Manifesto

There’s four elements to an intentional infliction of emotional distress lawsuit.  There’s nine innings in a baseball game.  Coincidence!?  Don’t be naive.  It’s all right there, in fine print, on the back of each MLB ticket.  They’re not liable for foul balls, errant bats or broken hearts.

Failure is the only certainty, except for forty of the seven point six billion chosen by serendipity each year to enjoy one beautiful day, in full.  Yet, we still show up, or tune in, years and decades after we last dug into the batter’s box loam, eyeing up the meat on the mound and looking for that weak sauce.  That meat on the mound, meanwhile, has you figured out and is gonna make you look a fool.  I’m told the opera has culture, and class, and singing.  I know baseball has two hundred operas each game, and songs I understand.

Here’s my understanding of the national pastime.  It’s very difficult.  There’s a small round ball, and a smooth round stick not larger than 2.61 inches in diameter at the largest point.  The small round ball comes at you fast, and not always on a parabola that’s known to exist in the gravitational field known as “Earth”.  You get less time to decide if and where that smooth round stick goes than a teenager, deciding if they should look at their phone.  If you make it to first base somehow, there’s this guy called “Javy Baez” who exists to make sure you don’t make it to second.

Oh, and there’s this.  Everyone gets to watch everything you do, because there’s no scrum of football or constant motion of basketball, soccer or hockey.  When you make a mistake, everyone knows it, and why, and probably has an idea about why and how your character is so flawed that you messed up.  Probably something to do with your parentage.  They’ll share that idea with the person sitting next to them.  And the cashier at the grocery store.  Twenty years from now.  Are you still with me, Mr. Buckner?

Even in the face of all that, we do it.  We suit up, we lace up, we buck up and head out to take the field.  Don’t step on the foul line!  Some of us play it.  Some of us teach it.  Some of us call the balls and strikes.

If you are going to teach it to kids, here’s what you have to know.  Not one of your batters wants to strike out.  Not one of your pitchers wants to walk anybody.  Not one of your fielders wants to commit an error.  Notice the word is “commit”, connoting intention.  That’s how hard this game is.  No one has ever wanted to commit an error, but that’s the word we use, as if they did.

With fate and the universe and Clayton Kershaw working against you, the game of baseball has to be played positively, adaptively and joyously.  You can’t be angry.  You can’t be stiff.  You can’t be tense.  There’s not just nine players versus you on the field, there's a whole team; eyeing you up, noticing everything, stealing signs.  So you need to recognize it ain’t just you against them, it’s everyone, working together.  It’s a three-hour chess match, with ninety mile per hour moves, and speed of light communications.  Anyone who thinks baseball is boring has no idea what is going on.

We want our sons and daughters to play the game because we know if they can play it well, and honorably, they’ll be well prepared for life.  The baseball as life metaphor is well-worn, because it’s true.  I can’t think of a single life situation that baseball hasn’t prepared me for, with the possible exception … of golf.

Play it well, and play it honorably.  And play it joyfully, because no one has yet left this gravitational field with their mortality intact.  What carries you forward, and what remains long after the last out, is your spirit.