“You could throw a grand piano at home plate and he would find a way to put it into play.” So said the announcer as I watched the highlights of the Kansas City Royals the other night. He spoke of one Bobby Witt, Jr., who leads the MLB with a batting average of .344.
This year I have watched highlights from four teams: Reds, Phillies, Dodgers, and of course the Royals. For years I have more or less ignored baseball until the playoffs. And then if the World Series interested me I’d follow somewhat. But, being a Kansas native, I’ve always loved the Royals.
And because I loved the Royals, I hated the Yankees. I hated the Yankees because, in my memory, they always knocked the Royals out of the playoffs. As a matter of fact, they faced each other for the pennant five times from 1976 to 1981. The Royals only won once, after which they lost 4-2 to the Phillies in the World Series. Did I mention I was no fan of the Yankees?
The Royals of my boyhood years, long before the World Series drought from 1986-2014, were a formidable team. Among many notable players they had Freddie Patek, Hal McRae, Willie Wilson, Dan Quisenberry, and Frank White. Gaylord Perry even pitched for them for a season, and there was the famous Manager, Whitey Herzog. And I am not forgetting George Brett and his quest to average .400 for the season in 1980. He finished with .390 and eventually wound up as a first ballot Hall of Famer in 1999.
As I watch baseball more than ever this year, I find myself wondering what it means. I am amazed at those who love it to the tiniest detail of statistical nuance. I marvel at the athletic prowess, the stunning difficulty of hitting, the finesse of pitching. I smile at the the emphatic calls, the occasional ejection, the surprising errors, and common-place fielding excellence.
I laugh when I read about rarest plays (unassisted triple play), follow arguments on arcane rules (Can someone score a homerun without recording a hit?), or make note of unwritten rules of decorum (best to avoid going for the fence if you are 10 points ahead in the 9th). And I thrill to see how games mimic life in ways quite serious and real.
There is something deep and whole in games, and it rises to the surface as I watch baseball.
I watch the mix of rules, like doubling off the runner on a caught line drive. They work because everyone agrees on what is required. The game matters, has a purpose, and can be won (or lost.) Only one can win, and the other loses; and you learn to carry on regardless.
This is all true enough. We take it for granted and sport is only possible with it. How does one make a unity of 95 mph pitches from 62 feet, screaming grounders or lofty fly balls, rounded bases, failed steals, running catches, blown calls, and scored runs?
It’s a daily miracle: which is to say, it’s a game.
We know the reality in our bones. That’s why we love to watch. Games assume a goal really matters and focus everything on that one purpose. Games assume risk – great risk. They require the whole person, and that pesky but vital annoyance of learning to work well together.
Games assume winning is a good idea. And they insist — believe it or not — that playing your very best matters more than winning.
In the end you put the glove away, toss the sweaty cap on the hook, get a shower and go home. When I played Little League I was always looking to the next game and just could not wait. Something way bigger than me drew me in.
Games matter, I say, and they teach us more than we ever know. I am going to keep watching. And as I enjoy the vicarious journey, I will learn again what matters, and revel in the path of going there.
Randy Huff and his wife lived for 5 years in Roanoke (Hollins) where they raised 2 sons. Randy served as Dean of Students at a Christian school and then worked in construction. For the last 9 years he has served as pastor of a church in North Pole, Alaska.