"Oh the Losses I've Seen. Glory Hallelujah": The Spiritual Significance of the World Series

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

Nobody knows my sorrow

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

Glory, Hallelujah

Sometimes I'm up, sometimes

I'm down, oh yes, Lord

Sometimes I'm almost

To the ground, oh yes, Lord

The old Negro spiritual describes a horrific kind of suffering, but in the process it also manages to define the human condition itself, both in its sorrow and its redemption. The spirituals sing of life in its lowest moments, in its deepest despair, but within the same verses embody faith ("Glory, Hallelujah") and hope ("oh yes, Lord"). These powerful lyrics have been sung around the world, applied to all manner of trouble and all forms of salvation.

I certainly wouldn't want to equate baseball to the conditions that birthed the spirituals, but it does offer an analogy that helps explain what is going on today, especially in Kansas City, but many other places as well. Last night, as the clock ticked past midnight on the east coast, a band of lads in blue erased three decades of baseball futility, bringing a World Championship to Kansas City for the first time since 1985. A significant number of those players were not even born when the pain began.

I'll be quick to acknowledge that sports is an imperfect metaphor for ruminations about life, marked as it is with greed, cheating, mistaken priorities, and moral ambiguity. But since life suffers similar shortcomings in virtually all its expressions, we can probably let it serve without undue apology.

I am a lifelong fan of the grand game of baseball. I truly believe that the kind of game it is, the multitude of human stories that are played out in every contest, and its respect for its own heritage and tradition, infuse it with meanings beyond itself. Some say "baseball imitates life." Others go further, claiming that "baseball is life"--a tad pretentious, perhaps, but I respect the sentiment. At the very least, the game offers parallels to life that are useful and worth pondering. I think that is evident on the streets and airwaves of Kansas City today. What happened isn't just silly playfulness. It is about people allowing a game to speak to the hole in their souls.

Today there are scores of writers and pundits pounding out elegant descriptions of the World Series and its meanings. The game lends itself to literary endeavors; there are dozens of anthologies that collect thoughtful prose about America's Pasttime. It's just that kind of game.

A year ago I wrote several pieces about that enchanted season that foreshadowed last night's triumph. The 2014 Wild Card Game, still the greatest game I've ever seen and arguably the best ever played, prompted some musings about "baseball and the soul." And the excruciating loss in the seventh game of the World Series led me to a "joyful lament" about what had been gained and what had been lost. I was clearly captured by the quixotic journey out of the wilderness. It had provided a salve to year after year of 100-loss-seasons, embarrassing video lowlights that reminded one of the Katzenjammer Kids, and where baseball's classic promise to "wait till next year" became a cruel hoax. Such angst triggered reflection, hence the blog posts.

I was a little surprised therefore to discover that during this historic season of winning--seven straight victories out of the box, sole possession of first place in the division for virtually the entire season, and the best record in the American League--I had hardly written anything about baseball, and then only tangentially. It's as if defeat was worthy of attention, but I had nothing much to say about winning.

My initial thought of a title for this post was "When Losers Win." But somehow it felt kind of like a junior high kid in a schoolyard spat calling another kid "Loser!" It didn't capture the intent.

But the truth is that this baseball season, with its Houdini-like escapes, its personal drama (three Royals players lost parents in the last few months), and its embodiment of what national commentators came to call Royals-style baseball, has been about losers becoming winners. In doing so, legions of fans, many of them newly-minted fans, have sensed something personal--that amidst disappointment comes hope, within despair there is nested joy, and "the trouble I've seen" is not my trouble alone.

Eric Hosmer dives headlong to score the tying run in the ninth
inning of Game 5 of the 2015 World Series, an improbable dash
 that led to the first KC Royals World Championship in 30 years.

Last night with one out in the ninth, a loss was imminent. The opposing pitcher had dazzled the boys of virtue and truth throughout the entire game. The crowd was roaring, mocking, waving flags, urging the scoundrels on.

Then came the convergence of every moment into one moment.

A kid who was born to play baseball stood at third base, down by one run, remembering in a nanosecond everything his dad, his coaches, his baseball heroes, had ever told him, buoyed by scouting reports about the range of the shortstop and the arm strength of the first baseman, aware not consciously but instinctually of the speed of his feet and the length of his stride.

A slow ground ball on the infield was handled routinely. The defender checked him, looked him back to third, then threw to first. The kid’s body coiled, his instincts prickling, his timing impeccable. He broke down the line at warp speed, launching his body headfirst toward the plate, his arm stretching, stretching, the ball threatening to beat him there. And failing.

And then his hand found home. The game was tied, and soon to be won. The dugout erupted as he lay face down on the ground.

I'm down, oh yes, Lord
Sometimes I'm almost
To the ground, oh yes, Lord

And then Eric Hosmer was up again. Human again. A winner again. For the first time again.

And so are we.

Glory, Hallelujah!

Taking the Fork in the Road: The Words of Yogi Berra and Pope Francis

It's unfortunate, in a way, that the death of baseball's philosopher-king overlapped as it did with the visit to the United States of the "people's pope." Yogi Berra is one of the most beloved baseball personalities in the history of the game. Pope Francis doesn't have as many years in the limelight, but he is making his mark in the world, even among those not members of the Catholic faith.

Both of them have a rightful claim to the world's stage and on another occasion they would only have had to joust with Donald Trump for front page news and airtime on the network broadcasts. Trump would have been buried in either case, and that is a break all Americans needed, however one might feel about this aspirant for the presidency.

