Out to the Ball Game:
the debasement of an American pastime
On August 5th of this year, my wife, Krista, took me out to a ball game, which the Kansas City Royals lost to the Boston Red Sox 8-2 at Kauffman Stadium in the Kansas City suburbs. I will attempt in what follows to relate the sense experiences that I and 22,000 other souls shared; more importantly, I will attempt to relate, as Krista has come so patiently and resignedly to expect, its metaphysical ramifications…
In 1908 a man named Jack Norworth—who had never seen baseball played—wrote a set of strophic lyrics about the game that included the very famous refrain: “Take me out to the ball game/Take me out with the crowds/Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack™/I don’t care if I never get back/Let me root, root, root, for the home team/If they don’t win it’s a shame/For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out/At the old ball game.” Popular composer Albert von Tilzer set the text to music, and the resulting song has remained a part of the American consciousness ever since.
Tilzer was a “Tin Pan Alley” composer, part of a turn-of-the-20th-century tradition of popular music most examples of which follow a predictable formula, suggesting
Social engineering at its best, the images portrayed in popular musical forms bore—and bear—little resemblance to reality; yet sentimental recollection and forced, mechanical optimism sold—and sells—by the millions, the public wholeheartedly embracing genres of music “divorced from the unpleasant or difficult realities of the time or of their own lives.”2
“Take Me Out to the Ball Game” provides a good starting point for consideration not only of the importance of setting life’s experiences to music, but of the qualitative changes to our recreational experiences and expectations that have taken place over the past century. Music composed for specific events or occurrences enhances, invokes, and ultimately comes to represent these events apart from their specific occurrence: the more universal the application, the more unifying the music becomes despite the discrepancies that exist among the specific experiences of the listeners. Irrespective of time, place, team, league, or quantitative and qualitative rooting history, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” means baseball for any who hears it, creating a unified general association out of the nearly infinite diversity of personal experience. Though an enjoyable aspect of theme music—on some levels, its purpose—this renders listeners susceptible to emotional manipulation in a more specific manner due to the fact that the composer can make accurate assumptions about emotional orientation given the listener’s deliberate choice to participate in the activity he has set to music. Poignantly, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” the de facto theme song of baseball, seems incongruous with the modern ballpark experience, more anachronistic and nostalgic—certainly more innocent—than reflective of the atmosphere. The music that accurately depicts and inspired the behavior that inspired this discussion—predictably, the anthems of ‘hip-hop nation’ blasted out of hundreds of loudspeakers—does not represent baseball specifically, but its ubiquity at ballparks and stadiums gives insight into how base we have become in our recreation.
A consideration of issues of morality at the ballpark will follow, but what of moral theology at the ballpark? St. Thomas speaks of baseball as generally morally indifferent, an act neither conforming specifically to nor contravening moral goodness (admittedly, I have extended St. Thomas’s general consideration of recreation somewhat in assuming he speaks specifically of baseball, but the principle of indifference applies nonetheless). However, certain acts, though not specifically directed toward the end of moral goodness, may take on the character of goodness by circumstantial extension:
[I]t is not necessary, in order to be morally good, that an act should be referred to a positively good end. It is enough that the end is seen to be not evil, and that in the performance of the act the bounds set by right reason be not transgressed. Thus the acts of eating, drinking, taking recreation, and the like, while, in the abstract, they are neither conformable nor contrary to our rational nature, in the concrete, by reason of the circumstance of their being done in the manner and the measure prescribed by reason, become fully in accord with our rational nature, and hence morally good.3
Baseball’s moral goodness, quod erat demonstrandum. Active recreation as it supports clarity of mind and soundness of body represents something of a positive good, but, as indicated above, this assumes that we recreate “in the manner and the measure proscribed by reason.” We fail to employ recreation to positive ends when we recreate—either as a participant or an observer—unreasonably, without proper measure, or in a manner objectively opposing morality.
