“Keeping a book”
by David Benjamin
“A
neighbor had a score sheet from the last game between the New York
Giants and Brooklyn Dodgers. He recalled the whole game inning by
inning, just looking at the scorecard. It was almost like watching a
rabbi read scripture. Here he was recalling the whole game. It was kind
of magic.”
— Paul Dickson, The Joy of Keeping Score
MADISON,
Wis.— At the ballpark yesterday, a passing Red Sox fan noticed the
scorebook I’d been marking (and occasionally messing up) all through the
game. “That’s great,” he said. “I haven’t seen anyone keeping a book
for years.”
I said, “Well, thanks,” and “Go, Sox.”
Poets
and pundits and have said much and written more about the arcane art of
keeping score, on a sheet, or in a spiral-bound book full of fine lines
and boxes and six-point type. They praise the book’s power to perfectly
recover a long-past moment. They talk about how the act of scoring
epitomizes a game so intellectually demanding that it has a written
cipher all its own.
Tom Boswell, in the Washington Post,
once wrote, “No other American sport has anything that genuinely
approximates the scorecard — that single piece of paper, simple enough
for a child — that preserves the game both chronologically and in toto
with almost no significant loss of detail.”
For me, keeping score
has always been a form of therapy. I tend, especially when it’s the Red
Sox — especially when they play the Yankees — to get a little jumpy.
However, when I’m keeping an eagle eye on every ball in play and
recording its fate, in code, in its own square in the holy book,
accurately and legibly (so my grandchildren can someday relive the
game), I attain a tenuous serenity that wouldn’t be possible without a
pen in my hand.
I know, I know. I should use a pencil.
Scoring
has another salutary effect, lately even more important. Ballparks
nowadays are infested by fans who can’t seem to focus. They thrive,
normally, in a breakneck realm of sound bites and “instant messaging,”
of 20-second, 10-second, five-second bleats, tweets, hoots, texts, sexts
and vanishing photos. For one such twitchy spectator, the leisurely and
thoughtful progress of nine innings on the diamond can be more ordeal
than pleasure. Most contemporary stadium operators, aware of this
disease, provide evanescent stimuli. A ballpark visit brings down a
barrage of diversions, shiny objects and assaults to the senses. Among
the distractions, you get dot races, “kiss cams,” t-shirt cannons, quiz
games and the odd aerial bomb, all of it scored relentlessly, at 100
decibels, by — for some reason — a medley of the most godawful pop songs
recorded between 1970 and 1990.
At the ballpark I visited yesterday, Miller Park in Milwaukee, the piece de resistance of the non-baseball mishegoss
is a daily sausage race, run by costumed minions of the Miller Brewing
Co. It’s cute, it’s commercial, and Max Patkin is rolling in his grave.
Preoccupied with my scorebook, I missed it. Had to check the giant TV
above the outfield to see who’d won (Italian sausage).
Admittedly,
after a couple of years between live games, I was a little rusty. Early
on, I had to cross out an at-bat recorded in the wrong box. Later, I
added a question mark to a double-play in which the Brewers
second-sacker fumbled a low liner but then doubled up a Sox baserunner
who scurried back to first just as the first baseman was catching the
throw, at which point the batter belatedly met the runner and the first
baseman there, along with the relevant umpire, prompting the Sox
first-base coach to join the crowd and starting hollering in a
what-the-hell? sort of way. Hence, my notation, which isn’t so much a
question (I know the answer), but a spontaneous diacritic in tribute to
the play’s lovable, bumbling weirdness.
Elswhere in the book, I
had to overwrite a mistaken “4-3” (groundball to second base), with
“6-3” (grounder to the shortstop) — because of the Beer family.
The
Beer family, as Gaylord and I got to know them, are the kind of
easygoing Wisconsinites who — in their leisure time — never think of
doing more than one thing at a time. So, right around the bottom of the
second inning, they all got up to hit the concourse, for beer. This
forced their whole row to stand up and let them pass, thus blocking the
field from everyone in the three or four rows behind. This “obstructed
view” lasted for the better part of a minute, as the entire Beer family
squeezed through the narrow passage allowed between seat-rows by the
thrifty folks at the Miller Brewing Co. Two or three outs later, the
Beer family, now provisioned (loyally) with cans of Miller Lite, trooped
unanimously back to their seats, blacking out the game (locally) for
another 45 to 60 seconds.
