The Washington Post’s “On Faith” column has had more than its fair share of dunderheaded writers, but I’m beginning to think that Georgetown University’s Jacques Berlinerblau may be the worst of them. As bad as some of his recent stuff has been, this week’s takes the cake. He decides to vent his spleen against what he calls the “Cult of Baseball”:
Why credible opinion makers lack any modicum of objectivity when addressing this subject is beyond me. But it has not escaped my attention that nearly every psalmist of The Diamond lets slip something to the effect of “My dad used to take me to the ballpark.” The infection sets in early.
This is a bad thing? Dads spending time with their kids? Of course, for some of us, our love of the game predates anything our fathers did. Mine did take me to see three games at Shea Stadium in 1970-71 (a pair against the Braves, one against the Giants–two of my fondest memories of childhood are seeing Hank Aaron and Willie Mays, my two favorite players, hit home runs in person), but I’ve been a fan since 1966, when at the age of seven I started watching the Saturday Game of the Week on NBC and reading about the history of the game (history that only a person without any sense of the past or any sense of humor could fail to appreciate and enjoy). Berlinerblau must have had one of those fathers who didn’t spend that kind of time with him. I feel sorry for him. Well, then, to justify his dislike (something he doesn’t have to do, but those who dislike baseball tend to think they have very sophisticated reasons for doing so), he goes on:
Let’s start with the basics. The game is slow–a dance of stasis. With the exception of the pitcher and catcher, most of the players on the field scarcely move. In terms of the ground they cover baseball players are not that different from chess pieces, albeit ones that that spit and scratch their unmentionables.
This has got to be coming from a guy who has never played–no one who has could possibly say anything so devoid of truth.
If teamwork is defined as “individuals making sacrifices for their team,” then there is very little teamwork in baseball. Aside from a sacrifice bunt or purposefully sticking one’s head into the path of an oncoming fastball, little in the sport demands that the individual suffer for the greater good. (One wonders what a “Wedge Buster” in the NFL—the concussion-addled chap instructed during kickoffs to hurl himself at top speed into a wall of four very large men who also happen to be running at top speed—would make of baseball’s liberal conception of “sacrifice.”)
Again, this could only be written by a guy who has no idea how the game works. On any given pitch, at least two players are directly involved, and potentially all of them can be. When there are runners on base, that’s true even for the offense. As for comparing baseball to football, I readily grant that teamwork is absolutely necessary if football is played according to the rules, but please–George Will was right when he wrote that football embodies two of the worst characteristics of American life: spasms of violence punctuated by committee meetings.
The ball is actually in play for about three minutes of a tortuous five-hour ordeal. Indeed, few sports do so much to prevent their players from displaying their wares as this one does. Why would an athlete–and I don’t doubt that many baseball players are phenomenal athletes– who is neither a pitcher nor a catcher want to participate in a sport where his talents are activated for about the length of a commercial break?
This is hyperbole (I hope), but again it doesn’t carry much weight. Consider football: each play takes an average of about 5-10 seconds, which is then followed by 30 seconds or more of heading back to the huddle, the huddle, breaking the huddle, lining up at the scrimmage line, waiting for the signals–you get the point. Part of baseball’s appeal is its call for patience, as well as its allowance for thinking about what you are seeing. I can see why that isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But why the exaggerated hostility?
Few games could be duller than this one. Few deserve the devotion of their supporters less than the national pastime. But the quasi-religious awe for the game remains. I submit that this awe is inspired by motivations which agents rarely understand. “My dad used to take me to the ballpark”—therein lies the best explanation I know of for the Cult of Baseball. For that bond is sacred. And for the health of the nation, we can only hope that today’s families forge that bond through different sports.
Perhaps I’m reading too much into this, but Berlinerblau sounds like the kid who was always chosen last in gym, and stuck out in right field with nothing to do. Kind of like me, except that I got over it. As for those father-son bonds, I propose we forge them through synchronized swimming. First one to scissor his legs in the wrong direction does a lap around the pool.
Posted by David Fischler 