Athletic competition in general acts as a potent metaphor for life (you won’t always win though you ought to perform in such a way that you allow winning to happen…), and provides valuable life lessons: subjection of nature to intellect, discipline of body and mind, humility and grace in victory and defeat, camaraderie, sportsmanship, and perseverance. Baseball specifically as a tradition-laden game appeals on many levels. Perhaps most fascinatingly, multiple planes of intellectual appreciation for the game exist all seemingly enjoyable to inhabit, as people will observe—based on their specific knowledge of the game—either a leisurely almost lazy pastime, or a chess-like cerebral competition of intensely subtle strategic intricacies. As a student of technique, I enjoy professional baseball as I enjoy all sports, primarily as an opportunity to observe those most specifically talented perform physically and intellectually challenging pursuits as well as humanly possible. My rooting interest relates to this almost exclusively: a fan of the game rather than a specific team, I want to see the game—whatever game—played well.
Winston Churchill describes a fanatic—from which the word fan derives—as “someone who can’t change his mind, and won’t change the subject.” Commentary benefits more from objective, informed observation than raw zeal, and the so-called “true fan” can find himself in the awkward position of supporting his team or favorite player even at the expense of the sport. I understand the allure of extreme physical activity as a frequent participant and can appreciate the measured subjectivity of a loyal fan. I find offensive, however, the boorishness of overgrown adolescents who reckon their asocial behavior as a sort of virtue—proof of their passion as fans—but by their behavior show that they have no concept of the personal discipline required to compete at the highest level of physical activity.
Take me out to the ball game…
A sports stadium represents a singular feat of engineering and practical inefficiency. At 162 games, the baseball schedule surpasses all others, but with half of these games played away from ‘home,’ the baseball stadium sees intended use something on the order of three months a year. Football teams play their 16 games—again, half home, half away—once a week: the Kansas City Chiefs play eight Sundays per year in Arrowhead Stadium, located, conveniently enough, in the same ocean of parking lot as Kauffman Stadium. Corporations, individuals—and increasingly municipalities—pay hundreds of millions of dollars to construct spectacularly engineered sports basilicas (Google “University of Phoenix Stadium”…) which lay dark much of the year. The subject of stadium architecture and its reflection of the state of society will require separate consideration, but suffice it to say that baseball parks, “fields,” and stadiums come literally in all shapes and sizes (interestingly, no specific parameters exist for outfield dimensions, an accepted advantage for the home fielder), and invariably reflect their cities: Yankee Stadium is huge and loud and decrepit; the old Kingdome in Seattle (where I twice sang the national anthem) was as 60’s-era modern un-cool as the new Safeco Field is technology-money spectacular; Fenway Park is impossible to get to, engineered like a catacomb, and filled largely with rude, defensive foul-mouths insisting that it represents everything good and traditional about the game (certainly more than anything in New York ever could). Kauffman Stadium is—much as the old Busch Stadium in St. Louis was—perfectly Midwest, a sort of blandly beautiful thing of inoffensive symmetry, lacking any real character, but a good place to see a game.
“Buy me into the ball game” may most accurately reflect the current professional sports event: $9 parking, $40 tickets, $7 beer, and $5-$8 concessions (not to mention $20 “team” caps, and $100 “authentic” jerseys) all add up. You can cut some corners, but more and more, the stadium experience represents a serious investment, and teams know this. Here the problem begins. Understanding the costs and inconveniences involved with consuming their product, teams try to enhance the experience as much as possible, almost to the extent that the on-field action exists on the periphery.
As we entered the stadium, we met our primary companion for the evening—GIANT TV—a screen of phantasmagorical proportions in straightaway center field. Not only would GIANT TV entertain, educate, and console us throughout the night with a team of expert cameramen trained to spot and zoom in on ridiculous and embarrassing behavior, each fan could hope for the opportunity of having a full mouth or compromising gesture publicly displayed several stories high. NOISE acted as GIANT TV’s primary accomplice in convincing people that they would get their money’s worth, as loud music or generally silly background sound effects played nearly continuously. Coming to the ballpark may well render concentrated attention on the game impossible, but one surely won’t lack stimulation.
…take me out with the crowds…
As attendance goes, 22,000 won’t impress anyone (and considering the now unseemly popularity of the opposing Red Sox, an objectively small number for a summer evening), yet rarely will you find yourself in such close proximity to as many souls, and the number proves sufficient to inspire a sort of mob mentality. It seemed a purposeful decision on the part of those who engineered the event—through GIANT TV’s videos, music, and ‘activities’—to encourage unnecessarily a sense of vulgarity, all in the name of “fun.” Fun it seems now relates to a sort of physical-comedy slapstick absurdity to which television cartoons and sitcoms have accustomed us, and public events have become an excuse to live out such asocial behavior, as if the company of thousands of strangers justified boorishness. Most in attendance seemed to tolerate the slovenly-screaming-rudeness element as part of the price of admission. Luckily for us, given my journalistic mission, the couple to our immediate left provided the quintessential example in this regard; I could scarcely believe my good fortune as my ideal research subjects nearly fell—literally on several occasions—into my lap.
