The Slang's the Thing

It's the bottom of the 9th. The bases are drunk because the lead-off hitter reached on an infield hit, then a freebie, then a Texas-league blooper to shallow right. Can the slugger jack it out? Will he pull it, or hit it to the opposite field?

If all of this sounds vaguely ominous to you, or like a language children made up to intentionally exclude their parents from their little world, then you have not spent enough time around ball players. Like engineers, they speak their own language.

One of the most fun things, to me, about watching baseball is getting in on the lingo.  Baseball has, by far, I think, the most colorful and lively slang of any sport.  When I was in the midst of learning the game, during Disastrous First Marriage in the 80s (see previous post), I reached a turning point when both my PHWWUNBWUB and I exclaimed--just as the swing by the batter missed the pitch, which meant that he had struck out, thus getting the pitcher out of a jam--an emphatic "GOT 'IM!" at the same time.

Baseball slang of course constantly evolves, so keeping up with it can be a challenge. Lots of times, it takes a while for me to sort out what a new term means. I have to work to pay attention to the context, and I listen for repetitions that will give me hints. Announcers/commentators often simply use terms without explanation, and then often do it on purpose. They figure that "real fans" will know what they mean; phony fans don't matter; and the smart ones will figure it out.  In the past couple of years, I have had to figure out for myself what a "walk-off" hit is (any hit, home run or otherwise, that ends the game--in other words, a hit in the bottom of the ninth for the home team that allows them to win the game, so everyone just "walks-off" the field: game over); what the OPS statistic consists of (on-base percentage plus slugging--an indication of a hitter's offensive ability); and the difference between "pulling" the ball, and "hitting to opposite field," slang terms that were necessary to accommodate either a right-handed batter or a left-handed batter.  Since we can't simply say, "He has a tendency to hit to right field" for everyone, we say, for a right-handed batter that when he hits the ball to right, he has "pulled" it, meaning he had to hit across his body. Hitting to the "opposite field" for a right-hander would mean he hit it to left field.  The opposite of both of those things would be true for a left-handed batter.  So, rather than clarify what they mean, they came up with these terms that are good for either side of the plate. Infinitely inventive, those ball players.

Some of baseball slang has entered into the non-baseball world, too.  Whenever slang migrates out of its home turf, so to speak, you can bet that it has resonated with the general population to such a degree that it has meaning outside the context of its original setting. "Hitting a home run" in a business setting can mean any wildly successful thing--either something new got "pitched" and was then agreed upon, or a proposal for a job got accepted, or a big contract that will ensure your business's continuance for the next millennium was awarded.   In fact, you could probably go so far as to say that once a sport-specific term has left the confines of its sport,  then what it expresses is relatable to everyone, not just players or watchers of that sport.   It's a measure of the effectiveness of the slang.

"The slang of the game is its quaint romance, the connective tissue between Ty Cobb and Ty Wigginton. Honestly, it's gratifying to know of a subculture of such pointless innovation, one without goals or aspirations, one not intended to impress the public or one's boss." --Nick Stillman, The Nation, May 13, 2009

Unfortunately, not all of baseball slang is particularly relatable or even especially kind to half the population. One particularly offensive "tradition" in the world of baseball has to do with the superstition that holds that if a player is slumping offensively, he should have sex with a fat woman. Such an enormous sacrifice on his part, so it goes, is enough the break the spell.  Being a fat woman myself, I find this particular bit of baseball slang hugely objectionable, but luckily, due to the level of its offensiveness,  it is never mentioned by on-air announcers or commentators, so I don't have to hear it. I can pretend, then, that it is not a part of the clubhouse-locker-room culture of the game. I can accept the traditions of the game while acknowledging that the men who play it are, well, men.

Some day, I may just have to sit down to write my own dictionary of baseball slang, even though the market is already replete with helpful publications, like the one above. But before I do that, I may have to get this one, and study it, as well as figure out what an "Eephus pitch" is.

Next time: Wrapping up the Diamondbacks' 2012 season.

Good-for-nothing turned out to be good for one thing

I was no tomboy, but I wasn't a girly-girl, either. I didn't play dress up or play with make-up. Ugh--yuck. I really wanted to run with the boys, but I wasn't as physically agile as they were, and, besides, they were meanies.  Most of the time, I had my head in a book, anyway.

Still, even though I was a girl, I learned the basic rules of the game. I knew and understood all the player positions, and what they were responsible for. I knew the difference between balls and strikes and what the strike zone is. I knew all the different ways a hitter can be charged with a strike at the plate. I knew that the runner cannot leave the base until the ball was either caught or had hit the ground and was in play (as in, not foul). I knew the difference between foul and fair. I knew which direction to run (I was not one of those kids who hits the ball off the T and runs to third base. How silly. Oh, and there was no such thing as T-ball when I was a kid.) I guess all those years of going to the games and playing in the ditch gave me the opportunity to learn the basic rules of the game, somehow, vicariously. Or something.