I suspect Trump would have been highly interested in Catholicism if he had heard about the canonization of a new saint. Among other things, you are supposed to have been credited with two miracles to qualify. He could easily cite the last two Gallup Polls as evidence of Trump fulfilling that requirement. Since he also recently claimed that he had nothing for which to ask forgiveness, it would appear that Donald Trump could well be a candidate for sainthood. Better a saint than president, one is tempted to observe, at the risk of sounding snarky.

I have been transfixed by the arrival of Pope Francis, his first visit on American soil. The reception by the 78 million Catholics in the United States is perhaps predictable, although the church has been experiencing significant losses as a result of the sexual abuse scandals involving Catholic priests, and the resulting coverup attributed to the church's hierarchy. Pope Francis has moved resolutely to resolve the problem, beginning with asking forgiveness of both God and the victims.

But it has not been just Catholics rejoicing in the visit of this good and humble man. The media, usually jaded by matters religious, has been almost fawning in its coverage. One suspects that reporting on the American political scene leaves one yearning for words of hope, softly spoken, and sincerely lived.

Which takes me back to Yogi. If it is the use of words that gives the Pope the ability to encourage and inspire his followers, it is the misuse of words that gave the Yankee catcher the charm to state things that everyone could understand, despite the malapropisms that made English teachers cringe.

Now some spoilsports at the New York Times have done research that shows that some of Yogi's sayings didn't come from Yogi at all.  In some respects it doesn't really matter; we don't just read those quotes, we "hear" them and it is always Yogi we hear. Even he acknowledged that he may not have been the source of all those sayings, admitting such in a book entitled, The Yogi Book: I Really Didn’t Say Everything I Said!

I recognize that it is a little unusual to be mentioning Yogi Berra and Pope Francis in the same sentence, especially in reference to their use of words. But listening to the message being eloquently delivered by the Pope this week, I think there are a few Yogi-isms that are Pope-worthy.

• The Pope declared that he was anxious to engage in a time of listening and sharing. Yogi said, “You can observe a lot by watching.”
• The Pope talked about the direction of the church. Yogi cautioned, “If you don’t know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else.”
• The Pope invited the faithful to keep moving forward. Yogi warned, “The future ain’t what it used to be.”
• The Pope acknowledged that many had erred and made mistakes. Yogi commiserated, noting that "If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be."

And finally, the Pope took on his critics and at the same time impressed the faithful with his openness and his loving spirit.

As Yogi said, “It ain’t the heat, it’s the humility.”

Civil Liberties Strike Out in Baltimore

The Orioles and White Sox played in an empty Camden Yards in Baltimore
on April 29 because MLB decided that civil unrest made the area unsafe for fans.

America's pastime staged a piece of theater this week that seemed bizarre at the outset, but ended up creating imagery that expressed better than words or deeds how fragile American society has become.

On April 29, 2015, for the first time in the storied history of major league baseball, a regular season game was played in a stadium absent of any paying fans. Those of us who have faithfully cheered losing baseball teams for many years know all about "near empty" stadiums. But this stadium was empty not because of fan indifference but because of a Major League Baseball edict.

For much of this month, the City of Baltimore has been caught up in public protests over the death of Freddie Gray, who was arrested on April 12 and died seven days later, apparently of spinal cord injuries suffered while in police custody. This week the civil unrest turned to riots in the streets with the full complement of looting, arson, smashed and fire-bombed police cars, and a number of law enforcement personnel injured by bricks and bottles hurled at them by demonstrators.

Over the past couple of days, the civil unrest in Baltimore was joined by solidarity demonstrations in other American cities, including Washington and New York, with some of those resulting in violence and arrests. The protests were driven largely by a lack of information about what caused this particular death, along with accumulating instances of police brutality being caught on videotape all around the country.

Anyone following the news knows as much as I do about the issues in play here. There are prognosticators and commentators, politicians and preachers, mothers and kids, finger pointers and finger lifters, looters and brick throwers, peacemakers and peacebreakers, all of whom have points of view, some of them informed and others not so much.

Clearly there is something amiss in this country. The social contract between law enforcement and the people they are supposed to serve is fractured and at risk of being shattered like a broken bat. At the same time, there are violent criminal elements out there who put the lives of those officers at risk every day they put on a uniform, The only answer to this problem is resident in the communities themselves, where neighbors rout the drug dealers, where families raise their kids, where cops become allies, not agents of fear.

Easy words to type, not so easy to do.

In the midst of it all, few people are thinking about the significance of an empty baseball stadium. But since I believe that baseball imitates life, I am able to see connections that are missed by those who foolishly subscribe to the notion that baseball is "only a game."

Consider this. The previous record low attendance of paying fans at a major league baseball game occurred on September 28, 1882 when only six fans showed up for a contest between the Troy (N.Y.) Trojans and the Worcester (Mass.) Ruby Legs at the Worcester Driving Park Grounds.

The fact that such records are preserved and accessible may appear to some as evidence of the decline of Western civilization. I'm borderline on that point myself. However, the response of professional baseball, arguably the most tradition-driven sport in the world, to a matter of civil unrest suggests that something deep and serious is going on here.

Ironically, on April 25 almost 37,000 fans at the Orioles/Red Sox game were locked down for about a half hour in Camden Yards because of "ongoing public safety issues" outside the stadium. A small group of protestors had targeted the baseball game as a good place to draw attention to their cause.

With baseball games and riots playing out on the same stage, the seemingly logical step to be taken if there was a risk to fans would have been to postpone the game and make it up another day. Baseball has done that with natural disasters, inclement weather, notable deaths, national tragedies, and a variety of other reasons.

