Last Tuesday evening found me in rare circumstance when I was in the same room for more than a few moments with both of my still-at-home kids. Most times, one or the other is working, or at a summer league game, or at a weight-lifting session, or at a basketball clinic, or at a friend's house, or at the computer, or in another room watching another show, or I'm out doing something of little consequence. It was just a roll of the dice that found us all together and still awake, even if just barely, in the heavy, close air of a July evening in Western New York.
Channel-surfing, we came across the introductions for this year's MLB All-Star game. None of us is a big baseball fan, but the combination of the approaching demise of Yankee Stadium and the presence of a number of Hall of Famers made for an irresistible mid-summer moment and was enough to pull the thumb off the remote. As the old-timers were announced, it occurred to me to quiz my 20-year-old daughter. At the time, I had no idea what prompted me to ask.
"Tell me what sport the person I name played.", I said. It went like this: Joe DiMaggio. Baseball. Lou Gehrig. Baseball. Mickey Mantle. Baseball. Ty Cobb. Baseball. Gordie Howe. No idea. Bart Starr. Who? Oscar Robertson. Um...basketball? Kenny Norton. Not a clue.
It struck me that the game of baseball, regardless of its current state of popularity, is so woven into the fabric of our history that a kid who never played the game, a kid who played basketball since she was barely bigger than the ball, a kid who traveled across the country to play in a national college tournament knew more legends from baseball than she did from basketbal or any other sportl. Her recall of more recent retirees was pretty much limited to Reggie Jackson because of the movie, "Benchwarmers" and whomever had disgraced themselves sufficiently to be in the news. The people she knew aren't only baseball legends. They'ere historical figures.
My quiz session ended, we watched the introductions and then demonstrated our lack of appreciation for the game itself by scrolling past it to Family Guy. But, the episode has been rolling around in my mind, and I think I finally have a handle on it.
Baseball was once such an intrinsic part of American society that the impact of the notable figures from that time is deeply embedded enough into the national psyche that kids today who have no interest in the game still know the names of its heroes. That begs the question; what was it about the game back then that caused such a far reaching effect? My answer is that it wasn't the game. It was America's sense of community that was different. The echoes of the shared sacrifices that melded unlike parts into a communal whole resonated in the nation's love of and fascination for baseball. Sure, professional football was still growing, hockey was a regional league of just six teams, and basketball was finding its legs as a professional sports entity. Yes, to be sure, baseball stood alone atop the national consciousness in sports, but that doesn't explain why those names still connect with kids who's parents' parents were still learning to feed themselves. I think it was because America was still a nation of communities. The old-country still had enough of a grip on the sons and daughters of immigrants to put real zest into ethnic festivals, enough to create yearly anticipation from all over the town or city. Unions were as much about workers socializing around common experience as they were about organizing. Sure, people sent their kids to school to get educated, but they sent them into the neighborhood to get civilized. People wanted to be a part of the greater whole, consciously or not, and baseball was the top layer of this goulash.
This isn't to romanticize away the problems of past eras. The chain Emails that extol how wonderful it was 'back in the day' find their way into the Trash file on my Yahoo account as fast as on anyone else's. The point I'm making is that people were far more inclined to look outside themselves and their own interests to find validation, to feel like a part of something. And baseball was something that brought so many people together. You could root for your own team and hate the rivals, but you could share an appreciation for the game with almost all of America that they shared for no other sport. And that made you a part of a huge community of people with a shared love and appreciation of something bigger than yourself.. That's a hugely powerful component in developing a sense of communal experience. One that America lacks now.
The sense of shared sacrifice I referred to earlier is lost on us now. A lot of us are content to let other people's families fight our wars. A lot of us don't want to lose our scenic views to windmills that provide clean energy and jobs. A lot of us never want to change our social habits or lifestyle until we're forced into it. And then, a lot of us piss and moan, ad nauseum. That's the difference between then and now. Sacrifice has lost its luster. Sacrifice isn't admired. Sacrifice is a sucker's move. Sacrifice is surrender. That's the only common sentiment a lot of us share.
Except, a lot of us are wrong. Horribly, shamefully, damnably wrong. If sacrifice is shared, if its a rational decision, if it is in the common good, it brings us together as a community. A community beyond our narrow self-interests and prejudices. And its not the type of sacrifice that garners publicity or notoriety that bring us together. The saying goes, "Character is doing the right thing when nobody's watching". The true character of sacrifice is doing the right thing when its not just for your own benefit. Doing the little things right is shared sacrifice. Adding your name to a petition. Putting your recycling out. Walking when you can. Turning away from whatever BS news blurb competes for your attention to pay attention to what our fighting men and women are going through.
The names of legendary baseball players resonate in our minds more because of the people who watched them than because of the players' fleeting accomplishments on the field. They resonate because the people who listened to their exploits, who followed their achievements were a community of Americans who shared in their love of baseball the way they shared in their sense of sacrifice. Maybe we don't share baseball in the singular way they did, but we need to start sharing sacrifice in the ways they did.
