Sports and Life

In the 50s every red-blooded American boy either wanted to play baseball or be Elvis Presley.
Bob Dylan, “Theme Time Radio Hour: Baseball”

I was not a red-blooded American boy in the 50s, living only six months of my life in that decade. Yet Dylan’s words ring pretty true, with some modification for red-blooded American boys in the 1960s, too. When I was a boy, I dreamed of playing baseball for a living. I was a little older before the rock star dream hit. I have deep and fond memories of heading to the drug store with a dollar in hand to buy baseball cards – ten cents a pack. I can almost smell the gum and vividly recall how hard it was in those packages. It sweetness lasted such a short time.
I still enjoy sports, though my own accomplishments have always been pretty limited. I was a Little League sub. I have been a decent slow-pitch softball player. I enjoyed neighborhood pick-up games as a boy. I swam in high school and contributed something to the team. My golf game has a few moments of brilliance surrounded by a lot of hacking around.
When I was a boy, I developed a love for reading and much of that reading was sports books. These were frequently brief, sanitized biographies of star professional athletes. I still enjoy reading about sports, especially baseball. It is a nice change of pace, and I recently finished Phil Pepe’s 1961, the story of Mantle and Maris’ pursuit of Babe Ruth’s single season home run record. Reading it I recalled another of Phil Pepe’s books I read, this one as a boy (and I still have somewhere in a box in the garage,) Winners Never Quit. While the title came from an aphorism: “Quitters never win, winners never quit,” the book was more nuanced and deeper than the usual fair of boyhood sports books. The stories were about athletes who kept going, despite hardships – Jackie Robinson, Ken Venturi, Johnny Unitas. Most succeeded in their sport. However, one story from the book that I recall was about Herb Score, a talented pitcher whose career was cut short when a batted ball struck his face while he pitched a game. He never recovered his best stuff. He had to be a “winner” in some other way.
There are life lessons that sports can teach, lessons about determination, courage and a love for something bigger (“the game”). This summer, however, I have grown increasingly concerned about the “sportification” of our national life, especially our politics. As we are mired in partisan gridlock, so much of the analysis I hear uses sports metaphors to ask about who is ahead, who has the advantage – as if every policy discussion were simply an election strategy, and elections are just about winners and losers. Quitters never win gets bastardized into “no compromise.”
Sports can teach us things about life, but sometimes the metaphors are too narrow, or perhaps we have only borrowed too narrowly from sports. Another way to think about what is happening is to postulate that what we have forgotten is that sense of something bigger (“the game”). Maybe in our politics we call that the common good. If we “win,” but our winning damages the game, no one wins. The story of Roger Maris is still interesting because all those who have since broken Maris’ record have had their careers tainted by baseball’s steroid scandal. Their victories are more hollow for it.
I usually read sports books as a nice diversion from other things, yet sometimes the lessons spill over. Without “sportsmanship” sports lose their meaning. Without a broader context of cooperation, competition ends up in a Hobbesian war of all against all.

With Faith and With Feathers,

David