson, Willie Mays, Babe Ruth, and Ted Williams, are revered as beings greater than humans and more as Gods.
Of course, this element of mysticism lends itself perfectly to literature and it often plays a key roll in many of Americas greatest literary achievements. Featured by writers such as John Updike and Don DeLillo, baseball often provides a perfect marker for the times. As James Earl Jones' character in the Field of Dreams (adapted from W.P. Kinsella's novel, 'Shoeless Joe') said:
America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It's been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time.
Of course, what lends to this mythical quality is that some of the games greatest players played before a time of 24-hour sports analysis such as on ESPN or the high definition highlight of every play from countless angles. Instead, these plays are often restricted to grainy footage if they were caught on tape at all. Such is the case with Bobby Thompson's 'Shot Heard 'Round The World', which capped off the New York Giants historic comeback over the Brooklyn Dodgers. Of the home run, and the Giants comeback, Red Smith wrote:
Now it is done. Now the story ends. And there is no way to tell it. The art of fiction is dead. Reality has strangled invention. Only the utterly impossible, the inexpressibly fantastic, can ever be plausible again.
The mysticism of baseball allows the writer to exaggerate the greatness of the player and the play and it is an exaggeration that we crave, that we long for. We want these moments and players to transcend reality. Perhaps no player continually destroyed the art of fiction more than Willie Mays, and his play defined as 'The Throw' (as opposed to his ubiquitous 'The Catch'), which has no visual or audio record but is only survived by those in attendance that day at the Polo Grounds in New York City, displays this point. James Hirsch writes of 'The Throw':
Cox bolted for the plate as Mays was barreling toward the right field line, his momentum carrying him away from the play. He was in no position to throw, but when he planted his left foot, he sharply pivoted counterclockwise, his number temporarily facing home plate, his eyes flashing intensely before the bleacher fans. It appeared as if the impact of the ball had given him the additional thrust to pirouette in spikes. Without hesitating or even looking, he whipped his right arm around and fired the ball, then corkscrewed his body into the ground. His hat flew off. He peered under his armpit and tried to follow the drama at homeplate.
According to others, the ball took off like it had a mind of its own. When Cox was called out at home, it is said there was 'a momentary silence, similar in response to when Mays hit his first homer, as if the fans couldn't comprehend what they had just seen. Then the stadium erupted while Cox stared at the plate in disbelief.' Of course, with the lack of video or audio record of the play, there is no verifying 'the throw' and its seemingly unbelievable nature. But this is what made great players into Gods and formed the unique relationship between baseball and literature. In both, mysticism thrives and we treasure those that can do things that push the boundaries of what we as humans thought possible.
However, while baseball and literature often meet to show the mystical nature of a play or moment, it also describes the transcendent nature of the players themselves. John Updike, in his wonderful essay Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu wrote about Ted Williams last at-bat of his career, in which he hit a home run at Fenway Park and ran around the bases for the last time in front of the Boston fans whom his relationship with was described as 'more of a contentious marriage than a blissful love affair'.
Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs—hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn't tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted "We want Ted" for minutes after he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he never had and did not now. Gods do not answer letters.
Even with unbelievable players today, such as Albert Pujols, the sense of mysticism has diminished. The sense of wonderment is often missing from the modern game, but it does appear in short glimpses.
I remember when I was a little kid going to games at Tiger Stadium, I was often more excited to see the great players on the opposing teams than the Tigers, mostly because my team spent years of frustration waiting for Justin Thompson to become a dominant pitcher and Bobby Higginson to become the great 5-tool player he was always meant to be. But there was one player that stood out in the era of my childhood, and that was Ken Griffey Jr.
In many ways, Griffey was the new age Willie Mays. A young phenom known as a five tool player who could not only do everything great, but seemed to do it in ways that defied what we thought possible all the while with an endearing smile on his face. Like Willie Mays, he was nicknamed 'The Kid' and like Willie Mays he was every kids hero and his swing was imitated by every child across the country.
Amid his torrid season in 1997, my father and I decided that we would arrive hours before the game started to watch Ken Griffey Jr. take batting practice, a time honored tradition in baseball which allows fan to expand the mysticism of a player as batting practice is not televised and seen by only a dedicated few.
I, along with a group of fans begging to be awed, stood in the overhang of the second deck in right field at Tiger Stadium. We watched in amazement as the smoothness of Griffey's swing transferred to the violent energy of the ball bolting through the air. One hit stood out. As Griffey swung, he pulled the ball right towards us. But this was not a majestic fly ball, but instead a streaming rocket. I'm not sure if I was simply unable to comprehend the speed and the trajectory of the ball just hit or if I didn't dare attempt to catch it, even with my glove, but either way all I could do was stand with my mouth open as the ball approached. In an instant the ball had flown by me, and all others surrounding, and rocketed straight down the concourse tunnel where it eventually banged against the outer concourse wall with a sound that rivaled a gunshot. Had some unfortunate fan been walking up that tunnel to the stands, they would have been killed. Instead, all present stood in amazement struggling to comprehend what we had just witnessed.
This small instance is the part of baseball that is timeless, and is why it will forever remain America's national pasttime.
