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.