Instead, the game played on with zero fans, overturning a 133-year-old record, and creating an iconic image for the deepening social divide in this country. Like the tree falling in the forest, one wonders if they had a game and no one came is it still a game? (Well, yes. It was on television, but that begs the point.)

Both the Orioles and Major League Baseball management have been criticized for seeming to make the game more important than the tragedy. But I kind of like the gesture. A quirky thing like playing a game without a fan in the seats is a wake-up call for America. We have a huge problem as long as kids are shot in the back, choke holds are applied to unruly citizens, volunteer cops can’t distinguish between their handgun and their taser, and certain economic and ethnic groups are targeted disproportionally for traffic stops and shakedowns.

Until that stops, the words of the Constitution will be as empty as the baseball stadium.

A Fan's Joyful Lament

It was the last gasp of an extraordinary baseball season for the Kansas City Royals, and the tying run stood 90 feet away. Kauffman Stadium was jammed with over 40,000 fans decked in blue and rocking, waving, screaming, hoping.

A 25-year-old cyborg creature masquerading as a San Francisco Giants baseball pitcher was staring down a 24-year-old catcher armed with a bat that a month ago had salvaged an improbable wild card game and launched the Royals into a mystical, magical playoff run--the first such appearance of any kind in Kansas City for a generation.

All kinds of history, records, and personalities populated this single moment. Las Vegas had figured the odds. Pundits had fingered the key players and made their predictions of potential stars. And there had been whispers, hushed only by the audacity of the claim, that perhaps the Royals were (Shhhhh!) a Team of Destiny. They had won eight straight in the playoffs against teams with superior records. They  had taken the Giants, seeking their third World Series win in five years, to a rare seventh game, one of the most exciting of all events in sport. And now, in the 177th game of the season, it all came down to this single, very pregnant, moment.

In a matter of seconds it all wilted--the pitch, the swing, a pop-up on the infield gathered in routinely by the third baseman, who then flopped down on his back as if he had caught a cannon ball.

The crowd that had for three hours cheered as one suddenly cheered as none. The quiet was deafening. That lost moment had sucked the air out of the stadium. Even the people who hadn't been to a baseball game in ten years but were sitting in $1000 seats stopped networking for a bit, recognizing that something untoward had happened out there. The focus of attention immediately shifted to the victors converging on the field. Microphones were pushed into the faces of the celebrants, most of whom served up the platitudes typical of post game interviews. There were only a few exchanges with the losing team--"How does it feel to spill out your guts every day for seven months and then lose it with the game standing just a few feet away?"--sensitive questions like those.

The magical, improbable journey of the decades with its last minute comebacks, its startling catches, stolen victories, and inspiring drama had fallen one run short. And that made all the difference. There will be no appearances on Letterman, no ticker tape parade, no visit to the White House. The record books will be altered by this series and this game, but most of the big ones will have "Giants" beside the numbers. If a new face appears on a Wheaties box it will not be topped by a blue cap with KC above the bill.

And worst of all, we will all have to start hearing "wait till next year" way sooner than we're ready to hear it, embrace it, or comprehend it. It is like asking a woman who moments ago gave birth after a long labor if she planned to have any more children. Not the right time to ask.

That said, my lament for the fact that my team had scratched its way to the top only to fall a fingernail short is injected with an undeniable sense of joy that is not measured in baseball terms although it is prompted by this baseball story with its sad/happy ending.

My feelings are not from thinking about the team that will take the field next year, although I am heartened by the returning core players and the minor league prospects who are on their way to the Big Leagues. They are not really about the fascinating personal stories in the clubhouse, although I have been inspired by many of them. They aren't about the national and international goodwill enjoyed by the team as well as the city of Kansas City and its environs, although it warmed my heart to see our town and team in that positive light.

Rather than those probable sources of joy, mine came out of a feeling I have been experiencing for over a month, but of which I never spoke. I have been immersed in this playoff run, thought about it every day, listened to sports radio, read the thorough coverage by the Kansas City Star and other publications, managed to see one of the ALCS games in person with my son, and did all the other things one might expect of a lifelong baseball fan after a 29-year October baseball drought.

I had a general sense of what was going on in the world, but was far less focused on that than I usually am. I knew there were awful beheadings in the Mideast. I heard the reports of the scary Ebola virus killing thousands of Africans and beginning to threaten this country as well. I was saddened by a senseless shooting in the capital of the peaceful country of Canada, the place of my birth. I saw that more children had died from the senseless gun violence that is so pervasive these days. I was assaulted by tasteless and deceptive political commercials from both sides of the shameful political divide in this country. I was saddened by the untimely death of a friend. And in the midst of all of this the game played on.

So yes, in my preoccupation with men playing baseball games I began to feel some uneasiness prompted, I guess, by guilt. How can we devote so much time and energy to entertainment which, despite the outlandish salaries and misplaced priorities, it still is? How can we spend thousands of dollars for a seat at a three-hour game when that same amount of money could feed a starving Third World village for months? And on and on.

But then I started to think about this baseball team and to consider what it represents. There are young men there who grew up in the most humble circumstances and were able to channel their natural gifts into the fulfillment of a dream they never would have imagined. There were aging stars who had labored through an entire career without tasting baseball's greatest prize until now, contributing more with their heart than their bat. There was the video of a Royals player in Baltimore who picked up a game of catch with some kids outside the stadium; the video went viral. There was a phenom-in-the-making who played in the College World Series and the MLB World Series within a period of about four months--never had that happened in the history of the game. There were scores of tributes, some of them tearful, from players who wanted everyone to know that they would never have been here without the sacrifices and support of their moms. The list is endless.

