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Monday, April 1, 2013

'Something about the game elicits excess...'



In honour of Opening Day today, I'm reposting a piece I published on this blog last year (March 19, 2012).  Since that post was written, I've since read John Sexton's new book, Baseball as a Road to God: Seeing Beyond the Game, which I worried might actually be precisely the kind of book I am hoping to write.  Thankfully, it isn't.  It's a fine book, but is less theological and more in the realm of religious studies.  I'll write a review of Sexton's book as soon as I get a chance.


I went to my first baseball game of the season last week when I accompanied my oldest son’s first grade field trip to the University of Louisville-Ol’ Miss college game.  Although the kids were bouncing off the walls with excitement on the bus ride over to the game (by the way, you haven’t lived until you’ve ridden on a school bus with 50 screaming children), and although they excitedly cheered during the first inning, by the time we reached the second inning, the kids were booorrrrred.

I, however, was in my glory.  Watching baseball does something to me.  Something metaphysical.  Something profound.  I can’t really describe it, for the experience itself goes beyond words.  The best I can do is say that when I attend a baseball game, even a poorly-played baseball game, I think I experience something that is, if not divine beauty itself, something very akin to it.  It is a profound spiritual experience to attend a baseball game.

People often look askance at me when I talk about baseball in these terms.  Many seem to view the game as slow and boring instead of seeing in it the movement of eternity itself.  Because I’m Canadian, I’m told that I’m supposed to love hockey.  But while I appreciate some aspects of hockey, I find it intolerable to watch on television and only marginally more enjoyable to watch in person.  Most sports are interesting to watch, I grant.  But only baseball moves me to the very core of my being.

My hope one day is to write a book on the theology of baseball, though that won’t happen until I finish a few other projects.  But I’m engaged actively in reading novels about baseball, histories of the game, and biographies of notable players; I just finished The Natural and am currently reading Robert Creamer's acclaimed biography of Babe Ruth, Babe: The Legend Comes to Life. And while I read this stuff for my own personal pleasure, I do so also because I think there’s a theological story about baseball that needs to be told.  For baseball means something.  I’m not sure what yet, specifically.  But I’m searching for it.

One of the best pieces I’ve read on baseball recently is a little article by the theologian David Bentley Hart called “The Perfect Game” published in the August/Sept 2010 issue of First Things.  It is, admittedly, a little exuberant, but I think necessarily so.  Below is an excerpt from this article (the full article is here).  I've never read anything that so compellingly describes the profundity and beauty of baseball.

I know there are those who will accuse me of exaggeration when I say this, but, until baseball appeared, humans were a sad and benighted lot, lost in the labyrinth of matter, dimly and achingly aware of something incandescently beautiful and unattainable, something infinitely desirable shining up above in the empyrean of the ideas; but, throughout most of the history of the race, no culture was able to produce more than a shadowy sketch of whatever glorious mystery prompted those nameless longings.  The coarsest and most common of these sketches—which has gone through numerous variations down the centuries without conspicuous improvement—is what I think of as 'the oblong game,' a contest played out on a rectangle between two sides, each attempting to penetrate the other's territory to deposit some small object in the other's goal or end zone. All the sports built on this paradigm require considerable athletic prowess, admittedly, and each has its special tactics, of a limited and martial kind; but all of them are no more than crude, faltering lurches toward the archetype; entertaining, perhaps, but appealing more to the beast within us than to the angel…
You needn't smirk. I admit that my rhetoric might seem a bit excessive, but be fair: Something about the game elicits excess. I am hardly the first aficionado of baseball who has felt that somehow it demands a "thick" metaphysical—or even religious—explanation. For one thing, there is the haunting air of necessity that hangs about it, which seems so difficult to reconcile with its relatively recent provenance. It feels as if the game has always been with us. It requires a whole constellation of seemingly bizarre physical and mental skills that, through countless barren millennia, were not only unrealized but also unsuspected potencies of human nature, silently awaiting the formal cause from beyond that would make them actual. So much of what a batter, pitcher, or fielder does is astonishingly improbable, and yet—it turns out—entirely natural. Clearly, baseball was always intended in our very essence; without it, our humanity was incomplete. Willie Mays was an avatar of the divine capacities that lie within our animal frames. Bob Feller's fastball was Jovian lightning at the command of mortal clay.
And there is something equally fateful, as has been noted so often, in the exact fittingness of the game’s dimensions: the ninety feet between bases, the sixty and-a-half feet between the pitching rubber and the plate, that precious third of a second in which a batter must decide whether to swing. Everything is so perfectly calibrated that almost every play is a matter of the most unforgiving precision; a ball correctly played in the infield is almost always an out, while the slightest misplay usually results in a man on base. The effective difference in velocity between a fastball and a changeup is infinitesimal in neurological terms, and yet it can utterly disrupt the timing of even the best hitter. There are Pythagorean enigmas here, occult and imponderable: mystic proportions written into the very fabric of nature of which we were once as ignorant as of the existence of other galaxies.
How, moreover, could anyone have imagined (and yet how could we ever have failed to know) that so elementary a strategic problem as serially advancing or prematurely stopping the runner could generate such a riot of intricate tactical possibilities in any given instant of the game? Part of the deeper excitement of the game is following how the strategy is progressively altered, from pitch to pitch, cumulatively and prospectively, in accordance both with the situation of the inning and the balance of the game. There is nothing else like it, for sheer progressive intricacy, in all of sport.  Comparing baseball to even the most complex versions of the oblong game is like comparing chess to tiddlywinks.
And surely some account has to be given of the drama of baseball: the way it reaches down into the soul’s abysses with its fluid alternations of prolonged suspense and shocking urgency, its mounting rallies, its thwarted ventures, its intolerable tensions, its suddenly exhilarating or devastating peripeties. Even the natural narrative arc of the game is in three acts—the early, middle, and late innings—each with its own distinct potentials and imperatives. And because, until the final out is recorded, no loss is an absolute fait accompli, the torment of hope never relents. Victory may or may not come in a blaze of glorious elation, but every defeat, when it comes, is sublime. The oblong game is war, but baseball is Attic tragedy.

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