"It was really depressing, "he answered me, "they really didn't deserve it. There was no reason for the Cardinals to be champions this year."
There are few people in my Jewish teachers college who I can speak baseball with. For that matter, other than the ex-pat Americans, there is nobody in this country who talks baseball. Israelis can't wrap their heads around the game. Baseball, with its pitch-dependent action, is too slow for the revved up soccer-heads in this country. They prefer the fast paced shell games, where you have to keep your eye on the ball as the clock runs, or is run down; complicated plays thought out to give the team that millisecond of distraction needed to place the ball in its respected net, goal, basket, what have you. American sports, be it baseball with its endless innings or football with its long breaks in between plays, just doesn't make sense to them. And if they had to choose between them, well at least in football they beat each other up while running the clock.
"Baseball's like a social get together. You sit, drink beer, eat junk, schmooze with friends, and once in a while clap your hands for your team," a good friend of mine once commented after his first baseball game.
Of course that was his response. The first time he saw a double play was when we diagrammed it on a pizza pie earlier that day. Israel is a beautiful country, but when you have to give three years of your life to the army and have your bag X-rayed when you enter the mall, you lack the patience to appreciate the thumping but slow-paced thrill that baseball offers.
But how could I not celebrate the Cardinal's incredible victory? How could I not seek out a fellow fan of the sandlot to discuss Freese and Albert? More than them being my second favorite team (I'll clarify: nothing makes me happier than an Indians' win, after which the next best thing is a Yankees' loss, followed by a victory by STL- my grandmother's team- if all else fails I root for the Jays- my grandfather's team) their ride, or more correctly, flight this season and post-season is at the heart of what makes baseball special. Which is why I disagree with one of the few people at the Herzog College in Israel who understood what those three red letters on my blue hat stood for.
Fan-hood is a strange phenomenon. Every jersey that we don makes us a member of the team, secures us a spot on their roster. It gives us the opportunity to be part of something bigger than we are; a member of the "Fenway Faithful", or of any other "Nation." Loyalties are passed on from father to son, or sometimes (as is by me), son to father, or just through the drinking water.
If you ask me, baseball fans can be divided into two categories: competitors and romantics. Competitors want the W, and nothing more. For them the end-result are the only thing that is important. Number one in the win column or bust. Like someone who guzzles through a bottle of fine wine because of the price tag and the status. They'll grow quickly into front-runners, fast to discard their hometown or familial loyalties for a team that will provide them with more bang for their proverbial buck.
Romantics are the exact opposite. To them the price tag is nowhere near as important as the label on the back of the bottle- the one that explains the process and flavors that were cultivated. As my mentor in wines and spirits once said, "Some people know brands, other people know wine." Somebody who understands wine will pay the price for a good bottle, but they also have the ability to find equal, if not better, wines at better prices. The process is almost all of the fun for the baseball romantic. The means and not the ends.
Which is why I root for Cleveland despite the fact that it is almost always guarantees me heartbreak, and why I believe that the Cardinals deserved the Commissioner's Trophy more than any team that has played since the Cardinals last took it in 2006- and even more than that incarnation! A team must be developed financially. I won't argue this, and hold this against the Dolans and the way they manage the Tribe. However, the Indians' front office, since the 90's, has been responsible for cultivating players, coaching them from the start of their young careers until they mature into the robust players who deserve big numbers on their price tag. Manny Ramirez, CC, and of course, Jim Thome, among others rose to star quality while playing for the Indians. The 1995-1997 lineup was definitely bolstered by some good business moves on the part of Jon Hart, but the heart of the lineup was young talent that was being raised in CLE. Since those days of glory Cleveland has served as a farm team for the entire MLB. Despite the heartbreak of losing the stars because they become expensive, those few seasons watching them break out are incredible. The scrappy taste of hard earned victory is ambrosia for the gods of baseball. Even if it's for only one game.
Of course, a competitive fan doesn't care. At the end of the season, if their team hasn't won, they throw them to the dogs. Star players who are payed millions in order to keep them from leaving, are booed when they screw up (A-Rod, I'm looking at you and smiling real wide). This is a business and their team is supposed to win. Period.
Don't get me wrong, I was disappointed by the poor performance of the Tribe in the second half of this season. But I made a promise that no matter what happens, win or lose, I was going to revel in that first half tromping that the "48 million dollar payroll that could" delivered to the Majors. Because to a romantic, a Cinderella story remains a Cinderella story even after the fat lady sings.
Which brings me to the MLB champion Cardinals. Hard earned, sweaty, seat of your pants wins. Late inning heroics. This is what they game is about. This is what makes it the American past-time. Is there anything that serves as a metaphor for life more than being down to your last strike (twice!) and pulling through? Is there anything more romantic than a come from behind victory? Only when the man responsible for his team's victory cheered for that same team as a kid.
Baseball is all about second chances. There is no clock on this game- it ends when you decide that you can't connect wood to rawhide anymore, when you stop believing that with bases loaded you'll turn the double play to get out of the inning, when David loses to Goliath. As long as you can make the play, you control the fate of the game. The beauty of baseball is in those long innings that so bore the natives of my beloved homeland. You don't need fast action to get your heart pumping. You just need to understand that nothing is guaranteed until the final out is made.
By all logic the Cards should not have even made the postseason. But baseball's not about logic. A team that never says “die”, that claws away until they've used their last breath to take that of another team, which turns from harmless to fierce once September begins to close, deserves the W. What they went through, the story on the back of their bottle, is worth more than the win. This game is not about putting up numbers. Numbers belong on clocks. This game is about gravity defying acrobatics, grass-stains and slides, stolen bases and stolen thunder.
This is what the romantic fans understand that the competitive ones do not. Baseball is not a business- it's life.
