Absurdity, Allegory and China

It’s difficult to get through an entire spring and summer without writing something about baseball, even if it won’t ever get much of a grip here in China. Despite the MLB’s recent series of promo events in Shanghai, Wuxi, Guangdong, Chengdu, and now, as I write, in Beijing. I think baseball has about as much of a chance of catching fire in China as kai shu has of becoming a required course in Philadelphia public schools. Though I have no special knowledge of such things, I’d guess that it will be a long time before we see a mainland player swinging a bat in the Bigs, unless, unknown to the world, the Chinese sports machine has the next Sidd Finch hidden away in some isolated dugout in western Gansu trying to get control of his rocket fastball, while waiting to spring him on the world in the next Olympics. Ohh, wait… wait… I almost forgot, baseball’s no longer an Olympic sport, so why should China select for the skills required to play baseball when there’s not a gold medal in it? Well, good question. China did field their first Olympic baseball team in the 2008 Beijing Olympics, but they were able to sidestep any qualifying rounds since as the host country they received an automatic bye. They did manage to win a game – beat Chinese Taipei 8-7 – but that was as close as they got to a medal. Tip o’ the hat to Jacques Rogge for overseeing the elimination of baseball from the Olympics on his watch, and as he continues to build on his twisted legacy. It’s going to take some ghostwriter a lot of narcotic-ed imagination to write Jacques up into a tolerable form. None of this is news, but it is baseball season, and I’m looking for an excuse.

I am a hopeless Phillies fan. Last fall I wrote about it here, a long autobiographical piece that begins at birth, which was noted as being five weeks before the Phils won the pennant (1950) then dropped four straight to the Yankees in the Series. And so, I was born a Phan. For those who know nothing about baseball, or nothing about baseball before they were born, something happened in Philadelphia in 1964 that allowed many of us to understand what it means to plunge headlong into the Abyss. The drama and confusion of history, set and setting, and a society in rapid transition was mirrored on the field at Connie Mack. It was perfectly, tragically Sophoclean.

And about that baseball thing that happened? Well, I’m not going to speak it, since the least mention of it could flare up the flames of Hell and consume me and the currently hapless Phils (just dropped four straight to Houston) whose bats have fallen silent at a time when they need to be loud. I don’t want to be the emitting source of some weird low-frequency bad shit psychic transmission that might morph into the Phils undoing this month. But if you must know, have a look here. Yes, Wikipedia has its very own entry on the “Phold.”

So when I read a Jeff Passan piece yesterday on the Phils newly acquired pitcher Cliff Lee and his recent two losses after five straight wins, all I could do was shake my head. Passan, a youngster, made an outrageous statement:

They [Phillies] were going to win the NL East before Ruben Amaro Jr. fortified the team with an ace [Lee]. They’re going to win the East with Lee, no matter how poorly he pitches.

All I can say is, “Kid, you might have a future in sportswriting, but you still have a lot to learn.” Calling a division winner with 27 games to go is a DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN-ism. Baseball is built on the solid understanding that there is always hope, that there is always a chance, no matter how much the odds are against it. It’s a game without time, without a clock to wind down, which allows for the appearance of the divine right up until the final out. It’s a game chockfull of numbers, but it is the unquantifiable, the uncountable that keeps us in the game until the final out, no matter how many runs your team is up or down. Yes, there are odds, and more often than not the odds tell a solid tale. But it’s the one off that keeps us in our seats, whether it’s in the park, in front of a television or, my personal preference, the radio (these days via internet).

So when someone calls it over with 27 games to go I’m thinking that somewhere this kid’s missed the point of baseball. The only way for Passan to be right would be if the Phils were up by 27.5 games. And the last time I checked, which was two minutes ago, the Phils are only up by six. And in Philadelphia that’s a “red one.”

While I hope that the Phillies are there at the end of the season – and at the end of the Series too – I would not have the audacity to be calling it a lock in the first week of September. And neither would the folks who root for the Marlins. (The Cubs, on the other hand, are another story all together. Though they are not statistically out of their division race yet, we all know that Heaven has crossed them off the waiting list for a miracle. After all, they are the Cubs, which means it has nothing to do with the “numbers” and everything to do with the “divine.”)

To further belabor a belabored point (baseball and the divine) I clearly remember the fifth game of the 1985 NLCS – LA vs St. Louis – bottom of the ninth, 2-2 and switch hitting, backflipping Ozzie Smith stepped up to the plate, batting left-handed. The announcer (perhaps Bob Costas who often had me screaming at the TV when I had the chance to watch a game) said “Smith has never hit a home run from the left side,” and he was right. In 3,009 left-handed at bats Smith had indeed never hit a home run. I also remember exclaiming loudly, “Those numbers don’t mean shit!” which was the reason I was watching the game. And on his 3,010th left-handed at bat, Ozzie ran one down the right field line for a homer and a walk-off win. What were the odds?

As any kid who’s played baseball will tell you, it ain’t over until it is. And sooner or later Jacques Rogge won’t be the lord of the IOC, and maybe then the MLB will have a little more of a future in China. And then, too, perhaps that secret baseball camp in remote Gansu will finally be revealed. Here’s to the next Sidd!