Next, They’ll Tell Magic Not to Smile

In a movie called “Rollerball,” sport continued to supply entertainment to the masses, but the game was designed to de-emphasize the individual, so therefore the modern athlete came to be devoid of personality.

Now, as with Jules Verne and H.G. Wells and “The China Syndrome” and other dabblers in fiction, life continues to imitate art.

The high society of sports is attempting to turn performers into lookalike, soundalike rollerballers. Individualism is being scrap-heaped in favor of robotics. Coaches are becoming computer programmed. Freedom of expression may soon become the stuff of yesterday, seen only in distant replay.

Latest evidence:

Rollie Fingers has been told he cannot pitch baseballs for the Cincinnati Reds if he does not shave his handlebar mustache.

Ozzie Smith has been ordered by the St. Louis Cardinals to stop doing backflips.

Jim McMahon was notified by the commissioner of professional football to stop wearing headbands with brand names.

Fun-loving defensive lineman Mark Gastineau of the New York Jets and the Washington Redskins’ “Fun Bunch” were instructed to dance no more after outstanding plays.

Coach Don Nelson of the Milwaukee Bucks was warned about wearing commercially endorsed sneakers on the sidelines.

General Manager Ken (Hawk) Harrelson of the Chicago White Sox has been forbidden to mention players whose names are being bandied about in major league trade talks.

University of Michigan basketball players have been placed off-limits to the press because one of them “guaranteed” in advance a game that the team failed to win.

Need we go on?

We need the individualists, the eccentrics, the iconoclasts, else we become a planet of androids. Remember the old sales pitch about not being able to tell the players without a scorecard? Well, before long, we might start assigning numbers to jerseys without bothering to list or learn the athletes’ names.

There has always been resistance. Somebody surely told Mel Ott to stop raising his front foot, or Willie Mays to forget those basket catches, or Juan Marichal to kick his leg not so high. Chet Lemon keeps catching fly balls with one hand and diving headfirst into first base, because he needs to be true to himself.

We need different strokes. If Cassius Clay or Lew Alcindor or Marvin Hagler or Lloyd Free wish to change their names, we should not only accept but appreciate a little change, if only to break up the monotony. What harm in calling a man Marvelous or World? Better that we just assign one another numbers, like convicts?

The satirist Tom Lehrer once said he knew a man named Henry who was such an individual, he spelled his name “Hen3ry.” The 3 was silent.

One of the goofiest practices in amateur or professional sports continues to be the appearance edicts--forced grooming, you might say--handed down by the Cincinnati Reds baseball team. Talk about archaic. Discipline is one thing, but the Reds are about a step away from insisting that during spring training their players say “all present and accounted for, sir” with a salute.

Somewhere in the distant past, a head Red decreed that facial hair was a breach of discipline and tradition. To this day, no man on the roster is permitted to have a beard or mustache, no matter how neatly sheared.

For this reason, Rollie Fingers, one of baseball’s all-time greats, has been refused a chance to try out with the Reds. Shave it or leave it, the head Red said. Since he has become quite attached to that mustache, literally and figuratively, Fingers declined. “It’s my trademark,” he said.

Cynics will say if Fingers really and truly wanted to pitch, he would have done anything--even shave his armpits. How ridiculous. The Reds have the right to make their own rules, no matter how stupid, but Fingers is too mature a citizen to be told how he can or cannot show his face.

It will come as a bulletin to the Reds, perhaps, that the armed and dangerous Bruce Sutter, Rick Sutcliffe, Bert Blyleven, Jeff Reardon, LaMarr Hoyt and others have pitched quite wonderfully with furry cheeks, and Dan Quisenberry’s mustache has almost never interfered with his delivery.

One wonders what would happen if Pete Rose forced this issue. Now, Pete in a mustache is liable to resemble one of the bandits who stopped Humphrey Bogart in the Sierra Madres, but at least as player-manager he has some clout. The owner of the Reds will never relate to the players in this matter because it will be the circus for her if she ever sprouts a beard.

Sparky Anderson, formerly of the Reds, still has a no-beard rule as manager of the Detroit Tigers, but Kirk Gibson didn’t shave during the 1984 World Series and in the final game clubbed two baseballs halfway to Ohio.

Just this week, the bearded Ozzie Smith was told not to shave, but to stop doing acrobatic backflips before baseball games. Ozzie only does this once in a while, and no one seems to consider his behavior any sort of hot doggery. Evidently, the Cardinals believe what Smith does could be dangerous to his physical well-being.

At least this argument makes sense. But, nevertheless, it is saddening, and Ozzie’s flips will be missed.