The game taught to me by Joe Polansky with his sons in the barnyard is the same game his father taught to him, and the same I taught my son, and he to his. And so it will continue, so long as there are fathers and sons and open fields.
But the product that is Major League Baseball has changed a great deal.
Gone is the quiet grace of the game. The dimensions have not changed, and the rules have remained mostly intact, but the sounds of the sport have disappeared in a cauldron of amplified music and pitchmanship.
No longer can you hear the slap of the ball in the mitt. No longer can you hear the players calling out to each other. And most tragically of all, no longer can you hear your own thoughts, for every moment not filled with explosion and fanfare is considered a lost opportunity to market and astound.
I have always loved the pace of the game, the lulls between action, the way the situation reshapes itself with every pitch. Pleasure exists between innings, the outfielders playing catch, the ball making slow parabolas between them as the infielders take grounders and throw across the diamond. You can see the forces of physics at work.
I want to hear the pitcher make the ball pop in the catcher's mitt and watch the hitters loosening their muscles with weighted bats. Yet management goes to great lengths to divert our attention. Now between innings there are giveaways and contests and, once every home game, the strangely mesmerizing and pointless footrace of foam rubber pierogies.
Costumed characters launch hotdogs from cannons into the crowd. Lights flash. Sound effects rattle the beams. And most bothersome of all, the designated talking head appears before us 50 feet tall shouting scripted enthusiasms at the top of his lungs.
I still love the game in spite of its new noise, but it's harder. I still think of Joe Polansky putting his lunch bucket on the well cap, stripping down to his undershirt, and pitching to us against the barn before supper. And I still buy peanuts and pass them down the row to my son and my grandson.
So, in spite of the orgy of merchandising and feasting, the traditions continue. I have initiated a new one: earplugs.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
