Tag Archives: baseball

The Houston Astros have won the 2022 World Series, beating the Philadelphia Phillies 3 games to 2. I am conflicted. 

I have hated the Astros since their inception, and for several very good reasons. (I admit that any reason for cheering or despising a sports team, unless it’s your home-town team, is totally irrational. But humans are an irrational species, and so, hating the Dallas Cowboys, for instance, is a common impulse. Just like hating the Yankees.) 

It’s not that I was rooting for the Phillies. No one who cares about the Atlanta Braves, as I do, has anything but the rawest animosity for the team. But my hatred for the Astros trumps my natural disdain for the rival Phillies. 

I was hoping — planning, even — for a World Series with the Braves, but barring that, between the Dodgers (I was willing to accept the Dodgers) and the Yanks, such a face-off being the historical classic. But fate was not kind to me, and I had to watch the last bits of baseball for the year as an uninteresting back-and-forth between teams I don’t care about — even despise. 

Why do I hate the Astros? I’m afraid I have to confess that my animosity, like the Southerner’s for General Sherman, has its roots in ancient history. 

The marks against them begin with the Astrodome — the first domed all-purpose stadium and the progenitor to a plague of such ballfields across the country (gratefully, they are all now mostly demolished as historical artifacts, good for neither baseball nor football). It was an ugly stadium.

Secondly: AstroTurf. Since grass would not grow without sunlight, the roofed stadium had a problem, and it was solved through chemistry — i.e., Monsanto, the chemical company that brought us glyphosate-based herbicides, now recognized as carcinogens. AstroTurf spread like cancer around Major League ballfields — an ugly uniform green rug, layered on top of concrete, and making a playing surface that injured the players forced to work on it. 

Baseball was designed as a pastoral, bucolic game, and played on a field of grass. An industrialized baseball should be a contradiction in terms.  Grass is natural, uneven, varied; Astroturf is as uniform as Imperial Troopers in Star Wars.

Thirdly, the early Astros uniforms were the start of another trend in baseball: ugly uniforms. The striped orange uniforms of the early Astros remain, in my mind, among the most despicable. They led to a rash of “re-imagined” uniforms that are now laughed at, such as the Chicago White Sox short pants version, and the San Diego Padres camo. 

There are other reasons for me to hate the Astros, although some may be petty. I won’t argue that. But the Astrodome provided the setting for the climax of the Worst Movie Ever Made (or at least the most pretentious), Brewster McCloud. God, I hate that movie.


And after 51 seasons with the National League, they moved to the hated American League in 2013. The country may be divided politically into red states and blue states, but baseball fans have their own tribal affinities: National vs. American leagues. You have to choose one. My family, going back to my father, a die-hard Brooklyn Dodgers fan, has always been National Leaguers. 

Then, there is the 2017-2018 sign-stealing scandal, where the Astros used a video camera in center field to steal the opposing teams’ catchers sending pitching signals to their pitchers. Baseball has always allowed for on-field attempt to steal signs, as when a runner is on second base and can see the catcher’s signs, but to do it surreptitiously with hi-tech equipment was a clear violation of traditional fair play. The team and players were sanctioned when caught, but for many fans of the game, it was little more than a wrist-slap. 

All those are on one side. Maybe some of them are unimportant — I won’t argue about that — but look at the number of them. And what have we got on the other side?  

There are two mitigating factors in my mind that ease the discomfort of the Astros World Series win. 

The first is J.R. Richard, who, from 1975-1980 was probably the most unhittable pitcher in the majors and, for me, the most fun to watch. He could be wild, and regularly led the league in walks and wild pitches. Yet, he also struck out huge numbers and once had three consecutive complete game shutouts. I loved watching him.

The other mitigation is Dusty Baker. I loved him when he played for the Dodgers, but even more when he took up managing and moved from team to team, always bringing his quiet, careful demeanor with him. If ever anyone deserved to win a World Series just for character alone, it would be Baker. 

And so, there you have it. I hate the Astros; I really liked two Astros on-field staffers. I’m not sure the positives outweigh the negatives. But then, this is only sports, and ultimately, it doesn’t matter. 

But that’s how sports works. It doesn’t matter, but we give it all our hearts and minds as if it did. As I said, human beings are irrational.