But beyond those basics, I was not taught any further. So how did I learn to fully appreciate baseball, if no one would answer my questions? Dad certainly didn't. I asked. He would answer, "It's too complicated to explain," or something equally vague and evasive. I didn't realize then that he was most likely really tired from his day at work, and he just didn't have the energy to deal with his pesky, persistent, intensely curious little girl. (I could really be annoying.) My older brother, when I tried to engage him in a discussion of some aspect of the game (can't remember now what it was), couldn't answer me, got frustrated, blew up and said, "Why am I trying to explain something to a couple of boobies, anyway?" Seriously. I did not just make that up.  But I was always curious and asking questions. It was just that nobody answered me, until about 1981 or so, when I married My Practice Husband Who Was Utterly Neurotic But Who Understood Baseball (MPHWWUNBWUB).

I always understood marriage as a constant negotiation, but it surprised me that a person could be so completely disinterested in any of the narrative television shows.  MPHWWUNBWUB never, ever wanted to watch a show.  Sports only. I had to fight like hell to watch anything that was not a sporting event (we only had one TV, believe it or not). I actually gave up on my soaps for almost an entire decade (instead, I followed them in a weekly column that was published in the newspaper. They don't do that anymore). I chose one show that I claimed as mine, and I still had to fight hard every week to watch it ("Scarecrow and Mrs. King." Loved that show). So it was sports or nothing, most of the time.  So, because baseball was his favorite, it took precedence over everything else, including other sports. My mind, hungry for narrative, began to see narrative patterns in baseball games, and I began to ask questions. And, shockingly, he answered.  MPHWWUNBWUB's explanations were so simple and clear, I could see the logic behind things that had previously seemed hopelessly illogical.

So here's a partial list of what I learned:

1) A runner on second is in "scoring position." That's because there are 20 different ways (I don't remember the actual number, but it was something like 20) to score a runner from second, while there are only 2 ways to score a runner from first. Imagine that.

2) A relief pitcher has ONE job: throw strikes. If he does not throw strikes, he's worthless, and he should get the hook from the skipper as soon as possible, before he can do any further damage. (More skippers these days need to enforce this rule, if you ask me.) Walks late in the game are inexcusable. They always, always come back to haunt you. Oh, and the manager is called the "Skipper."

3) The hit-and-run is, quite possibly, the coolest play in baseball, when it works; when it doesn't, it looks like a bunch of incompetent clowns are trying to play the game, like Charlie Brown's hapless team. And it only works when the runner breaks for second, causing the second baseman to head for second to cover a throw or field the ball; simultaneously, the first baseman moves to cover first base, to catch the throw from the second baseman to throw out the runner (or to complete the double-play). When all three of these things happen, and the hitter is successful at making contact with the ball, then a huge hole opens up between second and first, and the ball that would ordinarily be fielded for an easy ground out goes through the infield and into the outfield, and the runner ends up not on second base, but third, since he had a head start. So cool.

4) The Infield Fly Rule is, like, a "Duh" rule. You pop up in the infield with runners on first and second (or the bases are full) and there are fewer than 2 outs, and, duh, you're out. Sit down. Better luck next time.

5) O Captain, my Captain: The catcher is, and rightly so, the Captain of the team when the defense is on the field. He is the only player who can see the entire field of play from his vantage point. He sets the defense. He calls the pitches. You do what he says, or you go home.  This lesson was totally reinforced by Kevin Costner's Crash Davis in Bull Durham. (Trevor Bauer learned this lesson the hard way earlier this season with the Diamondbacks. More on that in a later post.) And missing the cut-off man is an inexcusable offense, and an out-fielder with a strong, accurate arm is worth his weight in gold.

6) The signs from the third base coach change every day.  And sometimes, there's a sign that takes all the earlier signs off. How can anybody keep it straight? "Just one of the perks of the game," said MPHWWUNBWUB.

7) Other "perks" of the game: Every field/stadium is different, with different dimensions. Huge parks are "pitchers'" parks. Smaller parks are "hitters'" parks. Also, there is never a time limit in a game. The clock plays no role in the outcome of the game. I like this particular perk. Also, and this one is important: Once a player comes out of a game, he cannot go back in. Ever. (This will figure prominently in my later post about why I am anti-DH.)  Another one: A count of 3-0 is a "hitter's" count, while a count of 0-2 is a "pitcher's" count. Duh.

8) Wrigley Field was the last stadium to add lights. Until about the late 80s or so, all their games were played during the day. How cool was that? And I just love that ivy, although they probably ought to add something else to that brick wall underneath the ivy to cushion the blow. Yeow.




