Play Ball!

Much of our book seems pretty down on America. Many could say that our vision of an alternative America, complete with an authoritarian theocracy, wide income inequality, corrupt government, and a cynical division between aspiration and reality, is a comment on our current state of affairs.

Well, to some extent, yeah. We live in interesting times.

If, like me, the miasma of current events fills you with dread, apprehension, or outright fear, let me offer a suggestion that might relieve your stress a tad. For awhile. Until you see the news again.

Go see a minor league baseball game while the season lasts. Courtesy my Son-in-law, we recently caught a game between the Hillsbro Hops (single A affiliate of the Diamondbacks) and the Vancouver Canadians (single A affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays.) at Ron Tonkin Stadium. The stadium ( “The Hoppiest Place on Earth!” is their slogan.) is a neat 6000+ affair nestled in Hillsbro Oregon, a western suburb of Portland, named after the Portland auto magnate. Every aspect of the stadium from the parking attendants to the folks serving out the actual foot long hot dogs had the smooth efficiency of a well oiled machine. Professional yet friendly, the staff put some big league stadiums to shame.

At the same time there was no doubt that profit was the motive. From the thick gloss programs stuffed with ads from local businesses to the dozen or so cell phone repeaters atop the stadiums lighting masts, the Hillsbro Hops organization seemed to miss few opportunities for profit. The commercialism was so seamlessly interwoven into the experience that even for a cynic like myself little objection could be found. It was all wrapped up as local community support.

While taken aback (hell outright alarmed!) when we arrived by the presence of maybe 15 area patrol cars lines up in front of the main stadium entrance, it turned out that the nightly promotion was “Service Night” honoring law enforcement and military. Before first pitch each home town player was escorted to his position by a K-9 team from various Portland area agencies. A long moment of silence ensued, observed for a dog lost in December.

The crowd was predominately white, with a sprinkling of Latino faces. The players, many still in their teens (this was single A) reflected the majors: white and Latino, a couple African Americans. The best players on the field were short-stop and second baseman for the Canadians, both from the Dominica, where middle infielders seem to sprout from the earth. From our second row seats along the first base side, they moved with joy and grace, turning a couple of unlikely inning ending double plays that culminated in smiles on the trots back to the dugouts. Overall the baseball was pretty good, the game a tight one run affair until the 9th when the Hops pitching collapsed. The crowd stayed for the very end, the field opened for a kids run around the bases post game.

Baseball is a distinctly American game, which has been exported and embraced around the world. At its best it celebrates our sense of fairness, our hopes and aspirations, our pastoral roots. At its worst it exposes our greed, our craven desire for fame, our ruthless disdain for failure. It has divided us racially, and provided heros that bridged that horror. A game where the individual can shine, and yet the team is all. The early games were played by the Union troops, then immigrants fleeing tenements and hard -scrabble farms. Stick ball pickup games raged on the streets of Brooklyn, and in the cleared wheat fields of the corn belt. Black Americans have always played the game. More recently in rough cut diamonds in the Caribbean, in the shadows of skyscrapers in East Asia, and even in the low lands of Northern Europeans. The Perfect Game has many imperfections: where do women play? Why do teams extort cities for stadiums and other concessions? Why can a guy who strikes out 200 times or more a season get millions a year?

It is in this balance of perfect and imperfect that Baseball best represents America. Even with all of the current division in America, bigotry and stupidity, Baseball helps us remember who we really are, the lessons we’ve learned along the way, the “strangers” we’ve embraced on the journey.

It’s only the top of the 5th. There’s a lot of the game left to play.