May 27, 2004 - 11:56 p.m.
So, I’m in this sports history class, and it’s really turning out to be a lot more interesting than I thought it would be. I am a lover of history, but what I think I like about sports history more than anything is that it’s the story of people (just like all disciplines of history) but it’s uncluttered by bills and tariffs and trade agreements and wars. It’s palatable — the human experience in the most raw of forms. Emotion. Failure. Success.
Take baseball.
Baseball was pure. The founders of the game were pure of thought — they believed baseball would promote abstinence. If boys were busy hitting the ball across the field, they wouldn’t have time to -- (cough) -- you know. The first league (what would become the National League) banned alcohol use at stadiums or by players, and never held games on Sunday.
Baseball was rude. Abstinence, temperance and the Sabbath soon gave way to fist fights, riots and drinking problems. Baseball had labor unrest. Players threw games to win money gambling. Some totally ignored the rules, including Mike “King” Kelly, who stole third base by running across the diamond from first. My kinda guy — finds a way to get it done.
Baseball was ahead of its time. Jackie Robinson. Organized labor. Women in sports during World War II.
And still, to this day, baseball is a powerful magic that casts its spell on the American psyche as soon as the weather breaks and the grass turns from yellow to deep green. There’s something beautiful about the symmetry of the diamond, and the way the whole field fans out from home plate. There’s a deep beauty in a kid’s first visit to a pro park. Mine was Tiger Stadium (at Michigan and Trumbull, not that monstrosity that belongs to that bank) and I remember stepping out of a stadium tunnel into the grandstand, holding my dad’s hand, and seeing the whole ballpark sprawled out before me. The perfect, cross-cut outfield was as stunning a sight as my 7-year-old eyes had ever seen.
Baseball is common and poignant all at once. The crack of the bat and the shout of the peanut vendor is just as American an institution as the Smithsonian or the Boston Pops, and the idea of the game itself reflects many of the ideals of the nation — that the outdoors, speed and patience can all coexist, if only for nine innings a night.
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