BASEBALL — THE REALM OF ETERNAL HOPE

By Edwin Cooney

As the smell of fresh mown grass and the sound of bat against baseball replace the sensations left by Jack Frost, there exists in the land a new optimism.

In 1954, the French-born educator Jacques Barzun observed (in part) that anyone who wanted to understand the heart and mind of America had better learn baseball. There are millions of Americans, of course, who are less than fanatical about our “national pastime.” Nevertheless, many of baseball’s elements such as symmetry, balance and equity are widely prized by every American (with the possible exception of your angry significant other or mother-in-law!). Hence this last weekend, the activities of less than a thousand professional baseball players, coaches, managers, general managers, and corporate owners have been at the center of focus for close to 300 million Americans.

Our fascination for this game that wasn’t really invented by Abner Doubleday is generally drawn from three sources: our fascination with symmetrical and analyzable statistics, our need for benign drama, and our fascination with the cultural and human dynamics of life. This third source of energy is what, more than anything else, draws this fan to baseball.

As I’ve written before, from the moment I discovered that Dizzy Dean, the great Cardinal’s pitcher, hated school, and that one of baseball’s greatest hitters, Ted Williams, hated to wear a necktie, adult baseball players became as real to me as my real life twelve and thirteen year-old friends.

The realm of baseball certainly has no monopoly on the best or the worst of human attitudes or actions, but somehow it places them in a special perspective.

You and I, understandably, have come to believe that the most satisfactory part of playing professional baseball for the player has to be the incredible salaries these highly skilled athletes receive. However, if we’re to believe the testimony of one Sanford (Sandy) Koufax (born Sanford Braun on December 30th, 1935 in Brooklyn, New York), the most satisfying part of playing major league baseball occurs off the field and has only peripherally to do with money. According to the exceedingly handsome and erudite former Dodger lefthander, the most satisfying part of playing baseball occurs during those fifteen minutes with teammates in the winning clubhouse after winning the World Series.

Roy Campanella, the late great Brooklyn Dodger catcher, once observed that although it is a man’s game, “…you have to have a lot of little boy in you to play baseball for a living!” Thus, even with all of the essential statistical and socio-ethnic analysis the game is subjected to these days, the actions and characteristics of its players give baseball its richness.

Superstition is traditional in baseball even extending to salary negotiations. Take the case of former Mets pitcher Steven John (Turk) Wendell. Flaky Turk had a thing about the number nine. Since someone else had uniform number nine when he joined the Mets in 1997, he asked for uniform ninety-nine. Three years later, when the Mets offered him a ten million dollar three year contract, he objected. He asked for one penny less than ten million dollars and received $9,999,999.99.

Hall of Fame pitcher Early Wynn was a fierce competitor. Wynn would work himself into a ferocious hatred for batters by imagining that the seventeen-inch area of home plate was his personal office. Only he, Early (Gus) Wynn, had the right to work in his office. Any batter with the temerity to swing a bat through Wynn’s office was definitely subject to what old time pitchers used to call “chin music” -- a brushback pitch.

Back in the 1960s, two of the game’s mightier men were Steve Hamilton, a six foot seven inch Yankee reliever, and Tony Horton, a six foot three inch first baseman with the Cleveland Indians. Hamilton, a left-hander, occasionally used to throw what he called a “folly floater” especially to big right-handed power hitters. The ball, ever so slowly, would float toward the plate causing overanxious power hitters to swing prematurely inevitably missing the pitch. They’d ultimately strike out embarrassing themselves in the process. One day, Horton challenged Hamilton to throw that pitch to him at least three times when he was at bat. If he struck out, he’d crawl, in front of the thousands attending the game, back to the Indians dugout. Hamilton threw Horton three “folly floaters” and Mr. Horton kept his word.

As is life, every baseball season is packed with the unpredictable, the unimaginable and sometimes the unfathomable.

As for Jacques Barzun, the 103 year old distinguished man of letters, a 2003 recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President George W. Bush, and the 2010 recipient of the National Medal of Arts from President Barack Obama, my guess is that if he’d become a ballplayer -- we’d know him simply as Jack Barnes!

RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,
EDWIN COONEY