9) Balks are impossible to detect. I have to simply trust that the umpire knows what he saw.

10) "Curve," "slider," "change-up," "split-finger fastball," and "off-speed" are all simply variations on a theme: They are pitches that don't do what you expect them to do, and they make the hitter look really bad when he swings.  And all of them are named in contrast to the fast ball.

11)  And finally, the Most Important Lesson of All:

The entire game boils down to this: You have to see it as an epic battle between pitcher and hitter. Everything else is completely dependent upon the outcome of this battle, a battle that is repeated with every hitter. The pitcher can set the hitter up and manipulate him to do what he wants, if he's really good. But to do that successfully, he has to have absolute control over every pitch, its velocity, movement and location.

One television development that helped me enormously with this was the "pitch sequence" replay,  where the wizards in the booth edit together all the pitches, one right after another, and show them in sequence. Once they began to show replays this way, I could vividly see the progression of the at-bat. Wow. And watching an outstanding pitcher, like Greg Maddox, set the hitter up with a couple of change-ups or off-speed pitches, and then blow him away with an impossible-to-even-see fast ball, or fool him with a pitch that paints the corner of the strike zone, and I was--finally--completely hooked. Wow. Awesome.

I learned that what looks like a boring, no-action game actually is an exciting, epic struggle for control of the outcome of the at-bat.  Every fly-ball out, every ground-out, I could finally see as the result of not incompetence by the hitter, but as the result of the outstanding skill of the pitcher. And successful-for-the-hitter at-bats were the result of the pitcher's failure, and/or the hitter's ability to anticipate what was coming. Once I figured this out, the game changed for me--completely.

So, even though MPHWWUNBWUB was absolutely no good for anything important, at least I came out of that 9-year hell with one worthwhile thing: A deep and abiding love (and still-evolving) appreciation for the game of baseball, a game for thinkers.

Next up: We should have a Talk in Baseball Slang Day, like Talk Like a Pirate Day.

A baseball childhood

In the 1960s, Houston didn't have as much concrete or air conditioning as it has now. Less concrete would suggest less heat; less air conditioning, though, meant that it felt just as hot then as it does now. And humid. Anybody who has been there, even just passing through the airport, knows that Houston is the Hottest and Most Humid Place on Planet Earth. 

Also, in those days, girls didn't play Little League. Nobody thought they wanted to. I didn't want to play, necessarily. I don't remember, anyway, yearning to play and being told that I couldn't. But because Dad had played, then my two older brothers were going to play, come hell or high water, as far as Dad was concerned. And because Dad and the boys were involved, then Mom, my sister and me went along for the ride.  Bleacher seats, free snow cones for retrieved foul balls, and Frito Pies were our rewards for tagging along. Our little field mainly consisted of a chain-link backstop, a concession stand, an announcer's PA system (after a few years), and a dirt field. I don't remember precisely, but I'm pretty sure that the outfield had grass. Even the field in the picture, above, is fancier than I remember ours being.  

In those days, most of the Little League games for our neighborhood were played in a place we called Coke Field.  It was called that because it was on land that belonged to the local Coca-Cola bottling plant, which owned a huge swath of land and had donated a certain amount of it to the Little League. It would be some years yet before West University Elementary would use a corner of its land for little league play; I didn't realize it then, but I actually watched that facility being built. Nobody knew then, I think, that it would grow into such a huge, modern facility.

What I remember the most about Coke Field, though, was not the field, or the concession stand, or the announcers' PA booth. I remember the little ditch that ran along the back side of the field, beyond the fence for the outfield. It was just a drainage ditch, but it was always full with clean, fresh water. (I have no idea if this water was some kind of run-off from the bottling plant, but I don't think so. I could be wrong about that, though. I'm pretty sure it was just all part of Houston's love affair with water in the atmosphere.)  I remember catching tiny little frogs from that ditch, playing with them gently, then releasing them back into the water. I remember trying to catch dragon flies and water bugs from the surface, but they were too fast. I remember the mosquitoes and the cat o'nine tails plants that grew there. I also remember, later, from the "Pony League" facility, the playground equipment that seemed like it was bigger and better than anything we had at Southside park.  That's probably only because it was newer at the time. 

Either way, I spent most of my time at my brothers' little league games playing, away from the action on the ball field.  These were hot and humid summer nights, with the sounds of the game being played in the background. The sounds of the game. 

Which leads me to another strong memory: Dad, listening to Astros game on the radio, playing solitaire. Network coverage of Major League Baseball then was not what it is now.  A televised game was special, and mostly for the major markets, like New York, and the major events, like the All-Star game and the World Series. Houston was just a distant backwater in those days.  But Dad, having grown up during the depression (when radio was huge) and loving the game, enjoyed listening to games on the radio. He had picked up solitaire from his years in the military, where cards are a way of life for enlisted men. So the game was always on at our house, when we weren't out at the field. Gene Elston's wonderful radio voice was a constant presence, as were the sounds of the game: the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the silences in between. 

