Excuse Me, Do You Speak Baseball?

No matter the subject, there is always someone who knows more than you. Experts navigate the ins and outs of car engines or quantum physics or water reclamation or Minecraft with ease, while the rest of us struggle to keep up with the conversation. Just ask your seven-year-old about her Shopkins collection and be amazed at how much more than you she knows about this world of miniature painted plastic resin figures with faces. Her knowledge of their names and relationships and the whole Shoppie world leaves you in the dust. Not that you admit it out loud, but you find yourself an outsider. Those possessing such specialized knowledge and shared values or goals pertaining to a particular subject form a specific discourse community.

Discourse communities maintain their identity with an understanding of a particular literacy, a literary cohesiveness unique to that particular group. And although it may seem junior high cliquish, most people belong to multiple communities without much hassle. We are born into many discourse communities, while we acquire other discourse community affiliations when we get that first job as a Wendy’s fry cook, participate in a Boy Scout troop, join the jazz band in junior high, or get dragged to Comic-Con without consent. 

            Regardless of how you gain membership into a discourse community, or how deeply you become entrenched in that culture, the fact remains that upon joining you obtain a new level of literacy, a specialized literacy that outsiders to the community are shut out of until they receive the knowledge necessary to navigate the community, or at least the linguistic side of it. And I have to remind myself frequently that not everyone belongs to the same discourse communities I do. My non-teacher friends don’t really appreciate the jargon I spew during a social media rant about educational policy. Those of a different faith may have a hard time understanding some of my philosophical viewpoints. And sadly, not everyone knows their cuts of meat either.

            It is also important to realize that within any given discourse community, there are levels of understanding and inner circles of acceptance and inclusion—casual observers or participants, if you will, as opposed to hardball fanatics.

            My father-in-law describes his involvement with his colleagues in higher education with a simple academic bifurcation: “There are two types of post-grad professors—those who will do anything in their power to helpyou reach where they are; the others do everything in their power to preventyou from reaching where they are.” This perception illustrates a common, dangerous attitude that some members of specialized discourse communities hold: you are either in the club or out. Unfortunately, no matter how hard we try to avoid them, prejudices regarding whether you are part of the group or not exist regardless of whether we’re talking about academia, anime, or aerospace engineering.

I was personally reminded of the disparity involved with discourse communities when I attended an Orem Owlz baseball game last year. Side note: it happened to be Star Warsnight, a completely separate community. Regardless, that particular night I happened to be wearing one of my favorite T-shirts: a simple black shirt with a math equation on it: 

As I headed back to my seat after pillaging the concession stand—or rather they pillaged my wallet—during a pitching change, one of the ushers stopped me and pointed at my shirt. She said, “The first time I saw that shirt I thought it was just some bad math…maybe that ‘new’ math stuff. Then someone explained it to me, and now it’s one of my favorite shirts. Gonna get me one.” I simply thanked her, told her where she could order one online, and returned to my seat.

Twice more I had to maneuver by her, and each time I overheard her explain her updated baseball literacy to others, beaming with pride. Despite her involvement in the baseball community, she still lacked some fundamental vocabulary skills. I’m glad I helped initiate this rite of passage into a deeper sanctum in the circles of baseball discourse.

Before leaving the ballpark that night I posted about it on social media. As an afterthought I added a snarky hashtag: #itsasmartpersonsgame, flaunting my mastery of the baseball community discourse. The only people who “liked” it already had a passion for the game. 

Driving home I realized my remark might be misconstrued as being elitist, kind of like those uppity professors my father-in-law warned me about, definitely not the signal I wanted to transmit to the world.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t edit my post just then, but when I did find a minute to retract my unintentional snobbery, I found that my cousin Tina had been brave enough to post her baseball ignorance:

            T: Ok. Someone explain it to me! I imagine it’s related to baseball?

Within minutes of her plea, my friend Richard responded with a simple explanation, giving her (and the rest of cyberspace not included in the discourse community) the knowledge to be part of the in-crowd.

R: Each position in baseball is assigned a number. In this case 6 for shortstop, 4 for 2^ndbase, and 3 for 1^stbase. In scorekeeping, 6-4-3 is the most common notation to indicate the batter has grounded into a double play. So 6 to 4 to 3 equals 2 (outs).

            Tina’s replied, voicing the thoughts of all who come to be included in a new discourse.

T: Richard, thank you. That makes perfect sense, and not being a baseball fan, I feel less stupid since that’s some pretty specific notation going on there!!

