I hate the Yankees. I would like to make it clear to all who come upon these words that I hate the New York Yankees.
(Honestly, I should probably choose my words better. To speak from the “Theological” portion of this collection, we should not hate. We are called to love, and even if the Yankees are indeed the Evil Empire, we should respond with love and not hate. So I offer a disclaimer: I do not literally hate any person or any group of people. When I write that I hate the Yankees, it is in sports terms, and I simply mean that I want them to lose. The same would go if I were writing of particular Bombers like A-Rod or Mark Teixeira. I do not hate them as people, but I would not be upset were they to never hit a home run or, even, get a base hit in the Major Leagues again. This is what you get for joining the Bronx Zoo. Disclaimer over.)
Indeed, I occasionally hypothesize that a win over the Yankees should be worth a game and a half in the standings. Not because they are so much better than everybody else–though I ache to admit that they often field an extraordinary baseball team–but because beating them is that much sweeter. Though, if that were to happen, we should even it out by only giving a half game for beating the Washington Nationals. Let’s face it, that’s so easy that it sometimes feels cruel to finish a game against the erstwhile Expos.
I intend all of this Yankees and Nationals bashing as merely and introduction to my main point, which is to show off the depths of my geekiness. You see, while I hate the Yankees (again, in a sports sense only), I love the history of sport, particularly the history of baseball, and the history of baseball often goes through the Bronx. With that in mind, I have long been enamored by Don “The Gooney Bird” Larsen, a fifties-era right-handed starter for the Evil Empire. If you don’t know, on October 8, 1956, Don Larsen pitched the only perfect game in World Series History. He was facing off with the Brooklyn Dodgers who were led by such names as Gil Hodges, Duke Snider, Pee Wee Reese, and the incomparable number 42, Jackie Robinson. These great bats, and none of them made it as far as first base on that night.
I hold Larsen’s feat so highly that I was a little offended last year when some pundits asked whether Roy Halladay’s no-hitter on the opening day of the playoffs–as incredible and historic a moment as that was–might actually be bigger, better, or more impressive. In case you misunderstand my meaning, until somebody pitches a perfect deciding game of the World Series, there will be no more important full game pitching performance. If you choose to argue with me, go ahead, but be sure your debate skills are polished.
Another piece of background you should know for this story is that I keep score at baseball games. No, I am not sixty years old, but I believe happiness to be sitting in the stands with a scorecard in my lap. While keeping score, I can watch any level of baseball–Major League, semi-pro, amateur, high school, little league, even church league–and be content. I have been known to keep score at home, whether listening on the radio or watching on television. I could quickly find the scorecard for the Tigers’ 2011 Opening Day if asked. I once explained my penchant for keeping score to my confirmation class, even showing them the basics of how to do it, and the essential question they asked me was, “Why would you do something like that? Can’t you just look at the box score?” I feel that my gut reaction of, “It’s just awesome, okay?” would not have satisfied them. Not that whatever answer I gave did.
My true geekiness shines through, if it has not already, when I tell you that I recently picked up the book Perfect by Lew Paper. This book gives a background for all the players involved on that historic night along with a pitch-by-pitch account of the game. As you have probably guessed, I am keeping score while reading the book. My goal is to have a clean scorecard of Larsen’s perfectly timed perfection that I could hang on my wall should I so choose. I know I am a geek, I embrace it. I even embrace the thought that I am sure some of my loved ones will have upon reading this, “That only scratches the surface.” Thank you for your time, you may now return to your much more normal lives.
Is Baseball Theological? 