Baseball - A good name for it

I know that it's almost Christmas and that almost two months have passed since Joe Carter's home un finally put an end to the national pastime for 1993, but I've got something I've been wanting to say since spring. Everybody seemed to be having such a good time cheering for their teams, berating the others, ridiculing the umpires, that I thought I would wait until now to proclaim that in a time when kids desperately need positive role models more than ever, baseball—the great American icon that inspired someone to compose a song that extolled not only its athletic virtues but the comestibles sold in its grandstands, the near mythical sport that has created such heroes as Ruth, Mantle, Mays, and Aaron—this same omnipotent entity is also comprised of some of the sleaziest, most vulgar, most violent, and, in general, most uncivilized people in the world of entertainment. And that is, of course, what baseball and all the other sports are—entertainment.

Our youth, in many—though certainly not all—cases, are worshipping a bunch of barbaric clods.

I enjoy a lot of sports besides baseball, and although it, along with football, hockey and now even basketball, have an excess of violence that is not intrinsic to their sports—"extracurricular activities," as some doltish broadcasters cutely refer to it—baseball is the only one that routinely offers its fans heft side orders of other expressions of uncivility, namely masticating colossal wads of tobacco, spitting and public groping of one's private parts.

Incredibly, my wife, Barbara, got interested in the NBA about 6 years ago, and now she's, at times, a more ardent fan than I am. But I know I will never spark her interest in baseball because of the grotesquely offensive antics of its practitioners.

It is totally impossible to watch a baseball game on TV for more than a few minutes before some batter readjusts his genitals or dislodges a "wedgie." And, of by some miracle, the batter actually busies his hands with game-related activities, the cameraman, during one of the endless action interruptions (batter steps out of the batter's box or the pitcher steps off the mound) will zoom in on the dugout, where we get to observer the other players doing the same thing or the manager unleashing a black stream of Red Man onto the floor.

Recently, on the David Letterman show, the comedian showed a tape of the entire Philadelphia Phillies bench spewing forth their tarry arcs of venom like stygian fountain statues.

Some of the players, perhaps finally realizing the unsalutary effects of chewing huge clumps of carcinogens for hours on end, have, in a rare display of rationality, opted for sunflower seeds, but alas, they make this into a repulsive spectacle as well, constantly spitting out those tiny white projectiles onto the field, sometimes even conducting contests to see who can achieve the greatest distance.

Other, more enlightened players, have taken up bubblegum, but appear to chew 8 to 10 pieces at once, smacking loudly, with their mouths open to hippopotamine proportions—even during interviews—stopping only to blow enormous face-engulfing bubbles, evincing once again that they still don't quite "get it."

During the World Seris, the Phillies pitcher Mitch "Wild Thing" Williams, christened a new expression of boorish behavior when he paused between pitches to blow his nose, only he didn't employ the method usually practiced by reasonable human beings, he simply held one nostril shut with his index finger, while blowing out the contents of the other onto the mound. He finished his indecorous performance in a foul flourish by wiping his nose in his sleeve, then scratching his crotch before anticlimactically delivering the pitch to a helpless catchers who was probably wishing he had an extra glove for his bare hand.

I apologize for this graphic description, but frankly, I don't think Red Barber could have euphemized his way out of it.

In retrospect, I have gained a new respect for the umpire who is bold enough to examine the baseball contaminated by these louts. Perhaps they should wear rubber gloves to protect themselves from these "foreign substances."

By the same token, I also have great sympathy for the janitors and groundskeepers. One would think the dugout floors might resemble prehistoric tar pits covered with layers of white seeds, and the grass must be made of some specially developed hybrid that is resistant to caustic substances, since I've never noticed any scorched areas.

Now that I've called attention to these blatant foibles, some obvious questions come to mind: Do these people behave this way off the field? Did they behave this way prior to becoming baseball players?

Does Lennie Dykstra, the "Wizard of Wads," the "Sultan of Splat," the "Chairman of Chaw," have a porch with a blackened, sticky floor? Is the paint on his driver's side car door peeling off? Does he have a spittoon in every room in his house? Does he ever forget and take a swig from his spit cup? Can he recall the last time his wife kissed him on the mouth? Or do players only marry women who chew as well?

Does Barry Bonds, just before shaking his minister's hand after church service, pause first to rearrange his reproductive organ, if he feels he's listing to one side or the other? Does the minister withdraw his hand?

And while we're on this very personal subject, why do they constantly have to make these adjustments or corrections anyway? I don't have these kinds of problems and, even if I did, I would attend to them in private. I'm positive it's some kind of macho posturing thing.

Sports reporter: "My Boggs, why is it that you and all the other players are always manipulating yourselves, you know, in your genital region?"

Mr. Boggs (with affected modesty): "Well kid, not to brag, but you know that many of us 'love stallions' are so generously endowed, it's kind of like trying to walk around with a fire hose in your pants Some of those low, inside pitches I punched out for singles—it weren't my bat, heh heh."