The sport is filled with fans defined as 'purists' who vehemently hate the designated hitter in the American League for the aspect of shameless promotion it brings to the game and if asked whether they favor an expanded replay system will spit in your face. A large part of this battle against modernity is the claim that baseball is America's pasttime, and it holds its past in high regard. In no other sport are records as highly revered to the point where they take on a mythical quality. By many, players such as Jackie Robinson, Willie Mays, Babe Ruth, and Ted Williams, are revered as beings greater than humans and more as Gods.
Of course, this element of mysticism lends itself perfectly to literature and it often plays a key roll in many of Americas greatest literary achievements. Featured by writers such as John Updike and Don DeLillo, baseball often provides a perfect marker for the times. As James Earl Jones' character in the Field of Dreams (adapted from W.P. Kinsella's novel, 'Shoeless Joe') said:
America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It's been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time.
Of course, what lends to this mythical quality is that some of the games greatest players played before a time of 24-hour sports analysis such as on ESPN or the high definition highlight of every play from countless angles. Instead, these plays are often restricted to grainy footage if they were caught on tape at all. Such is the case with Bobby Thompson's 'Shot Heard 'Round The World', which capped off the New York Giants historic comeback over the Brooklyn Dodgers. Of the home run, and the Giants comeback, Red Smith wrote:
Now it is done. Now the story ends. And there is no way to tell it. The art of fiction is dead. Reality has strangled invention. Only the utterly impossible, the inexpressibly fantastic, can ever be plausible again.
The mysticism of baseball allows the writer to exaggerate the greatness of the player and the play and it is an exaggeration that we crave, that we long for. We want these moments and players to transcend reality. Perhaps no player continually destroyed the art of fiction more than Willie Mays, and his play defined as 'The Throw' (as opposed to his ubiquitous 'The Catch'), which has no visual or audio record but is only survived by those in attendance that day at the Polo Grounds in New York City, displays this point. James Hirsch writes of 'The Throw':
Cox bolted for the plate as Mays was barreling toward the right field line, his momentum carrying him away from the play. He was in no position to throw, but when he planted his left foot, he sharply pivoted counterclockwise, his number temporarily facing home plate, his eyes flashing intensely before the bleacher fans. It appeared as if the impact of the ball had given him the additional thrust to pirouette in spikes. Without hesitating or even looking, he whipped his right arm around and fired the ball, then corkscrewed his body into the ground. His hat flew off. He peered under his armpit and tried to follow the drama at homeplate.
According to others, the ball took off like it had a mind of its own. When Cox was called out at home, it is said there was 'a momentary silence, similar in response to when Mays hit his first homer, as if the fans couldn't comprehend what they had just seen. Then the stadium erupted while Cox stared at the plate in disbelief.' Of course, with the lack of video or audio record of the play, there is no verifying 'the throw' and its seemingly unbelievable nature. But this is what made great players into Gods and formed the unique relationship between baseball and literature. In both, mysticism thrives and we treasure those that can do things that push the boundaries of what we as humans thought possible.
However, while baseball and literature often meet to show the mystical nature of a play or moment, it also describes the transcendent nature of the players themselves. John Updike, in his wonderful essay Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu wrote about Ted Williams last at-bat of his career, in which he hit a home run at Fenway Park and ran around the bases for the last time in front of the Boston fans whom his relationship with was described as 'more of a contentious marriage than a blissful love affair'.
Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs—hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn't tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted "We want Ted" for minutes after he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he never had and did not now. Gods do not answer letters.
Even with unbelievable players today, such as Albert Pujols, the sense of mysticism has diminished. The sense of wonderment is often missing from the modern game, but it does appear in short glimpses.
I remember when I was a little kid going to games at Tiger Stadium, I was often more excited to see the great players on the opposing teams than the Tigers, mostly because my team spent years of frustration waiting for Justin Thompson to become a dominant pitcher and Bobby Higginson to become the great 5-tool player he was always meant to be. But there was one player that stood out in the era of my childhood, and that was Ken Griffey Jr.
In many ways, Griffey was the new age Willie Mays. A young phenom known as a five tool player who could not only do everything great, but seemed to do it in ways that defied what we thought possible all the while with an endearing smile on his face. Like Willie Mays, he was nicknamed 'The Kid' and like Willie Mays he was every kids hero and his swing was imitated by every child across the country.
Amid his torrid season in 1997, my father and I decided that we would arrive hours before the game started to watch Ken Griffey Jr. take batting practice, a time honored tradition in baseball which allows fan to expand the mysticism of a player as batting practice is not televised and seen by only a dedicated few.
I, along with a group of fans begging to be awed, stood in the overhang of the second deck in right field at Tiger Stadium. We watched in amazement as the smoothness of Griffey's swing transferred to the violent energy of the ball bolting through the air. One hit stood out. As Griffey swung, he pulled the ball right towards us. But this was not a majestic fly ball, but instead a streaming rocket. I'm not sure if I was simply unable to comprehend the speed and the trajectory of the ball just hit or if I didn't dare attempt to catch it, even with my glove, but either way all I could do was stand with my mouth open as the ball approached. In an instant the ball had flown by me, and all others surrounding, and rocketed straight down the concourse tunnel where it eventually banged against the outer concourse wall with a sound that rivaled a gunshot. Had some unfortunate fan been walking up that tunnel to the stands, they would have been killed. Instead, all present stood in amazement struggling to comprehend what we had just witnessed.
This small instance is the part of baseball that is timeless, and is why it will forever remain America's national pasttime.
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