The Big Hit

Today, a miracle. At my oldest son’s Little League baseball game, it happened. He was third up, and on the first pitch he hit the ball so hard it almost touched the back fence. He’s not the most coordinated boy, despite his energy. He loves baseball, but he doesn’t always have the easiest time catching the ball. And he’s hit the ball maybe one time the entire season. So I wasn’t expecting much when he went up to bat.

The first pitch came, and crack! Even then, I thought someone would catch it out. But no one did: the ball went too far. He ran and ran; two runners got home on his hit. When he arrived at third base, the two run limit for the first few innings of the game had taken effect and he had to walk back to the dugout to the sounds of his teammates screaming his name. I was screaming his name too.

What is it about baseball? What is it about sports in general? They’re not too complicated. You just bat the ball back and forth with your hands, with your feet, or a piece of wood. But for some reason we find it very exciting.

While women play sports, and that’s fine, sports are a predominantly male domain. I’m not saying that sports belong to men, or that women shouldn’t play sports or don’t deserve to play sports. It’s not just that men play sports: they live sports. A lot of men who are far past their prime years still head out to the field and bat balls back and forth. They may be fat; they may be wheezing and not able to fit into the uniform  they wore 20 years ago when they first played baseball. But there are still out there. There’s still something about the essence of the sports that makes old men get up early in the morning and teach little kids how to do it.

A long time ago, when the world was young and small, and there was a land, wealth, resources, and a chance to make your name and be the one the bards composed songs about, I suppose men had something to fight for, to really make a play for. But that was a long time ago. The cities are built, the old rancors over, and the only fights nowadays are for some blasted bit of desert that is either full of oil, or the subject of magical stories of chosen children and burning bushes.

So now men no longer have fun. We don’t have lands to conquer, and wealth can be stolen through the stroke of a pen, the press of a key on the keyboard. So, at long last, when we have nothing left, we have baseball. Baseball gives a little order in our reduced lives. Baseball gives us numbers, stats, proof we’re better, and baseball will never go away.

Baseball is highly ritualized. When you play baseball, your uniform must be clean, the brim of your hat must face the front or the league president will yell at you. The rules are arcane and minute; the opening ceremonies are staffed by veterans and bagpipers; and the only change that I can see is the change in bats: in Little League, bats are now made of aluminum. In a sports that is so steeped in tradition, this one change has become the most offensive. The most important thing about baseball is that sharp wooden crack of the bat on the ball. That’s the sounds that everyone associates with baseball.

My son is in the minor league this year. He’ll be in minors next year as well, and the year after that hopefully he’ll be in the major leagues, or he’ll be in the major league as long as he still wants to play baseball. I hope he still does.

In the meantime, I’ll I will still be willing to sits in the stands, eats bad to veggie burgers, and watch them play, and watch as his little brother tries to sell sunscreen and water. It’s nice to have something to root for, if only for numbers on a board.