            Other friends and family then proceeded to admit their own lack of baseball expertise. Richard, only too happy to help, then went on to include a link to a video clip of the 6-4-3 in action, adding to Tina’s newfound discourse knowledge. What a guy!

            While this small piece of baseball literacy might not be pertinent to anyone’s salvation, or even semi-important to the general public’s pursuit of trivia, a division still exists between people who know why the infield fly rule is important and those who couldn’t care less about the designated hitter debate. However, the social boundaries that discourse communities create shouldn’t erect fences similar to Boston’s Green Monster. I shouldn’t be a snob about what I know and others don’t. Even if I had a degree in baseball, I shouldn’t wave it in others’ faces.

Yesterday, I wore the double play shirt again, and I observed occasional head bobs, nods, and knowing smiles—all signs of discourse inclusion, of shared knowledge, of understanding. However, more obvious were those people furrowing their brows, awkwardly doing the math, counting in their minds—a few on their fingers. This at bat, though, encouraged me to be more empathetic toward those not included in the discourse communities where I have membership. I even stopped and explained in to one young man and two grandmotherly women on my way back from lunch. Helping outsiders find a way into the ballpark, even if it means sneaking them through the turnstile after the game has already started, brings more joy than an autographed ball. To those rookies, I can be the veteran on the bench, sharing the discourse instead of withholding it.

             

Baseball and Poetry

From now until the end of the school year, my seventh graders will be playing with poetry. What with testing and all, poetry is a simple way to get them to keep them minds open while not overloading them. With seventh graders, it can be somewhat of a challenge because many of them don't believe they can write anything at all let alone poetry. I have about 50 different types of form poetry that I pull out from time to time depending on the abilities of my students. And although I usually despise fill-in-the-blank poems, sometimes they are the little spark that will ignite the fire. If I am being perfectly honest, I think my real interest in poetry was kindled in 10th grade by Mr. Albert, who had us start with acrostic poems. Then we moved on to other simple forms like haiku, and others. By the next year, I was attempting sonnets (holy crap!) and such.

Anyway, one of the poems my students wrote this past week was what I call a Five-Sense poem as the word gathering incorporates all five senses. It is a simple poem, and for the most part, they are quite dry. This year, one class asked me to model for them how I come up with lines without just stating the obvious about a subject. For example: fire trucks are red; they sound like a siren; they feel like metal. Blech! Typically this is what I get, but this year has been a little better as I modeled. Go figure.

Not to say that this is amazing poetry, but here is my example that I created in front of my students. We were working on alliteration, simile, and concrete details:

"Baseball"

Baseball is red dirt stains on ragged road grays.
It tastes like stale seventh-inning bubble gum infused with sunflower shards.
It thumps when horsehide connects with well-worn leather
And smells like overpriced hot dogs humming under the heat lamp and humidity.
It feels like freight trains colliding at home plate.
Baseball pulses through my veins.

And the best part was this morning when a girl came up to me and said, "I don't even like baseball, but that was a good poem." This from a self-proclaimed hater of poetry, too!

(If anyone wants the template, let me know, and I'll send it to you.)

Poem in Your Pocket 2014: Baseball Edition

          Today's the day! It's only 8:22, and I've already shared my poem with 33 people!
          I guess before I get too far into this, if you are still uncertain about what Poem in Your Pocket Day is all about, check out the Academy of American Poets or my blog post from last year.
          Now, I have to honestly say that I was still undecided on my selection until the eleventh hour as I've been reading so many poems lately with my students and on my own. Earlier this year I shared my new favorite Billy Collins poem, and I seriously thought about recycling it, but I decided to find something that I hadn't shared before.
          I also contemplated using one of a handful that a couple of my colleagues and I are thinking about using with our students to identify figurative language (ones that aren't in too many classroom anthologies): "I'll Tell You How the Sun Rose" by Emily Dickinson, "Night" by Patricia Hubbell, or "Autumn" also by Patricia Hubbell (but without an electronic link)--all three of which I found in Piping Down the Valleys Wild, a collection edited by Nancy Larrick. You'll notice, though that I didn't choose any of them.
          No, with the oncoming baseball season (and yes, I'm back to coaching again), I wanted a baseball poem this year. So I debated whether to use a classic like "The Base Stealer" by Robert Francis, "Analysis of Baseball" by May Swenson, or even the mighty "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, but I felt that they were all overused.
          I thought about choosing a piece from Ron Koertge's novel in poetry Shakespeare Bats Cleanup or even its sequel Shakespeare Makes the Playoffs. Not this time. At one point I even contemplating using one of my own, one with a baseball element--"For Zachary"--but that seemed too egotistical.
          My mind still craved something new, a poem previously unfamiliar to me.  And then I found it late last night:

"Sign for My Father, Who Stressed the Bunt" by David Bottoms

On the rough diamond,
the hand-cut field below the dog lot and barn,
we rehearsed the strict technique
of bunting. I watched from the infield,
the mound, the backstop
as your left hand climbed the bat, your legs
and shoulders squared toward the pitcher.
You could drop it like a seed
down either base line. I admired your style,
but not enough to take my eyes off the bank
that served as our center-field fence. 

Years passed, three leagues of organized ball,
no few lives. I could homer
into the left-field lot of Carmichael Motors,
and still you stressed the same technique,
the crouch and spring, the lead arm absorbing
just enough impact. That whole tiresome pitch
about basics never changing,
and I never learned what you were laying down. 

Like a hand brushed across the bill of a cap,
let this be the sign
I’m getting a grip on the sacrifice.

Like so many great baseball poems, it's about more than baseball.

          Please share with me and everyone around you, your poem. I'm interested to see what you have chosen to carry in your pocket today.
          And if you hadn't noticed, this post is replete with excellent poetry.

Sacrifice Squeeze

(Makeup for December 26.  Yes, I know it’s out of order, but I have certain stories to tell for certain dates, and I’m still filling in some holes.  Don’t judge.)

There’s nothing I love more than baseball: the smell of the hot dogs and freshly cut grass, the crack of the bat squarely driving a ball into the gap, the roar of the crowd, the bone-jarring collision at a close play at home.  Ever since I knew the joy of squeezing my mitt around a red-stitched, leather covered sphere, I have loved baseball, and like most small boys, dreamed of playing in the major leagues.

I played several years in several leagues, starting in the outfield (because I could catch a fly ball) and then moved to the left side of the infield because I had an accurate arm.  I even pitched a bit, mostly in relief, but eventually I settled at first base where I could manage my infield and hit for power.

For this entry, I could tell highlight reel stories like when I turned two unassisted double plays in one game as a shortstop, or when I played the middle role in a back-to-back-to-back home run rally; or I could talk about showing up trash-talking friends or being named to the all-Europe all-star team for my age group, but I won’t (this time).

No, ironically, one of the most important lessons I learned from playing baseball is that I wasn't good enough.  No matter how hard I tried and practiced and ran fielding scenarios in my head, I neither possessed the raw athletic ability nor the mentality to make it my profession.  Granted, I was good, but not good enough.  And it took one particular incident to force me to abandon my MLB ambitions and move on.

February of my junior year of high school, I found myself as a transfer student at Belleville East.  Open tryouts for the baseball team were held in the main gym due to the snow.  I had recently broken in a new first baseman’s glove in anticipation and had carefully stowed in my bat bag along with my other fielder’s mitt, batting gloves, wristbands, bats, rosin, and other gear. Hauling my equipment, I made my way into the gymnasium and began stretching with the rest of the fifty or sixty who had the same idea.

The mustiness of the air was almost palpable as participants began to add to the perspiration forever trapped in the bleachers and banners hanging from the rafters.  I was myself working up a good healthy, sweat playing long toss the width of the double basketball courts.

And then Coach blew his whistle.

Everyone hustled over because, just as in gym class, lateness meant laps.

But then I noticed Coach wasn't holding his clipboard. He didn't have his hat on either.  I had never seen coach without a Lancer baseball cap; even in his yearbook picture he donned the dirty, faded navy hat pulled low.

We, the mass of hopefuls looked at Coach, but I noticed that he didn't look at us.  In fact, he was avoiding eye contact.  Uncharacteristically, in a rather tremulous voice, he spoke to the scoreboard over our shoulders.

“Uh, you guys can go home.  There are no roster spots available.  We, um, only held tryouts to say that we did it.  I've already got my guys.  They've been together since they were seven.  There’s no chance any one of you, no matter how good, will replace them.” And then he turned back into his office, shutting and locking the door.

At first I was outraged, and in my mind I was already drafting a scathing letter to the school board and the media about fairness, etc.  It was a good thing I had to walk home that afternoon because it gave me some time to think.  Sure, I was good, but did I want to spend the next few years just playing the sport I loved more than…well…almost anything?