Inevitably, about five outs later on
average, the Beer family — having drained their cans — needed to
evacuate. So, up again, inching their way toward the Men’s. (The Beer
family left its women at home, another Dairyland tradition.) A few outs
later, they returned, beerless. They hadn’t thought to load up while
tending to their bladders.
Of course, a mere half-inning hence,
the Beer clan sensed a mounting, importunate thirst for another seven
bucks (each) worth of Miller Lite. So, “Excuse us. Sorry.” “No, it’s
okay.” “Well, thanks.” “Hey, no problem, pal. Go, Brewers.”
Eventually,
during one Beer-family blackout, there occurred a groundball, unseen. I
guessed 4-3. Gaylord gently corrected that to 6-3, leaving an ugly
blemish on my sheet. There’s a relevant passage about Yankees
broadcaster Phil Rizzuto, in Paul Dickson’s book, The Joy of Keeping Score. Once in a while, on the Scooter’s scorecard appeared the mysterious abbreviation, “WW.”
This stood for “wasn’t watching.”
Baseball
had to devise a scoring system and code more elaborate than any other
sport because it’s the essential game of situations. “Action” can
disappear for hours. Baseball’s long ebbs can lull you into a pleasant
stupor that sends the mind wandering, toward your personal sea of
troubles, or over to the aisle to watch that girl, descending the steps
in shorts so short they might constitute a felony in Utah.
Yesterday,
the Red Sox starter, a Jekyll-and-Hyde lefty named Rodriguez, got into
one of those rhythms that rendered him, for thirteen straight at-bats,
untouchable. The Brewers were hapless. Every out was a can of corn.
But
then, from a slough of tranquility, a moment explodes so sudden,
convulsive, transcendent that you sit back, smiling, and forget that
you’re holding a pen and trying to keep track. So it went, in the 9th
inning of a 1-1 pitcher’s duel from which, alas, the dueling hurlers had
been already removed. The marvelously named Red Sox rightfielder,
Mookie Betts, timed a 98 mph fastball from Neftali Feliz and powdered it
— you knew it was gone when you heard the crack — in a low-arcing white
contrail deep into the left-field bleachers.
“HR, 3bi, R.”
If
you can read a scorecard, whether from yesterday or 1927, you can
discern the game’s interplay of right and wrong, of injustice and
vindication. It ain’t fair, for example, that the starters, Rodriguez
and Jimmy Nelson, left without a decision. Nothing won, nothing lost.
Just few numbers strung out under IP, H, BB, SO, and nary an HBP. But
each pitcher, by ruining his arm for the next three days, kept his team
in the game. Only baseball has a notation for the word “sacrifice.”
The
scorecard illuminates how hard Nelson worked, throwing 108 pitches to
get 19 outs. It shows that Feliz was overmatched from the moment he
stepped on the mound, and that Betts was a bolt of lightning waiting to
strike.
It’s all there, in the book, even the anticlimax. That’s
when Sox closer Craig Kimbrel, kept in the game by something called a
double-switch, struck out five Brewers so brutally that you thought of
little kids, blindfolded at a birthday picnic, attacking a piñata with a
broomstick.
I marked Kimbrel’s last “K” with a star. Had to.
Saturday, May 13, 2017
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1 comment:
“The Joy of Keeping Score,” indeed. I don’t know all the short-hand notes you referred to in your “Screed” this week, but I wish I did.
“...the act of scoring epitomizes a game so intellectually demanding that it has a written cipher all its own,” indeed.
And so, between Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, Jackie Robinson (and whoever you say for the next 7 in the top 10 of all time...or all 10 separate from those 3 if you must) who might be the Top 10 Players in your opinion of All Time?
And here's the main thing: Were they all “intellectually demanding,” or just darn good at taking signs and playing the game, or what? There’s one person I know who might like to discuss this question with you (if you’re willing to take a chance to name your Top Ten and then of course defend your choices). What’s a “K,” marked with a star, anyway, I would like to know? (I mean, in general?)
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