Life is about imagination and hope. Both of those things have to be carved out of real experience. I think that is why this amazing journey by a baseball team caught the attention of people literally around the world. The team and the game transcended baseball and embodied hope.

I'm trying to understand why I am not in more pain over losing it all in the last out of the last inning of the last game. I feel empty, but not profoundly sad. This story strained for ninth inning heroics, for David slaying the Giant (get it?), for the satisfying sense that all is right in the world.

But perhaps that is the joy embedded in my lament. It is not a perfect world, and not all endings are happy, but they can be joyous. That happens in the deeper sense of the word when something occurs that is so good, so real, that it is etched forever on our hearts. That has happened to me during this glorious month of October.

And as to next year, I'm not ready for that. This World Series isn't done with me yet.

Redemption Cometh - Baseball and the Soul

The Sports Page of the Kansas City Star says it all in one word following the Royals stunning victory
over the Oakland A's in the AL Wild Card Game of Major League Baseball's 2014 Post Season
(Photo by John Sleezer, The Kansas City Star)

In the end, the cast of characters was as improbable as the game--a booming triple off the top of the wall by a season-long underachieving first baseman, a high bouncer in front of the plate by a rookie infielder with a broken finger, and then a screaming line drive down the third base line by a much-coveted young catcher, but one mired in a horrible 0 for 5 in the game, sometimes swinging haplessly at pitches, looking completely lost. But this ball smacked against the wall and ended a four hour and 45 minute classic, propelling the Kansas City Royals past the Oakland A's 9-8, and extending to another day their first post-season tournament appearance in 29 years.

The catcher: Salvador Perez. The headline: Salvation.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound. Once was lost, but now is found.

There must be some reason why baseball attracts some of the best writing in all of sport. Names like Red Smith, Roger Kahn, Ring Lardner, Jimmy Breslin, Roger Angell (the best of all), and W. P. Kinsella have for decades graced newspapers, magazines, and anthologies with poetry masquerading as baseball stories. Unlikely contributors like the biologist Stephen Jay Gould, the political columnist George Will, and the novelist John Updike have all written signature books or essays demonstrating that this is more than just a game. 

The titles of some of the most notable baseball books point to a reality beyond the stadium: 

Triumph and Tragedy in Mudville: A Lifelong Passion for Baseball

The Boys of October: How the 1975 Boston Red Sox Embodied Baseball's Ideals -- and Restored Our Spirits
The Faith of 50 Million: Baseball, Religion, and American Culture

Mickey Mantle: America's Prodigal Son 

Baseball: A Literary Anthology
Baseball as a Road to God: Seeing Beyond the Game

The Duke of Havana: Baseball, Cuba, and the Search for the American Dream
Memories of Summer: When Baseball Was an Art and Writing About It a Game

There is something about this game of baseball that transcends bats and balls and gloves. It has something to do with a dad tossing a baseball to his son--and thankfully these days to his daughter as well--but that isn't all of it either. It is about the rise and fall of heroes--"There is no joy in Mudville, Mighty Casey has struck out." It is about moments frozen in time--Bobby Thompson's home run, Willy Mays basket catch with his back to the infield, Jackie Robinson's first step onto a Major League baseball field after which everything is different.

It is about historic team rivalries and nail-biting match-ups between Cy Young Award pitchers and MVP hitters--two men all alone it would seem as a blazing orb collides with a pine bat, launching it to God knows where--the extended leather hand of a diving shortstop, or that sweet spot between the racing outfielder and the unmovable wall, or perhaps beyond the wall, into the seats where suddenly everyone becomes an outfielder, $10 beers splashing into the wind, popcorn tubs converted to mitts, and hopefully a ball ending up in the hands of a kid, now a baseball fan forever.

Transcendent themes weave through every game--hope and dreams, failure and loss, tragedy and comedy. It is about odds that are overcome and statistics that lie, surgeries and rehabs, youthful exuberance and veteran wisdom. It is about blown calls and managerial missteps, rules and reviews, hirings and firings. It is about patience and waiting for your chance, one that may never come.

In other words, baseball is about "life writ large."

Cardinal fans have never forgotten "The Call" in Game Six of the 1985 World Series
while Royals fans patiently remind them of the 11-0 thumping delivered in Game Seven.

I was there in 1985. It was Game One of the World Series between the Kansas City Royals and the St. Louis Cardinals--the I-70 Series they called it, after the freeway connecting the two Missouri baseball franchises on opposite sides of the state. We lost the game, but there was magic crackling in Royals Stadium that day. Six games later the Royals scrapped their way back, winning Game Seven after a blown call of epic proportions effectively snatched Game Six from the Cardinals' grasp. They never got back on their feet and the Royals cleaned up in a runaway.

In the 29 years since that jubilant final out the Kansas City Royals have never sniffed a playoff game, the longest playoff drought of any major sport in North America. Not even a sniff!

That is why the response to a play-off clinch on Saturday night triggered the expected celebration. It was loud and reckless, champagne bottles spraying their eye-stinging contents into a surreal, Star Wars-like locker room with players donning goggles and slickers to protect their eyes and skin from the burning liquids. If it seemed a little kissy-sissy--can you imagine Mickey Mantle with goggles and raincoat in a playoff celebration at Yankee Stadium? But it did not blunt the sheer sporting achievement of this historic win. It was a grand day in Kansas City.

But then came Tuesday night and the wildest of wild cards, the most unbelievable of scripts, and the most unfathomable of outcomes. Tuesday night became... well, it became downright theological.