Sporting event engineers use music very effectively. Short clips of extreme up-tempo dance music serve to keep the energy level in the stadium unnaturally high and the legitimate fatigue people feel as a result further serves to convince consumers of the substantive “value” of their collective purchase. Each home team player chooses his own “bumper” music as he comes to bat, a five-second mini theme song, invariably rap or heavy metal, designed to provide him a jolt of inspiration and familiarity. My research subjects had immediate, subconscious physiological reactions to these bits of songs, in every instance breaking into perfectly synchronized choreographed gyrations expertly adapted to their sitting position. Frequently, the young woman managed to break into her little dance while maintaining keen focus on her cell phone, on which she ‘texted’ furiously the entire night. She was not alone in doing this. Much to her good fortune, at one point GIANT TV declared a “texting” contest, the winner of which “texted” the phrase displayed on GIANT TV to an indicated number and won a prize. After GIANT TV informed us all of the winner—about the time I had confirmed that I had my phone turned on—I decided that if I couldn’t focus on the action on the field or take meaningful part in the action in the stands (neither can I text, nor did the cameramen give us a chance to perform on “KissCam”), at least I could console myself with food.
…buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack…
Here some solace: the ballpark provides an extreme culinary experience centered entirely on the four fundamental American food groups—sugar, fat, salt, and beer. Again, sound plays a pivotal role, as vendors of specific foods—peanuts, nachos, hot dogs, ice cream, drinks—have emitted the same calls from the dawn of time. Like the nightingale or whale, these calls don’t necessarily include recognizable words, yet never fail to communicate the nearing presence of the substance in question (I don’t for instance recognize the sounds “ASKO BEE HEE” as English, yet they somehow make me thirsty). Vendors wear large buttons with the price of their concession written on them so as both to maximize efficiency and avoid unnecessary verbal communication altogether.
One of the more heartening—if not mildly disgusting—ballpark food traditions, your row mates will pass your food to you from the vendor (NB: critical mass of bacteria accumulation on a hot dog accrues after seven or eight people, so try to get an aisle seat. Alternately, you can choose to have the vendor throw your food at you, a surprisingly satisfying experience). I began to suspect some sort of employee/corporate-baron conspiracy regarding the vending pattern, however, in the fact that the frozen custard man walked through the stadium only once (at a distance of several hundred yards) and as quickly as possible seemingly in an attempt not to sell a single unit, while several times each half inning I could have bought cotton candy larger than my head, containing a dosage of pure sugar fatal to adults, and sufficient to induce Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder in children instantaneously. I did, however, feel satisfied with my $6.50 beverage bargains, saving fifty cents on eight more ounces of beer sold on the concourse.
…I don’t care if I never get back…
As alluded to above, moral responsibility does not preclude active or passive recreation but rather extends to it. Herein lies the problem: many, it seems, use recreation as an opportunity to cast aside moral responsibility, and worse, allow a spirit of irresponsible recreational license—“fun”—to extend further and further into everyday life. Recreation represents no threat when kept in proper balance and in proper perspective as an element of our physical reality; the danger lies in allowing the attitudes and affect associated with recreational experiences to become an alternative to moral reality. The competitive nature of athletic competition can extend to fan support, and can expand to become an entire lifestyle, one in which the line between objective moral goodness and indifference invariably blur, allowing participation in an objectively indifferent activity to inspire moral indifference, ultimately habituating the participant to actual badness.
…let me root, root, root for the home team…
I could not have anticipated the number of Boston Red Sox fans we saw at our Kansas City Royals home game; in terms of numbers and certainly noise, the Royals realized no fan advantage by playing in their own stadium. “Red Sox Nation”—the active nationwide Red Sox fan base—is a documented and curious sociological phenomenon, on the one hand, easily explained as a by-product of the steady diaspora of New Englanders over the last half century. On the other hand, by their own admission many of the Red Sox “faithful” in attendance—our dancing friends among them—live and work in the Midwest. For the transplant, the chance to see the old home team represents an important reconnection with heritage and history; what of the local fan rooting, in effect, against the home team? In either case, a hint of danger exists, the edge of proclaiming foreign allegiance in “hostile” territory.
