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The secret ingredient of a great ball club
(Note: The reader may wonder why, in the writing below, I did not use the "g"-word, preferring instead to utilize the suspect "q"-word as well as a few other euphemisms. But those latter expressions stand for behavior which runs the gamut from personally moving to downright silly. So I'm emphasizing by its absence that being "g" does not necessarily imply those other things.)
At the end of the 2003 season, the Boston Red Sox had not won a World Series in 85 years. Everyone who was the least bit superstitious attributed that horrible lapse to something they called "The Curse of the Bambino": this refers to the fact that the Red Sox did not win another World Series after they traded Babe Ruth in 1918. But in 2003 the team was owned and run by mediocrities who seemed to have lost interest in it. Fortunately, after that season ended, the team was sold -- and to an enlightened ownership.
John Henry, a slight bespectacled older man, became the principal owner of the Red Sox. At age 53, he was considered to be -- and instantly became -- "one of Boston's most eligible bachelors", in the parlance of the social set. Likewise, Theo Epstein, a young fellow who at 29 became the youngest General Manager for any team ever, was also single, and thus became as well "a highly eligible young bachelor".
Now I ask you: what is that all about? An older effete man and a young hunk, both single, in charge of a major league baseball team? Are they wanting us to believe that these two guys are both looking for available females on whom to bestow their affections?
I find that highly unlikely. You know gossip sheets, always trying to play up relations between the sexes! I find it much more useful to use my own common sense to think that those two men are "most eligible" -- not for two women, but rather for each other.
Is that so shocking? Relax -- this is Massachusetts! Besides, I haven't told you anything yet: for a long time now I have suspected that men's sports in general might be imbued with this sort of "phenomenon".
My suspicions began back in the dark ages when I was in high school. Some football jocks would come up to me and inform me that I was, in the quaint parlance of the time, "queer" (meaning that I had a romantic interest in other guys) because I didn't play any sports. Of course I was devastated by this "news" but I dared not protest it, lest I get my hide thrashed.
Well, as the years progressed, I mainly progressed as well. And I thought about how I might have responded:
"First of all, there's nothing wrong with being, as you so endearingly put it, 'queer'. But since you won't give it up, I'm going to turn it back on you and rub your noses in it. You join a group that consists of nothing but other guys, and you call me 'queer'? Let's see, what do you do in your football practices? You practice tackling. What is that? It's when one guy chases after another and, when he catches him, he puts his arms around him and brings him down to earth so that he is lying on top of him. What does that mean? To me it is a play-acting depicting 'queer' courtship.
"Then, in a game, you have your so-called huddles (you might as well call them "snuggles"): that is when you all stand in a circle and put your arms around each other. (Do I detect an occasional caress, or even outright backrub? A copped covert feel? Or is it even worse? [I hate to think about what a bunch of guys standing around in a circle might be doing to one another!])
"And when someone makes a touchdown, what do the others do? They run over and give him great big passionate hugs (with, I wouldn't put it past them, a few surreptitious kisses thrown in when they hope no one is looking.)
"And then at the end of the game, you have your dessert don't you: you all get to take a shower together!
"But wait: you were calling me 'queer'?"
(It all reminds me of a recent administration, which would find out what its own weaknesses were, and then accuse the opposition of those very things.)
That would be my response to those neanderthals. But it got me to thinking once again about the baseball team of Monsieurs Henry and Epstein, and the importance of the so-called "queer" factor in professional sports. For the fact remains that, once those two men took over the team, they quickly broke the Curse of the Bambino by winning the World Series in 2004 and 2007. So if Henry and Epstein were an "item" and they produced a winning team twice in four years, is it not unreasonable to assume that, godlike, they might have created a team in their own image? And in the game, no less, which I claim is the quintessential sport for "that sort of thing?"
Baseball is, as I've written before, a leisurely sport. During a game, nine men are arrayed in discrete splendor out on the field. Each player is, for all practical purposes, immobile -- although if you look closely, you can detect subtle movements: an extension of a shapely calf in stocking here, or a big chest-filling yawn there. In short, each player is narcissistically displaying himself, preening himself like a wet duck in the hot sun, out on a big beautiful green sward of perfectly maintained grass (or, as with the infielders, a small beautiful brown slice of perfectly maintained soil.)
(You know what the above description reminds me of? The full-page lithograph of Walt Whitman on the back cover of the first (1845) edition of "Leaves of Grass", standing there easefully in a languorous slouch, and staring back frankly at the viewer as if to say, "I know who I am, and I am not ashamed of it!" His hand is on his hip holding a big straw hat; but it could as well be holding a baseball glove (a few decades too soon, of course; but he would've liked the game, I'm sure.)