The wonderful "Salvation" headline was much more than a clever spin on the name of a redeemed player. It was about this city, this team, these individuals. And if the cable sports channels, the radio talk shows, and the social media have it right, it would seem to be a time of redemption for us all.

I've got an M.Div. and I can only imagine my seminary professors snorting and snarling upon hearing the subject of many thousands of treatises being likened to a baseball game.

Well, maybe not Dr. Tex Sample. I thought of him while fingering some books and pondering the meaning of this baseball season, and darned if I didn't stumble across a piece by Sample, one of my favorites, now Professor Emeritus of Church and Society at St. Paul School of Theology in Kansas City, Missouri. His essay, "Baseball: A Spiritual Reminiscence," is collected in a wonderful book, The Faith of  50 Million: Baseball, Religion, and American Culture. Sample, an accomplished athlete and one-time semi-pro baseball player, writes movingly of a spinal condition that prevented him from playing football and redirected those talents to a baseball field. There he experienced the range of human emotions, likening a time when he walked the bases full to "being gutted," (p. 208) or describing his inability to play at the level he thought possible as a "failure of being, a failure to be a man" (p. 209). His reminiscence is often more tortured than redemptive. He recognizes that one can take it too far:

Yet baseball is not war; it is not a struggle over dignity; it is not the ultimate stage on which the reason for life is lived out...Turning baseball into a life-and-death struggle destroys it as a game, and it is the love of the game that makes it so right. (page 213)

Undoubtedly so, but the mere fact that Sample chose the game of baseball as a metaphor for his life journey clearly illustrates its power to define and describe one's very soul.

The fine writers listed above, and many others, have written about baseball as cultural history, social transformation, religious fervor, and literary achievement. Though an unrelenting fan throughout these insufferable 29 seasons, I might be a bit jaded about all of that had I not been listening to the voices in Kansas City this week. Women calling in to the radio shows and weeping in gratitude that the long ordeal is over. Hard-bitten sportscasters, choking up as they reached for words to describe the moment, and failing. Kids out in their driveways throwing the ball against the wall, imagining themselves in the bottom of the 12th at "the K" ripping that line drive just inches past the outstretched hand of the diving third basemen.

Silly or not, people got out of bed on Wednesday morning and life was different. If Kansas City's version of the Boys of Summer could pull off that most unlikely of achievements, how bad can my problems be? There is joy and hope in Royals Land and now we will see where it takes us. But no matter where it goes nothing can take back what has been done this week. It is here for the ages.

There is just one little troublesome thought burrowed into a corner of my mind, one that I can't seem to shake, one that keeps nudging itself into these theological ruminations.

Tonight is Game One of the American League Division Series. The Royals are in Anaheim and ready for the first pitch about 8pm CST.

Their opponent:  The Angels.

Damn!

Perfection Just Ain't What It Used to Be

When you're dancing with the stars it's tough to
compete with perfection.

Is it just me or have others noticed an avalanche of the word "perfect" thundering into everyday public discourse?

We just finished building a house and found ourselves in many conversations with bankers, mortgage officers, and other folks evaluating our credit worthiness. It appears we are perfect in that regard, something even I would dispute.

I guess I first noticed it when being interviewed on the phone regarding our application for a home loan. "For security reasons," she said, "May I have the last four digits of your Social Security number." I provided the information and she responded, "Perfect!"

It took me back. Had I known I was being graded I would have given more thought to my answer. I surely would not have wanted the last four digits of my Social Security number to be less than perfect. I probably would have wanted to consult that flimsy red, white, and blue card they gave me back when I took a job at that godforsaken laundry when I was about 12. I didn't have it on me, but I think I know the box it's in, or at least the room. I could have gone there and found it so as to avoid any chance of being imperfect on those four digits.

But before I could process all of that, my current address was also judged by the banker to be "perfect." Ah ha! Now I had them. That address was on East 30th Terrace Court and sometimes East was shortened to E; Terrace abbreviated as Terr. and sometimes Ter.; often Court was shortened to Ct. And most disconcerting, the Post Office on occasion added an "S" on the end, presumably meaning South. It was a volunteer thing, I guess. I opted out, figuring East and South needed to play together at one end of the address or the other. I wasn't about to contribute to dysfunctional coordinates in my home address.

A Thundering Silence

US Cellular Field, Chicago (aka Comiskey Park)

It's Opening Day for baseball and I, insufferable baseball fan that I am, find myself and son Jeff at Comiskey Park in Chicago awaiting the first pitch in a contest with the Kansas City Royals (a team of destiny--you heard it here first).

Jeff and I are the baseball geeks of the family. He lives in Chicago but has kept his allegiance to his hometown team in Kansas City.
An opening day game in Chicago between the White Sox and the Royals was too hard to resist and, even more importantly, gave Jeff and me a chance to hang out together for a few days. We expect great things from our team this year. The non-geek members of our family hiss derisively at such comments, rudely claiming that they have heard all this before. But it's different this year. It is. They just don't get it. They'll see.

But this post isn't really about baseball, even though my thoughts were prompted by the pre-game ceremonies and nurtured with a sense of being cupped with 39,012 strangers in the opened hands of Comiskey Park. (For the record, the ballpark is officially named US Cellular Field after the sale of naming rights. The park opened for the 1991 season after the White Sox had spent 81 years at the original Comiskey Park. The new park opened with the Comiskey Park name, but became U.S. Cellular Field in 2003. But old habits die hard.)