I decided to let it fester for a while, and eventually I relented, and my anger subsided.  I never sent my letter (or even wrote it), but I became involved more on the school newspaper (writing sports articles) and the Lancer Lot (a student creative writing group).  I had a job (at KFC) and good friends who helped me see other interests.

But I still loved baseball, a passion that not very many of my friends possessed, and I learned to deal with it.  I still dragged them to several Cardinals games (some even during school hours my senior year).  And somewhere along the way my priorities shifted.  I became more conscientious of girls, music, and preparing for college, but probably more importantly, two other talents I began to develop in earnest: teaching and writing.  I even thought about trying to walk on to the Ricks College team when I was up there, but before I headed to the tryouts, I realized that I had nothing to prove.  I wasn't going.  That decision made, an assuring calm came over me, directing my future toward other endeavors: serving a proselytizing mission, becoming an English teacher, getting married, starting a family, and attempting to write every once in a while.  I still love going to the ballpark, be it as a coach for my own kids, a church softball match, the minor league Owlz, or a big league road trip.  Baseball will always be a part of me; just not the only part.

Some like me to tell the vindicating part of the story.  The summer after Coach told us where to go, I signed up to play city ball—still couldn't give it up—I noticed that three of the four starting pitchers for the Belleville East Lancers also pitched in my league just to get in some extra work, I suppose.  That year, I went 11 for 18 (.611) against the three of them, including seven extra base hits.  Sure, I might have been good enough, but if it weren't for Coach and his pre-selected team, I wouldn't have realized that I had other talents and interests that were worth developing.  Thanks to baseball’s rejection, I became a better-rounded Joe.  Take that to whatever level you want.

Catch What I'm Sayin'?

Imagine an infield of eleven T-ballers. On any given hit you might have two sitting down, three fighting with grass, seven picking their noses. And there’s always the one darling whose hair ribbons match her hat, glove, and socks putting on lip gloss as the ball trickles to her feet. She sidesteps. And by the time anyone picks up the ball, the runner stands smugly on second base. Whereas, when the next batter laces one to the outfield, half the infielders (including the catcher) give chase and wrestle over who gets to throw the ball back to the coach.

Trying to teach junior high can be quite a similar experience. You toss out a question and nobody fields it. The “popular” crowd sidesteps anything hit directly their way and they try to spin you off onto a tangent. Some still sit and pick their noses. After watching a couple of grounders bounce off their gloves for a while, you become discouraged. You might yell (a little), give encouragement (you’ll get it next time), or maybe even complain to the umpires down in the office. But most of the time these things in and of themselves won’t do you any good.

Even if you are blessed with that one natural athlete who can play all positions, knows all the rules, and hits homeruns in each at bat, that’s just one; and she will make it with or without you. Your job as a teacher, as a coach, is not to hand out “attaboys” to the top stars, although they do need that when they get stuck in a slump. As a coach, a teacher, you need to use your talents, your abilities, your managerial skills to help the rest of the team.

I recently reread Roger Rosenblatt’s “A Game of Catch,” and was inspired by his description of the poetry and beauty found in the simple art of a game of catch: “They do not call it a game of throw, though throwing is half the equation. The name of the game puts the burden on the one who receives, but there is really no game to it. Nobody wins or loses. You drop the ball; you pick it up. Once you've got the basics down, it doesn't matter if you bobble a ball or two…A ball travels between two people, each seeking a moment of understanding from the other, across the yard and the years. To play a game of catch is not like pitching to a batter. You do not throw to trick, confuse or evade; you want to be understood.” All kids, all human beings for that matter, want to be understood.

Rosenblatt uses this analogy of playing catch to also talk about successful parenting and families. I figure that teaching is also like a good game of catch. In order for any true learning to occur, the interchange has to be fluid, effortless, full of trust; the environment of the classroom should be one of comfort and ease, one where each student feels safe enough to stretch out and take risks, to try a circle change or a knuckleball after a while. Because, as in throwing and catching a ball, there is always the risk of an idea or concept to be dropped.

The article goes on: “We do what we can as parents, one child at a time. We take what we get in our children, and they take what they get in us, making compromises and adjustments where we are able, making rules and explanations, but for the most part letting things happen, come and go, back and forth. The trick, I think, is to recognize the moments when nothing needs to be said.” These moments of automaticity, though, don’t happen overnight. They start one ground ball at a time.