And then: what is it about those steroids? We are told that the big hitters wanted to beef up their averages and swat out more and larger home runs; after all, isn't that where the drama is in baseball (read: more ticket sales, and therefore increased revenue [says the cynic])? Well, perhaps some. But I would like to suggest that the real dramas are taking place out of sight of the fans: in the locker rooms, and in the showers. In those relatively private places, the players can show off their steroid-enhanced (sorry, buffed) bodies to each other.
Here is a ball team that is festering with raw desires. (In a word: they have the hots for one another.) Can't you feel that special electricity crackling in the air when you visit Fenway Park? Did you think that it was a bunch of short circuits because the Park is so damn old? That may be part of it; but it certainly doesn't explain the visible electrical charges that pass between the players when they come close to one another!
Now I am all but certain that there are "relationships" between the various players on this storied team. (The good news is, they are all monandrous -- that is, each man cleaves unto only one man at a time.) Here I will consider a representative sampling: the innermost thoughts of the first four players in the lineup. See if you can tell who is linked with whom.
1. Center Fielder: "He tells me, 'I want us to be as different as we can be; after all, you are small while I am large. You are a Navajo Indian whose mother weaves rugs on the reservation, while I have none of those attributes; that is a good difference, but it isn't enough. After all, I am so public and overt! So you must play the part of the stoic Indian -- really, the cigar store Indian!' So even when I have an extraordinary night, as I did recently against Baltimore when I stole a base, hit a home run, and then made an incredible leaping catch to rob the other team of a game-winning homer -- even then I knew that I should project absolutely no emotion at all. Likewise, because he wears a shadow of a Carthagean battle beard, I understand that my face must be free of hair -- a real baby face. So, like the Indians of old, I pluck out every last hair that appears on my face. (Ouch! Now that's one stoic Indian!) Which is fine with me: I would do a lot more for another smothering hug from my big bear of a man!"
2. Second Baseman: "I love to stroke his shiny bald pate, and to run my fingers through his van Dyke beard! I particularly like it when he steps out of the batter's box and takes a couple of practice swings: he puts his little knees together and bends his legs, thereby sticking out his ass and shaking it as he makes his quick little orgasmic swats with the bat. But the thing that really endeared him to me was last night's so-called fight, which happened because the opposing pitchers kept hitting him until he couldn't take it anymore. Then he charged the mound -- justifiably, I thought. But here's the thing that I really liked: he didn't throw any punches like A Big He-Man might; rather, he tried to wrestle the pitcher to the ground; but he was awkward at this, so that the other guy got the upper hand very quickly. In other words, it was obvious that he was not used to fighting and that he had probably never punched another person in his life. And that I found immensely attractive: our biggest hitter who is the very opposite of the macho!"
3. First Baseman: "I told him that I like him best when he is funky and loose and grubby; so you usually can see him with a shit-eating grin on his grizzled face. He is especially desirable when he is thrusting himself out, thereby showing his whole body (I have the best view of him from the on-deck circle, because he throws himself out right in front of me!) Of course knowing I'm there, he likes to show off, so he tends to ignore the balls over the plate; then when they throw one that is low and outside, he can lunge for it in my direction -- hopefully to stroke it out to right field for a base hit. He is also incredible at extending himself to snag seemingly impossible ground balls and, his body wound up like a pretzel, somehow throw them to me for outs. (Yes, a real showoff!) But I was especially moved when he got on the horn one day (did he go too far and essentially 'out' us as a couple?) and asked the crowd to verbally caress the first syllable of my name: it reminded me of that Cole Porter refrain: 'You! You! You!' And now he gets to hear it and think of me every time I come to bat (as indeed I think of him as well!)"
4. Designated Hitter: "I liked it, one day while I was taking batting practice, when you told me how much I look like 'a big boy who is swinging some decidedly small toothpicks.' That made me feel large and important; and I wanted to envelop li'l bitty you in my great big bruising arms! I loved your defense of me when all this steroid business came out: 'But can't you see how preposterous all that is? I mean, here's a man that we nickname "Big-Foot"; why in the world would such a person want or need to be any larger?' I know you are the stoic one, so you aren't allowed to cry; but I was so moved over your words, that I wept great big man-tears! (Do you think that made people suspect us as a couple? What about that time when we held hands in the dugout?) Please don't forget our signal when I smack my two big red batting mitts together and look ferocious: that I hope to be given the chance to spank you later tonight while I am wearing them!"
What about those situations when the pitcher is not getting his balls over the plate and he's running up the pitch count, and finally the catcher comes scampering out to the mound to have a word with him. What do you think they talk about? If you believe the play-by-play announcers, they will tell you something like the following:
"The catcher is telling the pitcher, 'You've got to use another pitch besides your fastball -- can't you tell that they've got you figured out? What about your breaking ball? Or your change up? Or your curveball? Hell, do you really want to use your fastball? Then you have to "paint" using it: throw one which is low and outside and just gets the corner of the plate. In other words, throw them some "cheese"!'"