And yes, the game could have gone a bit better for this young Royals team, but not a lot better. The ace pitcher acquired during the off-season was outstanding and the game was a nail-biter right down to the last pitch. It ended in a 1-0 loss for the Royals but no hanging heads here. It was a terrific, well-played game, perhaps short of a classic but certainly an Opening Day gem.

A common site at ballparks

But then there was that minute of silence.

It started just like I have experienced hundreds of times before at such events. Ball players with heads bowed and caps over their hearts. People gathering in community centers so as to be with friends and neighbors at a time of tragedy. People coming together across their differences to lift the human spirit. It is common, it is what we do.

But this minute of silence was deafening.

The announcer requested that everyone remove their hats and observe a minute of silence in remembrance of those from the White Sox "family" who had passed during the past year, along with those from the Armed Forces who had died in service of their country. All of this is what occurs many times in untold numbers of events in various venues across the country. But then came something different.

The announcer asked us to remember in that minute of silence the Chicagoans who had died in gun violence in recent months and also the 20 children lost in the tragedy at Newtown, Connecticut on December 14, 2012. It was as if the air was sucked out of the ballpark taking with it every sound. There was no crying baby, no drunken yelp, no scoreboard exploding, no vendor selling, no horning traffic, no popcorn popping, no airplanes flying. There was nothing--just a mind-numbing, seems-like-it's-lasting-forever, incessant, oppressive, loud, loud, loud silence.

It was like being on the inside of a balloon, air having filled it to capacity and knowing that in just a moment the air will burst the fragile membrane and it will explode with a huge swish. And then it's done.

Dave Specter and Jimmy "Bar Room Preacher" Johnson
at B.L.U.E.S.on Halsted

The night before, Jeff and I did a little Easter Sunday blues and jazz clubbing in Chicago. There was very  little silence in those places, but neither was the noise a cacophony of disconnected sounds. The dissonance was meaningful, the rhythm burrowed into the soul. The music isn't heard, it is ingested.

The small club called B.L.U.E.S. on Halsted exudes character and history. Legendary blues musicians drop in--their pictures adorn the walls, the frames dusty and often askew. Sometimes they pick up a horn or bang on a drum, sometimes they clamber up onto the stage and play a set.

A troubled aspiring musician lifts his voice and reaches for a microphone, trying to garner a moment of self-promotion. He behaves in strange ways, sometimes alarmingly so, but the locals seem not to notice. He's part of the woodwork. The band plays on and the patrons actively listen, as if drawn into a cocoon, captured for a while, heads bobbing to the beat, life set aside for just this small slice of time.

I found the intimacy of the Blues din and the enormity of the Comiskey silence to be signature pieces in a bigger reality. At the ballpark almost 40,000 souls brought the joy and pain, the hopes and dreams, of their lives to a baseball game. Many had come early and by the opening ceremonies had lubricated themselves at the sports bars or concession stands. Others were keeping their children in tow while gulping down a Chicago dog.

But then in that brief unexpected moment the human family became as one. Whatever troubles we have seen were momentarily the troubles of us all. In a way I will never be able to fully understand or explain I found hope and a sense of peace in both the noise and the quiet.

I love baseball and it is Opening Day. After a long winter it is time to play ball. Never before have I wished that moment wouldn't come. Not just yet. I wanted to linger for a while in the silence. It has so much to teach me. And us.

When the Foul Ball Comes Your Way

Last Saturday afternoon in the bottom of the first inning at Kauffman Stadium, Kansas City Royals Outfielder Alex Gordon fouled off a pitch and launched it like a laser beam to Section 215, Row HH, Seat 6, which happened to be where I was sitting.

That this ball hit me in the face is not in question--I am married to an eyewitness and she has volunteered this information to several people who then looked at me with what I interpreted as admiration, although pity might be a possibility. Usually they wanted to know if I got the ball. Personally, I thought the question of whether I was blind in my right eye was more pertinent but there is no accounting for the priorities of baseball fans.

The answer to the question about the frigging ball is that I did not get it, primarily because it was hit so hard that it bounced off my thick skull and landed in what was undoubtedly at least four sections away. Certainly in the upper deck. Possibly in the parking lot. It is probably now owned by some wuss who doesn't understand the grand tradition of recovering baseballs hit into the stands.

All of this requires a little context.

This year Kansas City is the host of the Major League Baseball All Star Game and it has caused quite the buzz in town. I had a special interest in this weekend's game between the Royals and Oakland A's, largely because it was commemorating the year 1960, when the All Star Game was hosted by Kansas City, whose major league team at that time was the Kansas City Athletics. (The A's moved their team to Oakland after the 1967 season and a new expansion team, the Royals, was established in Kansas City, beginning play for the 1969 season. But I digress...)

I had a more personal reason for attending this game and that is because 1960 is the year I became a baseball fan. (That's another story involving a third baseman named Ed Charles stealing home in the bottom of the ninth while I, a 13 year old recently moved from Canada to the States, was listening on the radio. Been a baseball fan ever since. But I digress...)

The promotion also provided that each fan entering the game received a nice vintage cap with the year 1960 and the Royals logo on it. (It also has a rather obtrusive Taco Bell logo on it. I checked and Taco Bell was founded in 1962 so I'm willing to give it a pass. But I digress...)

It was the cap that saved me.

Anyone familiar with baseball knows that fans carry a secret hope that they'll catch a foul ball. Kids bring baseball gloves, sometimes their dad's tattered variety and sometimes a brand new shiny thing made in China and sold by Wal-Mart. Most of all they carry the vain hope that the foul ball will come their way. They dream that the line drive will be a couple of feet over their head and they will leap and spear it, resulting in an explosion of cheers as it is documented in high definition on a gigantic scoreboard. If the ball bounces nearby there is a scramble involving people of all ages and once the ball is retrieved there is often a drama between some husky college kid working on his third beer and a tearful eight year old learning the injustice of life.

