I know, two sports posts in two days… but this was just too good not to post:
The Trey Hillmans and Dayton Moores of the world always tell us about the magical and mystical world of baseball. They describe it as a game played in a kind of manly tableau of romance, a strange concoction of male heroism — you have to look into a guy’s eyes now and then — and a well-wrought detective novel. Little things, things that don’t show up in the boxscore, are of course, supremely important. And it makes them feel intelligent, although they are at root anti-intellectual, to adhere to this sort of gnosticism. Not everybody really knows the game, like those who really know the game. Scouts, it goes without saying, are part of the initiated, the wizard sleuths who know what to notice and how to interpret the signs. The oracles of this creed speak as all oracles do, in circles designed to confuse outsiders. Thus, we are sometimes told things seemingly empty: he’s a ballplayer, he plays the game the right way, and so on.
It is, fundamentally, a world enchanted by magic. A mythical world. Symbols and signs abound. Beginnings and endings, naturally, are of the utmost importance. How the first inning of the game starts, for the offense, is most important. Proper supplications must be made. If a good “bat-handler” can be found to bat second, much good fortune will be generated. His groundouts to second will be recorded by the spirit world approvingly. A dirty uniform, even if dirtied in missing a flyball or in being thrown out in a steal attempt, is both a sign of piety and a talisman of good tidings.
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