Baseball Talk Is Not Always the Gospel

The subject for today is baseball cliches and other great double-talk of our day. First, in italics, is the cliche. What follows, is the truth:

“This is a trade that will help both teams.”

There is no such thing. This is a trade of guys who didn’t help the teams they were on and won’t help the teams they are going to, either.

“He comes to play.”

What’s he supposed to do, come to sit? It’s amazing how many guys didn’t come to play the nights Koufax was pitching. More guys showed up with the 24-hour flu than a police strike and there was more fake coughing than the second act of “La Traviata.” The late Chico Ruiz was the only honest ballplayer I ever knew. He liked getting paid to watch ballgames. “Bench me or trade me,” was his motto. He came to rest. He had Rawlings design him a seat cushion.

“He hates to lose.”

You ever meet anybody who liked to lose? The truth is, most ballplayers would rather lose than go 0 for 4. If they go 0 for 4 and the team wins, they’ll wait till they get home to kick the water cooler. If they go 2 for 4 and the team loses, it’s a standoff. If they go 4 for 4, they won’t even notice whether the team won or lost.

“He’s a team player.”

No, he’s not. He’s a soloist like every other player in this game. You think Babe Ruth was a team player? As the star goes, so goes the team. Team play doesn’t win pennants. Three-run homers do.

“He can’t run, he can’t hit, he can’t field--all he can do is beat you.”

If he can’t hit, can’t run and can’t field, who is the “you” we’re talking about here?

“He’s sneaky fast.”

He’s sneaky slow is what he is. Batters can’t believe anything that slow won’t break straight down at the last moment. The minute they wise up, he’ll be sneaking to Albuquerque.

“He’s got a bad attitude.”

His attitude’s all right. It’s his disposition that needs modifying. He hates everybody, regardless of race, creed or color. If he weren’t in baseball, he’d be in prison. Hitler took Europe with a million just like him.

“He loves the game.”

Why wouldn’t he? He’s going to make a million a year driving a bus? Cutting cane? He hates the game, to tell you the truth. He loves money.

“He keeps the team loose.”

He’s loose himself. He’s 35 going on 12. What he really does is keep the team jittery. Loose in the sense a guy who hears a noise in the cellar is loose.

“He’s underrated.”

Nobody is underrated. Not in a game that has more decimal points than the MIT library. The truth is, there’s a lot of guys overrated in the grand old game. Merely to say a guy is “underrated” is to overrate him. If he’s “underrated,” you can bet me, he’s under-accomplished.

“He’s a head case.”

Oh, I don’t know. Just because he likes to put piranha in his swimming pool, drive around with a pet boa constrictor in his convertible and tell of the time he was kidnaped in a flying saucer by 50 2-foot purple people or that he’s really Charlemagne doesn’t make him weird in this game. How sane can you stay in a business that pays you $2 million a year to succeed 30% of the time or work only every fifth day and finish what you start only about one-fifth of the time? Besides, if you can bat .350, baseball doesn’t care if you bay at the moon or turn into a real bat at midnight. If Dracula could hit, he’d be in a lineup someplace.

“It’s a game of inches.”

If it is, how come those outfield signs don’t read “3,960 inches” down the foul lines instead of “330 feet”? Why aren’t tape measure home runs said to be 6,000 inches long?

“It’s never over till the final out.”

That’s the only thing wrong with it. Baseball is not a game of inches, it’s a game of hours, the only team game not run by the clock. The problem is, most games are over by the sixth inning, particularly those in Yankee Stadium. The old Dodgers’ games used to be over when the first run was scored. L.A. crowds solve the problem by going home in the seventh inning or 10 o’clock, whichever comes first.

“We’re playing them one game at a time.”

Losing streak. When things are going good, managers tend to talk in terms of “If we can win 3 of 4 from St. Louis or split, we’ll be in good shape.” When things get really bad, they talk of playing them one inning at a time.

“He’s got to learn to be more patient at the plate.”

He’s swinging at airplanes, passing hot dog wrappers, pickoff plays and sudden loud noises. When he’s got two strikes on him, he’ll swing at pitches he couldn’t hit with a 9-iron. The manager tries to help by putting a sign on his locker, “If it bounces, it’s a ball.”

“He’s pressing.”

He’s suddenly realized he can’t hit the pitching up here. The team will try new glasses, new stances, films, hypnosis and diet, but the only thing that can cure him is Albuquerque. He can’t hit anything that bends.

“He’s a guess hitter.”

No kidding! So is everybody else in this game. The last guy who could pick up the rotation on the curveball was Ted Williams and he had 20/Rhode Island vision. He could see across Rhode Island what most people could see only at 20 feet. When an object going 90 m.p.h. only has to cover 60 feet to get to you, you’re lucky you have time to guess.

“He’s a competitor.”

He throws things when he strikes out.

Baseball is readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmetic. If you divide by 11 everything you hear or read, you’ll be ahead of the game.