Now really, does anyone actually believe that this is what is being said between pitcher and catcher? I'm sure that the play-by-play boys are winking at each other and grinning, knowing that they have pulled the wool over our eyes once again. But I at least refuse to be hoodwinked! There are, I would claim, at least two other conversations that the two battery mates were probably actually having; and either of these is far more interesting than the one they were purported to have had.
Conversation 1: Catcher: "So whatcha doin after the game? Wanna ditch the wives again and go off and do stuff on our own?" Pitcher: "Yeah, wow, right on! I'll tell my ol lady that you and I are gonna do man-things." Catcher: "Fine. Anyway, whadda ya wanna do?" Pitcher: "Let's go and shoot pool and drink boilermakers and smoke pot and eat beef jerky. And when people recognize us we'll sign autographs using funny fake names!" Catcher: (pausing and then shedding the working class persona): "I was sort of hoping for an evening that is a little bit lower key -- a romantic evening, if you will. I thought that we might go to our favorite restaurant (the one with the motto 'If steak were a religion, this would be its cathedral!') and split a bottle of fine Merlot while dining on Filet Mignon." Pitcher (dejected): "But I thought you liked beef jerky!"
Conversation 2: Catcher: "Why are you ignoring the signs I give you? Don't you understand that I make them up just for you? After all, I want you to look your best out here in the limelight! So what is it? Why are you shaking me off?" [A sudden suspicion] "Is it my fingers? Do you not like them? What's wrong, are they too thick? Too short?" [Pitcher hangs his head in shame. Catcher is getting visibly upset; luckily his distress is hidden by the mask -- which actually is the main use for that piece of equipment on this particular team.] Catcher: "That's not what you told me last night -- remember?" [His voice becomes tender as he reminisces about the night before.] "I ran my fingers through your hair, and you told me: 'These are the only signals I will ever need from those exquisite digits!'" [Suddenly angry.] "How could I possibly have known that you were speaking literally -- you rat!" [Breaks down] "Now you'll pitch a mediocre game, and the results will reflect on me as well. Thanks a bundle!"
And then there's the situation when the manager comes out to the mound: this almost always means that he is going to remove the pitcher from the game. Here once again is a play-by-play announcer's take on what is said:
"He doesn't have to say anything at all: the outing was a disaster, and he knows that the pitcher knows it as well. So he just gives a signal to the bullpen for a new pitcher and the old one is gone."
"He doesn't have to say anything"? Are you kidding me? We know good and well that he has plenty to say! Here is my take:
Manager: "Well, sweetie, things aren't going so well for you, are they! Apparently this isn't your night, kid. What? Now don't get the wrong idea, I'm not Rod Steiger -- and you most assuredly aren't Marlon Brando! Of course you can be a contendah! You were one in the past, and I definitely see you as being one in future starts. You're just not one tonight. Why not? Honey, you stunk up the joint: you gave up nine runs in one-and-two-thirds innings! So I did you a great favor: I saved you from yourself. Look, I'll tell you what: as soon as your replacement comes out of the bullpen (although of course in my eyes, no one can ever really replace you!) and you turn to go, I'll give you one of my special pats on your little bum-bum -- okay? What? Yeah, I know, I pat the bum-bums of all the pitchers I pull from the game; but I do that to give the appearance of egalitarianism. What? Never mind, I'll tell you later. But I'll tell you this now: none of their bum-bums are half as cute as yours is! And of course -- don't forget! -- we'll be seeing one another later tonight!"
Finally, what happens when somebody on the team smacks a game-winning walkoff home run? The entire rest of the team comes running out of the dugout and up to home plate, where they wait for the batter to round the bases. Then he rushes smack into this teeming mass of teammates, who envelop him completely like a huge man-eating plant.
And then? Every one in this obscene mass begins to jump up and down. Since they are so compressed, each one is rubbing against the teammate in front of him even while their hands reach out to touch the head of the Divine Batter. Now I mean, what is that all about? Do you know what I think? I warn you, it isn't pleasant; but given what we already know about this team (that they are "strange"), I don't think it's surprising. And somebody has to spill the beans:
I think that it's the best (or is it the worst?) example of hands-off mass onanism that I've ever seen.
As for the new team name, I would like to put in my own two cents here, namely: that pink would not be my first choice for the team color. After all, how is the color pink produced? By adding white to red -- that is, by diluting and washing out and bleaching the red, thereby weakening it as a color. And I do not like the implications of that. So I would like to suggest a safe neutral color: one that carries with it no negative baggage and yet which embodies a crucial essence of the team.
After careful thinking and weighing of options, it is my considered opinion that the team should be renamed the "Boston Lavender Sox".
I think that sums it all up rather nicely!
(12 August 2009)
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