Pass It On

There are many things that are passed on from generation to generation. There are bad things, like abuse. There are annoying things, like male-pattern baldness or the shape of your nose or ears. And, there are good things, like an old pocket watch, Grandma’s wedding ring, the Du Pont family fortune, and baseball.

More specifically, the love of baseball.

Baseball is a game that must be passed on from father to son. Kids at recess won’t play baseball. There is too much equipment involved, not to mention, you would need 17 of your best buddies to properly fill the lineups for both teams. Everyone would need a mitt, unless they all trade off between innings, in which case, you could get by with eight—the right fielder doesn’t need a glove in elementary school. It just gets in the way. It’s easier picking dandelions with both hands.

We no longer live in a Sandlot world. Nope -- kids don’t usually pick up a love of baseball in the schoolyard at recess. Another reason for this is the game is filled with failure. It’s too hard. Can you think of a professional quarterback that only completed 30 percent of his passes in his career? Or a basketball player who only made 30 percent of his shots? Even Greg Ostertag shot 48 percent for his career. Can you imagine if a baseball player hit .480 even for one fluke season, let alone over an entire career? It is a very difficult game to play. The very best players at the highest level are only going to hit safely three times in every ten at bats. It can be frustrating, especially for kids, which is probably why they invented the wiffle ball.

The game is most often first learned in the backyard. Dad starts off by purchasing your first mitt. He also buys a ball – probably not a real ball, but something a little softer. He takes you out back after the sun has gone down, but before it’s too dark, and tosses you the ball. His glove seems enormous compared to yours as you toss it back. When he returns from retrieving your errant throw, he flips it back to you, but now he’s aiming for your glove. It’s pretty hard to make it into a little boy’s mitt when he flinches at the ball every time it comes his way, but that doesn’t stop Dad from trying. After all, you have never seen anyone as excited about anything as a boy catching his first few balls. For that matter, Dad can’t help but get a little excited himself.

Next thing you know, you’ve been signed-up for t-ball. Dad sets up a baseball tee in the backyard and now you practice swinging. If you are the first child, maybe it’s not the highest quality sports equipment, and after a dozen or so swings that miss well below the ball ends up breaking the tee, Dad realizes maybe next time he’ll buy a stronger one.

Little by little, you start getting better. Dad takes you to games and you start becoming familiar with the game. Familiar enough that something doesn’t make sense. If that player was all the way to second base by the time they caught the ball, why was he out? Your Dad explains the fly ball rule, and you go on absorbing the game from him, someone who loves baseball, and wants you to love it too.

When I was eight and nine years old my Dad would crouch down in the backyard under the walnut tree and I would pitch to him. He bought a left-handed catchers mitt for just such occasions. When I was ten and eleven years old he would still sit under the walnut tree, but he found that it was easier to sit on a bucket. He also figured out that it would be easier if he had a few spare balls at his side so he didn’t need to chase after every wild pitch. By the time I was twelve or so, it hurt his hand when I pitched, so he bought a “pitch back.” The problem was, you never quite new where it was going to pitch it back to. And, by that time, I had grown to love the game as much as he did. You can’t love it more than another person, only just as much. You either love the game, or you don’t. I do. So does Dad.

So guys, start early with your kids. If you love the game, it’s up to you to pass that on to your posterity. You owe it to them. I mean, after all, they inherited your hairy back, so you’ve got to give them something to make up for it.

That's a Stretch

William Howard Taft was born September 15, 1857, to proud parents Louisa Torrey and Alphonso Taft, in Cincinnati, Ohio. He would eventually be elected the 27th President of the United States and would serve one term, 1909-1913. George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and many other Presidents are remembered for their tremendous accomplishments. President Taft, however, is probably remembered most for his weight. Weighing over 350 pounds, he is easily the heaviest President in the history of the United States. In fact, President Taft became stuck in the White House tub so frequently, that a new, custom-built tub large enough to fit the six men who installed it replaced the smaller, problematic tub.