FootballOn tuning in to the Colbert show on Thursday, I became unavoidably aware that the new NFL season had begun. Each year, I swear I will not watch any football — It rots the mind. But it is inevitable: I end up watching anyway. There is something hypnotic about it. kursk battle 2

American football is a brutish game in which behemoths pound each other like the tank battle at Kursk, and, as my wife describes the game: “He runs with the ball, he throws the ball, he falls down with the ball.” It really is rather mindless.

And surprisingly dull. Most of the time is spent with nothing much happening on the field and while pickup trucks tell us they are tougher than the other guy’s, while beer tells us the way to a sexy woman’s heart (or pants) is through drinking swill, and through endless network promos for TV shows about terrorists, serial killers and clairvoyant crimesolvers.stopwatch

I once timed a football game with a stopwatch, starting it with the snap of the ball and clicking it off when the ref blew the play dead. In a three-plus hour game, there was, count’em, exactly 14 minutes and 49 seconds of actual playing time.

Why the American male has the patience for so much downtime, so much dead air, so much palaver by color commentators replaying minor points of how the quarterback is putting too much weight on his front foot — why this is taking up so much of our Sundays, Monday nights and now Thursday nights, is well beyond my ability to comprehend. But there you are, I wind up watching anyway. ebbets field

Perhaps my biggest complaint — aside from my own complicity — is that the beginning of the season steps on the feet of the retreating baseball season. Football is no Fred Astaire. Baseball is a game I can actually enjoy watching. I have been a baseball fan from the time before I even entered kindergarten. I would watch Brooklyn Dodgers games on TV when Vin Scully was the new kid, relegated to postgame interviews with the players.

Baseball is an aristocratic game, balanced, thoughtful, elegant. Football, in contrast is a bludgeon wielded by a mob enforcer. I have enjoyed boxing, even hockey, without finding the event as nasty, brutish and halting as an NFL game.

But I bring all this up not to badmouth football, but to discuss the impulse towards conservatism. It is something I discover in my own makeup that confuses me — the ineradicable desire for stability and a disdain of change.

This is, of course, the heart of genuine conservatism (as opposed to the radical loony movement that has coopted the name in the service of what is really a kind of anarchism tempered with religious intolerance).

It first came to me when I realized that watching football on TV, I inevitably root for the team that is older — that I root for any team that was in the original NFL before it became the NFC. Even the original AFL teams, which joined the NFL in 1960 seem like interlopers to me. And expansion teams since then hardly deserve notice as teams at all. Carolina Panthers? Give me a break: Real teams are named Packers, Giants, Bears.

Perhaps there is some rationale for this. In 2011, I wrote a story for The Arizona Republic looking at the history of the Super Bowl and discovered that original NFL teams held a two-to-one edge in Super Bowl wins: 30 wins for the old NFL, 15 wins for the AFL and all other expansion teams. (The ratio has shrunk some since then. In Super Bowls since 2011, only one old NFL team has won: The NY Giants in 2012. This still leaves the old guard with a 31 to 18 edge).

I don’t have a team I follow. When I watch a game, my rooting interest is always based on which team I judge more “legitimate,” i.e., original. So, if the 49ers are playing the Ravens, I root for the San Francisco. But if the Giants are playing the Niners, I root for New York, since San Francisco didn’t enter the league until 1950. They are the junior team. If the Giants are playing the Packers, I have to root for Green Bay; they are four years older (1921) than New York (1925 joining the league).

This may seem silly, but what other method can one choose for rooting? Hometown teams make sense, but on “any given Sunday,” as they say, for most Americans, there is no home team. You choose between Tampa Bay and Tennessee? Toss a coin?

This gets back to this unrooted conservatism. For me, there are only six hockey teams: the Rangers, Black Hawks, Bruins, Red Wings, Maple Leafs and Canadiens. I don’t know how San Jose ever qualified; it’s a joke.

In baseball, my first love, I always root for the older team, and if two old teams are playing, I root for the older league — yes, the American League is a parvenu, still. There are subtleties to this system; a franchise move bumps a team down several notches, so the Dodgers and Giants each have a penalty attached: They moved; if they were still playing in Ebbets Field or the Polo Grounds, they would still be at the top of my list, but they betrayed us (yes, I grew up in the New York area). But still, if the Giants are playing the Marlins, I root for the Giants.