I'm not saying that any of that was on my mind as Alex Gordon approached the plate in the bottom of the first. In fact, I know my head was down for some reason--getting the food properly balanced on my lap, getting my bum knees into a position where I can flex them now and then, or whatever else one does to get settled in for the ball game. But then within a nanosecond or so I heard the crack of a bat and a sudden rush of air, a gasp from people around me, and then a thud followed by a cacophony of ball-smacking, people-scrambling, voices-calling. The sounds were immediately conjoined with tactile sensations--a cap askew, eye glasses knocked off my nose, and a general feeling that my head hurt a bit, not horrible pain but not pleasant either.

I was immediately surrounded by ushers and other Royals staffers, probably a few lawyers working undercover. I declined their offer to have a medic take me somewhere to ice my forehead. I'd suffered enough humiliation in one day.

The foul ball had come my way and I wasn't looking.

I don't think I've ever carried my glove to a ball game. I've not been obsessive about getting a foul ball. They've kind of ruined it these days anyway. Any ball that makes it to the field, whether through base hits or player warmups or any other method, usually gets tossed back into the stands for the kids. So you see, they don't have to earn it like I did on Saturday, looking downward at my nachos and then taking the darn foul ball right on the chops.

Which takes me back to the cap and how it saved me. I've thought about it and I'm positive the ball hit me on the brim of the hat, knocking it downward so as to change its trajectory sufficiently to minimize the impact while still giving me a jolt and knocking my glasses to my lap. This is kind of like the soldiers who tell stories of putting their small Bibles in their shirt pocket, subsequently repelling the bullet that would otherwise have penetrated their heart. I'm left uncertain as to whether to claim this as a spiritual experience. Some would. I probably won't.

I mentioned that I wanted to get that cap because 1960 was the year I became a baseball fan. My family moved from Canada to the U.S. in 1959 and I was all about hockey. But it was a late night game on my radio in 1960, I thought, that won me over to baseball. Ed Charles stole home in the bottom of the ninth to win the game. I'll never forget. I was 13 years old.

But yesterday, just on a whim, I looked it up and it seems that Ed Charles was traded to the Kansas City Athletics on December 15, 1961 and was traded away from the A's on May 10, 1967. I dug a little deeper and I'll be darned if I didn't find the newspaper clipping of the very game I have carried around in my youthful memories. Ed Charles stole home in the bottom of the ninth inning on August 8, 1962, defeating the Minnesota Twins 4-3.

Ed Charles did not play in Kansas City in 1960, which kind of messes up the significance of the cap. I now have to date my love of baseball as beginning in 1962 when I was 15 years old. This is not a life-changing piece of information, to be sure, but still a tad unsettling. It means I've been a baseball fan two years less than I thought. It took a whack on the head to get my facts straight.

As for the cap, well it put its brim between my eye and Alex Gordon's line drive. It will at least give me a pretty good story to tell about what happened in Kauffman Stadium back in 2012 when the foul ball came my way.

Ashley, Grandpa, and Baseball

We took our granddaughter Ashley to the Kansas City Royals baseball game the other day. She missed being selected on the giant scoreboard as "Fan of the Game," probably because she wasn't in her seat at the time. She didn't get to meet the team mascot Sluggerrr when he stopped by our section, also because she wasn't in her seat at the time. She didn't get featured on the scoreboard's Kiss Cam--it seems she wasn't in her seat at the time. She did, however, get kissed quite a bit.

Her first game, which I had long been looking forward to, was a lot of fun, but it wasn't quite as I had imagined it would be,

I had thought she would sit on my lap most of the game as I explained to her the nuances of defensive alignments, told her stories from my love of baseball going back almost a half century, and helped her understand that she shouldn't cry when the fans suddenly erupted in a deafening roar that scared her. "This is the Royals, sweetheart. When yelling happens, that's a good thing, believe me."

I needed to give her context here. You see, Ashley, there was the crazy owner Charley Finley and the deified owner Ewing Kauffman. There was small market economics and why we hate the Yankees. There was the World Series in 1985 and virtually no series ever since. There was George Brett and Frank White, hemorrhoids and pine tar, and there was this handsomely remodeled stadium, the K (which goes back to the deified thing).

Ashley seemed to prefer the carousel. Whether there should be carousels in ballparks is a question that should be debated in a by-invitation-only conclave of folks wearing ball caps, badly-faded t-shirts with Dan Quisenberry's name on them, and possibly carrying a tattered baseball glove just in case a foul ball comes their way.

I choose not to take up that issue here. If it takes a carousel to get Ashley to the ballpark that's good enough for me. I know that as time goes by we'll learn from each other the things we love and explore the things we want to share.

In that spirit, please permit me this brief note to my granddaughter:

And so, Ashley, love of my heart. I'm oh so glad you went to the Royals game with us. It was great fun.

Oh, and just one other thing, Sweetheart.

Next time, maybe for an inning or two, you think maybe you could stay in your @#$%&%* seat? I need to explain when it's good to try the suicide squeeze and when it isn't. It's about lefthanders and righthanders, bat control and basepath speed, pitcher velocity and upcoming lineup.

Okay, okay! I know it'll take a while. I'll be patient.

Say, maybe next time you could show me that carousel?

Between innings, of course.

{{{}}} Love, from Grandpa.