Brother Jasper of Mary, F.S.C was working at Manhattan College in the late 1800s. He may not look like a particularly happy man, but he is credited for introducing the game of baseball to the college—so he can’t be too bad. He became the baseball squad’s first coach, and today, all sports teams at Manhattan College are called the Jaspers. I guess you could say he’s now the school mascot.

If you’re wondering why this post is providing superficial history lessons on two seemingly unrelated figures, you may also be wondering what these two have to do with baseball and The Perfect Game. Or, if you’re like me, you may just be reading and not really retaining anything and by the time you reach the point that you realize you have no idea what you’ve just read, you’ll go back to the top, and start over. Feel free to do so.

April 14th, 1910 was Opening Day for the Washington Senators. President Taft was in attendance that day and is credited for being the first U.S. President to throw out the first pitch. There is no record of how well the pitch was thrown, but I suspect that had he embarrassed himself that afternoon, other Presidents would not have sought the opportunity of continuing the tradition. After the first pitch, he settled in for what became a long, slow contest between the Senators and the Philadelphia Athletics. The game continued to drag and the small, wooden seats at the ballpark became increasingly uncomfortable for the obese dignitary. According to reports, by the middle of the seventh inning, the President couldn’t handle the pain and discomfort any longer and he stood up. Back then, the general public revered the President of the United States, and as was customary, when everyone in attendance noticed that he had risen, they thought that he was getting up to leave, so the crowd also rose from their seats out of respect. After a few minutes, President Taft returned to his seat, the game continued, and another baseball tradition had been born: The Seventh Inning Stretch. One person establishing two long-standing traditions in one day is pretty impressive.

But wait… Manhattan College begs to differ. It was their historical figure, Brother Jasper, who initiated the Seventh Inning Stretch.

This particular story traces the origin of the Seventh Inning Stretch to an exhibition game between Manhattan College and a semi-pro team called the Metropolitans. (Hmm. Metropolitans…That has a nice ring to it, but it’s a little long…Oh! I know! What if we shorten the name to the Mets…Now there’s an idea.) Anyhow, that day, Brother Jasper noticed the Manhattan students were getting restless as his team was coming to bat in the seventh inning, and we all know what can happen when college students get restless. So, in an attempt to stem the tide of unruly fans, Brother Jasper called time-out and instructed the students to stand and stretch for a few minutes until the game resumed. This Seventh Inning Stretch spread to the major leagues because the college played exhibition games against the New York Giants each year. And now, every major league ballpark in the county participates in the Manhattan College stretch.

That's a good story too, but, baseball historians have uncovered a letter home from Harry Wright, a player for the Cincinnati Red Stockings (Red Stockings? Hmm. That’s catchy too—a little cumbersome though. What about this—Red Socks? Huh? Nah, it would probably never stick). Wright wrote home in 1869, which easily pre-dates both the Taft and Jasper accounts, and described what seems to be a Seventh Inning Stretch.

“The (Cincinnati) spectators all arise between halves of the seventh inning, extend their legs and arms, and sometimes walk about.” (http://www.baseball-almanac.com/articles/7th_inning_stretch.shtml)

The real question is which story is true.

It doesn’t really matter, does it? Whatever the origin, kids and adults alike, at ballparks and stadiums all across the county look forward to the Seventh Inning Stretch. Everyone stands, stretches, and sings “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” There are few things better than swaying back and forth with good friends and family, singing that song and substituting “…root, root, root, for the home team” with “root, root, root for the Royals” or the Bees, or the Trappers, or the Jaspers, or whatever your home team is, and then settling back in, grabbing your scorecard and a pencil and taking in the last 15 outs of the game.