The beginning of the school year needs to be a warm-up period: soft grounders, short toss, calisthenics. New procedures, hormones, and even good ol’ fashioned fear might cause some to doubt themselves and not get down on a ball. They might lose a pop fly in the lights, or the sun, or the perfume of that hot brunette sitting in the next row, but eventually the plays become routine. Soon, nothing needs to be said. The game of catch becomes automatic, smooth, and graceful. Slowly, each team member, from the next Albert Pujols to the kid who can’t fill out the line-up card, feels free to dive after that chopper up the middle without fear of getting dirty, without worrying about embarrassment. The key is building confidence and trust one kid at a time. We take these kids, one at a time, and coach them through the skills they need to develop whether it’s how to fix an elbow hitch in a left-handed stance of a switch-hitter or how to hold the bat. Some are super readers while others are still decoding. But it’s not a competition to see who scores the highest on the spelling test or who can name all fifty states and their capitals in reverse alphabetical order. It’s a team effort to bring each other along no matter where each one started individually.

Robert Frost once said, “Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.” And students are the same way. Some mornings the ball will still dribble between their legs, their minds on snowcones, or bubblegum, or hot dogs slathered in onions and mustard, or hair-dos, or homework, and nothing seems productive. Other days, they’re just on, snagging tricky one-hoppers and firing them back with so much velocity Nolan Ryan watches in awe. However, all that Major League success depends on the basics of a game of throwing and catching—ideas and routines—comfort and confidence. Where each student ends up, though, undoubtedly depends on the amount of effort the he is willing to put forth. Some have Major League talent but will squander it and never make it past rookie ball. Others will work harder, come to practice early, take a few more swings in the cage, field a few more line drives, and will find success. When one of the players doesn’t put in the effort or hold up his end of the bargain, it doesn’t work; the ball is dropped, the team is let down. But when both thrower and catcher discover a flow, watch out! Learning happens.

Back-to-Back-to-Back Donut Jack

In my Guys Who Write Club I read "Let's Go to the Videotape" by Dan Gutman (in Guys Write for Guys Read). Then we wrote for a few minutes about an amazing sports event in which we were personally involved. Here's my extended version:


In his short “Let’s Go to the Videotape” (found in Guys Write for Guys Read), Dan Gutman states that everyone has at least one mental video tape of something they did that was incredible or unbelievable that will replay over and over and over in their minds. I disagree. I think that each of us possesses, if you will, a personal highlight reel of these amazing couldn’t-have-been-scripted events. And now, in the age where technological advances are outdated the day they’re released, we edit and re-master and restore these images brighter and better with each retelling.

One such story in which I played a role happened when I was twelve. I pitched and played first base for the Braves in the 11 and 12-year-old league on Lakenheath AFB, where I lived in England. Our team had enjoyed a fairly successful season—first place, only a handful of losses, four of us (including me) selected to the all-star team. I could spin a few more stories to relive Sandlot-esque glory, but this one is a legend.

At the beginning of the season, a donut store opened its doors beyond the left field wall. Instantly it became a team favorite. Forget juice boxes and orange slices. Boston creams and raspberry filled with powdered sugar were how we rolled after games.

For some reason, business went poorly for the shop after its opening; and to promote sales or something that I didn’t understand as a smelly, pubescent ballplayer, they started a promotion that I will never forget: if your ball hits the store during a live game, not BP, not a pick-up game, but rather a live game, you got a baker’s dozen of your choice. In my mind it was simple: homer to left equals free donuts.

I don’t remember the score of this particular game late in the season, but we were absolutely demolishing the opposing team. They were on their fourth or fifth pitcher of the game and we kept pounding out the hits. I was hitting clean-up and already had a handful of RBIs. We had two runners on and our number three hitter (I think it was Sam), jacked a line-drive over the left field wall and tagged the base of the donut store. We were elated! Free donuts! Then I stepped up and drilled the next pitch smack off the wall of the donut shop. Our next hitter (Matt?) proceeded to show us all up by cranking his shot to the roof of the shop. The fans went nuts. I think the game was called after that, but who knows? We were busy celebrating and piling on top of each other on home plate before he rounded third. Only twelve-year-olds would celebrate 39 free donuts more than winning the league championship.

Every spring I get the itch to take BP or play long toss, even though I’m more of a “ball player than an athlete,” to borrow a phrase from John Kruk. Without fail, as my kids start warming up for their T-ball games and I fill out the line-ups, I start to relive the “glory days” of my ten-year baseball career. And the back-to-back-to-back donut jack will forever hold a permanent spot on my highlight reel.