The New England affect includes many laudable traits; loyalty, superior work ethic, perseverance among them. The culture of pessimism born of the Calvinist heritage of neo-Manichean misery and the inherent ability to find fault in any scenario, however, need not spread across the land. As a native New Englander, I have seen innumerable instances of this in the stands at every level of sporting competition. A sort of delight in fatalistic rudeness has longed marked the rooting of Northeast fans, and sports offer a sort of twisted socioeconomic downward behavioral leveling: many of the true Boston fans (the ones in Boston) seem to rally around an attitude of blue-collar coarseness—ironic as the price of supporting a team in Boston now largely excludes all but the properly moneyed—as if screaming and cussing like a dock worker somehow provided a unifying element between demographics otherwise at supremely antagonistic odds. There is also a poignant fickleness to the camaraderie: brothers-in-arms inside the park would cross the street to avoid each other in everyday life. In terms of support, fans rain down cheers and jeers on their heroes with equal intensity based on their performance in the moment.
The displaced New Englander finds solace in the Sox, a bit of home away from home; conversely, the local Red Sox National recruit wittingly or unwittingly fosters a sort of disdain of the familiar, local, and traditional in his opportunistic embrace of the exotic which costs him little as it puts him conveniently in the midst of an increasingly comfortable trend. Rooting has always filled the fan with an unrealistic sense of importance (players will publicly acknowledge the importance of the fans, but when pressed, often admit that the nature of their work on the whole requires them to ignore the objective distraction of the crowd), and perhaps more importantly—and just as unrealistically—a sense of ownership of the experience.
…if they don’t win it’s a shame…
The home team will lose; in the case of the Royals, frequently. Yet, some nobility along the lines of indifference to human respect exists in supporting them nonetheless. By refusing to deny a connection to your home town underachiever—while simultaneously providing whatever support possible might facilitate achievement—the local fan exhibits in his rooting sportsmanship a type of charitable character that transcends winning. The long-suffering fan of the old Red Sox knows this more than any (save perhaps the now longer-suffering fan of the Chicago Cubs), and finds himself in the horns of a painful dilemma: the dearly bought yet perhaps cheaply earned Red Sox championships of the past decade—cheered on increasingly by bandwagon hoppers who have had no stake in the anguish and morbid dysfunctional dependence kept alive through preceding decades of ineptitude and futility—must have something of a hollow ring to them. The eleventh-hour Red Sox Nation hireling takes his reward, but in this case, the master of the vineyard has sold out to a mercenary system of opportunism and greed where loyalty has no place. Increasingly in a sports world of rented superstars and hired guns, the shame is in the winning.
…for it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out at the old ball game.
Some would say that in leaving during the 8th inning I had learned too much from my years of living in southern California; in reality, we chose to avoid the final ignominy of sitting for an hour in post-game traffic. We left somewhat dazed, but with neither rancor nor regret, and on the contrary convinced that we would come again, with eyes wide open (and ears as shut as possible). The goodness of the experience trumps the bad, but as is often the case with worldly, morally indifferent pursuits, this goodness depends on the intention of the participant. I would love to recreate the rooting atmosphere I experienced as a boy watching the Montreal Canadiens play in the old Forum, where well-dressed, seated fans would show appreciation for the action with applause and a real person playing a real organ would only occasionally fill time with silly yet real music. I would love for my children to gain a cerebral appreciation for high-level athletic competition in person, though at present this seems unlikely to happen. I will still choose, however, as a loving parent to teach them the value and beauty and goodness and truth in sports as I was taught by a loving parent who knows and loves sports.
As we drove away listening on the radio to the final inning, I finally heard the game I had hoped to see. As we listened we resolved—relatively unscathed by what we had experienced and filled with all manner of not so good for you good things—to return. And so we will occasionally come and feast well-intentioned on a worthy pastime, and inasmuch as we root, we will root for the home team.
1 Charles Hamm, “Popular Music,” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (MacMillan, 1980), XV, 105.
2 Ibid.
3 Catholic Encyclopedia, “Acts.”
Current Issue