By the Numbers

I was 10 years old the first time I can remember choosing my number. At the time, it felt like I had hit the big time. I was playing on my cousin's fall ball team, which, since he was in the "majors" and I was just finishing two years of "minor B," seemed like I had been given a chance to prove myself on a bigger stage. I saw it as an extended tryout. Maybe the bright yellow t-shirts with tropical screen-prints on the front and our names and numbers on the back should have been a clue—it probably wasn't quite the big break I had been hoping for. But at the time, you couldn’t have convinced me otherwise. After all, in minor B my number was given to me according to my t-shirt size—the smaller the shirt, the smaller the number. I think I was #2. But, now I had been given the opportunity to choose my number. So what number does an up-and-coming, not-so-soon-to-be high school state championship role player choose in 1989 at 10 years old? 33, of course.

To explain this pick, I must make a devastating disclosure. And, if any of you choose never to return to this blog again, I will not hold it against you. I am ashamed to say it now, but in my youth, my baseball idol was… Jose Canseco. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s the author of the controversial expose on steroids in baseball, Juiced: Wild Times, Rampant 'Roids, Smash Hits, and How Baseball Got Big. Needless to say, now that I’m older and a little wiser than my 10 year-old self, I can understand why my first hitting coach cringed when I answered that my favorite player was Canseco. But at the time, I thought he was crazy. I mean, at the time, the guy was the only person in the history of the game to hit 40+ homeruns and steal 40+ bases in a single season.

Either I moved on from Canseco, or I didn’t hit well with the number 33 on my back. Whatever the reason, the next time I was allowed to choose my number I chose the number 2. I guess I had just grown comfortable with that number. It didn’t take long, however, before I discovered a new idol, one worthy of admiration: Roberto Clemente. I wished that I could add a 1 after my 2 so that I could be 21, just like him. Unfortunately, I was stuck with 2 for a few years. Then, when I was 12 years old, it was looking like I was going to make the all-star team, but only because there was an A-team, and a B-team (I made the B-team). What my number was going to be became a healthy recess discussion with my elementary school buddies. We decided on 18, though I don’t remember why. The next season brought another B-team All-Star opportunity and I decided on 51. Ichiro and Randy Johnson are notable 51s, but I didn’t know that at the time. When I made the choice, it was because of a pitcher that was two years older than me that I “looked up to.” Had I known that he would “pants” me at my locker (which was right next to the sophomore cheerleaders) between classes my sophomore year, I probably wouldn’t have thought so highly of him. Anyway, his number was 15, but since he was left-handed, I used the opposite, 51.

When I finally cracked the A-team, I was given #1. I didn’t get to choose because they had the jerseys pre-made. The regulars got the numbers they’d always had, but I was a last-minute decision. Just happy to be there, I took what they gave me.

By the time I made the high school team I had settled on 16. A teammate, and one that was a little more productive that me, had claimed 15 years ago, so I took 16. It grew on me and the best part was, I never had to complete for that number. It was waiting for me again in junior college.

If you’ve ever played organized sports, then you probably understand how important a number can be. Growing up, everyone wanted the #23 basketball jersey because, thanks in part to Gatorade, everyone wanted to be like Mike. But, there was a time in baseball when players didn’t have numbers.

According to the National Baseball Hall of Fame, numbers on the backs of players’ jerseys became permanent for the first time in 1929. The Cleveland Indians were the first to do so on April 16, and the New York Yankees jumped on the bandwagon two days later. While the Indians only used the numbers on their home jerseys, the Yankees were the first to put numbers on both the home and away uniforms. Speaking of the Yankees, I have been asked to post about how they are the “best professional sports team of all-time.” But, it will have to wait until they can at least pull themselves up to, I don’t know, at least five games over .500, unless you think that’s too much to ask.

But I digress…

Originally, numbers were assigned to players according to their position in the batting order, which is why Babe Ruth was number 3, and Lou Gehrig was number 4.

Prior to 1929, some teams had tried to implement numbers, but the players didn’t really like them. The fans seemed to enjoy the identifiers, but apparently, the players’ felt the numbers made them look like prison inmates. Funny…prison serial numbers might actually work in the NFL.