Ashley Naps, Royals Win

The Frog,The Monkey,and the Royals
Originally uploaded by randy_brandi

So, how does it get better than this......?

A beautiful little girl downs her bottle, does her obligatory burp, and then drops off to sleep nestled in my arms, just as the Royals game begins in HIGH DEFINITION. She sleeps peacefully, beautifully, in my arms for the ENTIRE game (won by the Royals 4-0).

I had no choice. I had to just sit there and watch the ballgame, unwilling to disturb her slumber. Once the game concluded she awoke with a multitude of smiles. They are continuing even now as she plays.

The only problem was that I had put a little plate of cheese, crackers, and chips on the table, just out of my reach. All I could do was stare at them the whole time because I didn't want to awaken her.

Ashley care is going great. She is a marvel. I love her very much.

And the Royals are undefeated since she was born.

The Batter's Eye

I learned something interesting when my son Jeff and I were in Arizona last week for our five day immersion in baseball spring training. I noticed that the stadiums we visited had what looked like an unfinished scoreboard or billboard in right center field. I asked Jeff, a spring training veteran, what that tacky looking board was doing out there. He said it was the "batter's eye."

Despite being a baseball fan since I was a kid, I had never heard of the "batter's eye." The entry in Wikipedia describes it thusly:

The batter's eye (short for batter's eye screen) is a solid-colored, usually dark area beyond the center field wall of a baseball stadium, that is the visual backdrop directly in the line of sight of a baseball batter, while facing the pitcher and awaiting a pitch. This dark surface allows the batter to see the pitched ball against a sharply contrasted and uncluttered background, as much for the batter's safety as anything. The use of a batter's background has been standard in baseball (as well as cricket) since at least the late 1800s.

Boy, that got me to thinking. One of baseball's canonical sayings is "keep your eye on the ball"--good advice for hitters, but also for defensive players as well. Only the pitcher is excused. They have to keep their eye on the mitt that the catcher puts up as a target. The pitcher's job is to throw sufficiently deceptive "stuff" that they prevent the hitters from keeping their eye on the ball.

But now comes the "batter's eye," designed to clean up the background so that the ball doesn't have to be seen against a fan's shirt or a homemade sign urging attention to John 3:16.

We should all have it so good. In life we all have to keep our eye on the ball as well. I'm kind of wishing we had a batter's eye to help us out. Our backgrounds tend to be cluttered with life's refuse and sometimes we just can't keep focused because of all the "stuff" that masks what we need to see and do.

The author is unknown to me, but one of my favorite sayings is this: "It is not known who first discovered water, but this much is known--it was not the fish." We are often the least equipped to see our own lives with clarity. When we're in the middle of it all, when we're looking out into centerfield and see only an array of shirts and signs, it is very difficult to see our own truths.

When things get tough it would sure be nice to have a solid dark background out there when the high, hard one comes our way.

"The Show" - Sun City Style

In the great baseball film Bull Durham a career minor league ballplayer named Crash Davis (Kevin Costner's best role) uses his limited major league experience to bedazzle the young players, all of whom live and breathe only one goal. That all consuming desire is to make it to baseball's Nirvana--the Major Leagues. In the locker room they call it "making it to the show."

Crash has had only modest playing time in the Majors, but enough to make him the resident expert for those doomed to play on the perennially woeful Durham Bulls, a Class A minor league team. It is far from the glamor and glitter of the Majors so Davis can hold the young players in the palm of his hand while spinning tales of life in the big leagues:

Yeah, I was in the show. I was in the show for 21 days once - the 21 greatest days of my life. You know, you never handle your luggage in the show, somebody else carries your bags. It was great. You hit white balls for batting practice, the ballparks are like cathedrals, the hotels all have room service, and the women all have long legs and brains.

My point in all of this isn't to do a movie review, although I certainly recommend it as a moving and thoughtful film about many more things than just baseball. (Look it up on the Internet Movie Database.)

Actually, this is all brought to mind because my baseball-loving son and I are spending a few days in Arizona visiting some spring training sites and attending meaningless but thoroughly enjoyable games. Jeff has done this with friends for several years. This time I get to be his spring training buddy, which is pretty cool.

We're seeing a game a day in different spring training parks. Our primary focus has been our much beloved but long-suffering Kansas City Royals, scrapping this year to escape from their two decades of ineptitude. We're here to help.

Those who know me, or have read this blog for a while, know that I subscribe to the notion that baseball is life, or at least that it informs life in helpful ways. A couple of years ago I blogged here about Opening Day in baseball and how life needed one. We could all use a fresh start when anything is possible. If Royals fans can believe that anyone can.

I'm here to report, however, that life in the minors isn't as gloomy as one might imagine. There are several municipalities around Phoenix that have built excellent sports complexes that include training fields and a very nice stadium. The facility becomes identified with one or two Major League teams and team loyalty is fostered thereby. Residents, many of them seniors, work as volunteer ushers, concessionaires, souvenir store clerks, and parking attendants. The latter needs a little work. When pedestrians, SUVs, and wheelchairs converge simultaneously in one intersection it becomes clear that elderly men with whistles and waving arms do not necessarily assure public safety.

All in all, life seems pretty good here. Oh, the stadiums are smaller but the amenities aren't bad and the enthusiam is high. I'm guessing it gives the young players a foretaste of what may come. Here they live out their hopes to make it in the Big Leagues.

As for us fans, it's up-close baseball and a lot of fun to experience. Ticket prices are not proportionally lower. But if you're going to emulate "the show" why not do it in pricing, eh?

Cup holders would be appreciated.