Even now, one of the things I love about baseball is how it sounds. Football's sound is one of a constant roar, but baseball's sound has ups and downs, highs and lows. There are long games and short ones, fast games and slow. It's never the same. And for me, baseball and solitaire go hand-in-hand. Dad played his with cards, and I play mine with my Nintendo DS. Dad listened to the radio because he had no other option. I listen to the game on the satellite TV channel (while playing solitaire) as if it were the radio, looking up to see the replay.  

Somehow, then, from baseball's being the soundtrack of most of my childhood summers, the game became a part of me. I would learn to appreciate its strategies and complexities later, but as a child, it seeped in through the pores of my body that were gasping in the Houston humidity. 

Coming up: How did I learn it? 

Because it's not football

Chase Field, July 4, 2012

"Like watching paint dry." "Like watching grass grow." "Like watching glaciers move." And other similes of things that move really, really slowly, or not at all.  This is how most (normal) people see the game of baseball. It's also part of the litany of reasons I get from non-fans who feel compelled to explain to me why they do not, in fact, enjoy the game of baseball. It's too slow. It makes no sense. The rules are too complicated. Pitchers are easy outs (hence the evil Designated Hitter rule that separates the National and American Leagues). They often cite other reasons for disliking the sport that have to do with the business of baseball: the players make too much money; they cheat with steroids and pine-tarred and/or corked bats;  they are arrogant and entitled (a charge that could easily be levied against all professional athletes, not just baseball players). And on and on it goes. There's no shortage of the reasons for not liking the sport. 

It's also very clear to me, every fall, that football is the preferred American pastime. It gets a huge amount of media coverage, from the opening of training camp to the last snap of the season.  Even hapless, perennial losers get a huge amount of attention from sportscasters. I grew up in a town with consistent losers in both the Houston Astros and the Houston Oilers, until the 1980s when the Astros got Nolan Ryan, Craig Biggio, and Ken Caminetti, and the Oilers got Bum Phillips and Earl Campbell. Even then, with such enormously talented players, neither team could bring home a trophy, even though they taunted us by coming very close a couple of times. 

There's a lot of reasons for the preference for football.  I think tailgating is a huge one. People just love hanging out in the huge parking lots with their RVs and barbecues, drinking beer. Any excuse will do. Another one is that you don't have to be a scholar of the game to enjoy the game. It's a pretty simple game, after all. You get to watch hulking bruisers beat each other up over a small strip of real estate for an hour that takes 3 hours to play.  While execution is important, the strategy for winning stays the same from team to team.  You put together the two elements of a raucous party in the parking lot and cheering on gladiators in the coliseum, and you've got Romans who enjoy a good show, cheering a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down, as their whims and the amount of beer they've consumed dictate. Yeah, football is The Game. 

Meanwhile, across town, some pitcher is communicating his acceptance or rejection of a pitch from his catcher with barely perceptible head movements, while the batter is trying to remember what the sign for "bunt" is today. The runner on first is trying to read the pitcher's body language and ignore the first baseman whispering in his ear to run. The skipper is already thinking three batters ahead, and whom he will substitute in the pitcher's line-up slot, should he fail to get out of this jam with no runs scored against him. He's considering who is available in the bull-pen, who has closed out the game for the last three nights, who is good against the upcoming left-handers who can't lay off the down and away slider. He's thinking about whom to use as a pinch-hitter, and the likelihood of his getting on base, and if he does, should he bring in a pinch-runner to run for him?  The infield is ready, waiting on the balls of their feet; the outfield is also ready to run, either up or back or way over to the foul pole line, where a ball can get lost in the corner. All 10 players and all 4 umpires are running through the possible scenarios of where to play the ball with only one out, but the short stop, second baseman and first baseman are all anticipating the double-play grounder that will save their pitcher's bacon. Lots and lots of thinking going on here. 

And there you have it. If you do not see all that thinking going on on the field, then yeah, it just looks like a dull, slow, nothing-happening game; it's like watching paint dry.  Joe Garagiola, the Elder Statesman for the game of baseball who, at 84, still occasionally sits in the broadcast booth and chats with the play-by-play announcer at Chase Field in downtown Phoenix, has famously declared (on more than one occasion) that "people do not come to the ball field to watch the manager think." Well, I have started this blog, in part, in order to disagree with you, Mr. Garagiola.  Watching the manager (as well as all the other players) think is the whole fun of it. It's why I watch. 

To come: How baseball gave me the best childhood in the world.