This is a finely met system of game watching. One has to choose a team based not on current talent, but on history. It is a system prejudicial to Cincinnati, Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Cleveland and New York. And against upstarts such as Tampa, Denver, Anaheim and what? Arlington, Texas? Oy.

This all might be taken as ultimately frivolous. How seriously can you take sports teams? And rooting (quite apart from gambling on teams, which I never do) is completely irrational. Especially in these days of modern times when favorite players shuffle around the league in trades and free-agency, faithfulness to any one team no longer makes any sense.

Each year my team seems like the luck of the draw and any reason to favor them above any other team is quite unfounded. white sox 1976 Yet, there is this deeply imbedded need to root. One team over another, underdog against the bully, home team against the visitor, well-designed uniform against the cartoon version (how anyone can root for the brown camouflage of San Diego is beyond me, and remember the 1976 White Sox? — a travesty.)

And that is where this mysterious conservatism comes in. There is buried in me — as in many people — a desire to keep things as we have always known them. We are comfortable with the familiar, and what is more, they world as we came to know it when we were young seems to possess a legitimacy that novelty lacks.

This is despite the fact that change is often necessary and often makes things better for all of us.

A good deal of conservative backlash against things such as affirmative action have as much to do with the comfort of a familiar past than it has to do with overt racism.

I don’t deny the racism, but conservatism isn’t only racism; it is also a profound discomfort with change. Even change for the good.

And although no one takes precedence over me in my distaste for what I call “tin-foil-hat” Republicans, and the continued institutional racism of so many national traditions, I have to say that somewhere, deep down inside myself, I can have some inkling of understanding for the source of this disquiet.

I don’t condone it, but I share it.


We enter the second week of the pro-football season, and I have to make a decision: To watch or not to watch.

Like any red-blooded American male, sporting the mangled Y-chromosome that defines malehood, I cannot easily resist armored behemoths in a demolition derby of sinews and ligaments, with the prize being lifelong damage from accumulated concussions.

(A confession here: I am really a baseball fan, so my interest now is whether the Red Sox will be able to hold on, or whether they will collapse in the next few weeks. I care rather less about the NFL.)

I watch football, though, it’s just that I cannot justify the time wasted doing so. It is something like an addiction and just as fruitless and just as absurd.

After all, the game really can be summed up, as my wife says, as “he runs with the ball, he throws the ball, he falls down with the ball.” There isn’t much else that happens. Oh, yes, there is quite a bit of measuring.

Not that much happens to fill up that three-and-a-half hours on TV that a game takes. And, as a recent experiment on my part proves, even those things don’t happen much.

I timed a game.

What I actually did was record the game and play it back with a stopwatch in hand, fast-forwarding through the chaff, timing everything from each snap of the ball to the referee’s whistle ending each play.

To my utter amazement, three minutes and 25 seconds into the experiment, the gun sounded on the first quarter. Whoa, that was a rush.

In the three hours-plus that the game would have eaten up of  my Sunday afternoon, there was exactly 14 minutes and six seconds worth of actual playing time.

The rest was huddling, timeouts, zebras in confabulation, replays, reverse-angles, ex-jocks analyzing the fine points of the left tackle’s trap block and, most importantly, beer commercials with pneumatic women.

I have tried to go cold turkey. Last season I went 11 weeks into the NFL season before watching a game. I was a more productive member of society; I felt righteous.

But I finally caved in, sneaking a bit of a Giants-Redskins game. I watched till the end of the season.

This year so far, I have only watched one half of one game. I am hoping to avoid the steroidal monkey on my back.

But I have also found a way to enjoy the game without wasting my time waiting three hours for those few minutes of actual football: I have learned to dilute my drug of choice. I now put the game on and turn the sound off. I put some Brahms or Stravinsky on the stereo and I sit down in my favorite chair with the Sunday paper. I read, I listen, and when the ball is snapped, I can look up at the screen and catch all the action. And I mean all the action. It’s a great way to get something done and see those 14 minutes and six seconds that actually count.