You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
The World Series.
Exciting? sure.
Historic? Unbelievably so.
Slow? You bet.
It’s not the World Series fault.
It’s baseball’s fault.
The World Series is the final spectacle of a slow motion sport.
As far as sports go, It’s maple syrup in December.
It’s Freeway Traffic in L.A.
Baseball is a slow dance at the old folks home.
In a world that is measured in milliseconds, baseball is a sun dial.
It’s the promise of something might happen, like Hugh Hefner’s wedding night.
Baseball is the pitcher standing on the mound and staring at the catcher.
Baseball is the catcher taking his time, staring up at the batter, then flashing some signals back to the pitcher.
Baseball is the pitcher shaking off the sign, and the catcher flashing another sign to the pitcher.
The pitcher thinks about the sign and signals he likes it.
Just when you think something might happen, the batter gets sick of all the shenanigans and he calls for time.
TIME.
Baseball is the batter now taking his time.
It’s the batter adjusting his right glove, unfastening the Velcro strap and reaffixing it, placing it back exactly where it was just moments before.
Baseball is the batter adjusting his left batting glove, unfastening the strap and reaffixing it.
Why?
Because nobody has the balls to tell him not to.
For good measure, the batter grabs a hold of his crotch and adjusts his entire package to the right.
He doesn’t care that the front row is filled with kids and old ladies.
He grabs a handful of man junk and moves it to a place that seems to work for him.
He spits and blinks and adjusts his pine tar smeared batting helmet.
The announcer drones on while the crowd yawns and checks their email on their now defunct Blackberrys.
In the time it takes to get back in the batter’s box, Apple announces the new IPhone 7 is being released.
Baseball is the batter getting back in the box, his hand raised, calling time, scratching the dirt with his feet, digging in.
Tick tock.
A minute has passed since the pitcher last signaled to the catcher that the 2 seam fastball would be acceptable as a pitch to thrown to this punch and judy hitter.
The batter isn’t done with his slow motion histrionics. He wobbles his hips and rotates his hands forward and puts the bat back, poised for something, anything.
The pitcher once again stares in for the signal. The catcher once again delivers the sign and the pitcher nods ok.
The pitcher pauses, then kicks and delivers.
The crowd murmors with expectation like a human tea pot coming to a sudden boil.
The ball arrives at the plate in less than a second.
POP.
The catcher frames the pitch, holding still, allowing the umpire, and everyone in the stadium to see the pitch.
Tick Tock.
The umpire slowly steps back, raises his right hand and signals.
STRIKE 1.
The catcher throws the ball back to the pitcher and the whole thing starts again.
The first pitch sequence takes over a minute, to throw one pitch, to scratch your balls once, to spit once, to readjust two batting gloves and shake off a sign and call for time, and
OH MY GOD.PLAY THE DAMN GAME ALREADY.
I’m a long time Mets fan, so the world series was exciting to me.
It’s been like 29 years since they last won.
I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.
For me, every pitch, every hit, every foul ball, was a nail biter.
But to my kids, the new generation of sports fans, it was tedium.
It was carpet lint multiplying in the corner next to the heating vent.
I watched game 3 from a pizza joint with a dozen TV’s.
“Check out that hit to the gap,” I blurt out.
The kids don’t care.
They are watching Lebron James soar to the hoop in a non stop, action Jackson athletic spectacle.
I smirk.
Why would you want to watch baseball?
It’s so slow, so monotonous.
Most of the time, it’s a DMV line of inactivity.
Suddenly, A ball is launched down the right field line and the outfielder dives to make a play.
For 2 seconds baseball is a hand grenade thrown in a hornet’s nest.
It’s a runner taking 2nd and the throw coming in a fraction of a second late.
Baseball is not the brutal dominance of football.
Baseball is not the non stop action of soccer.
Baseball is not the slam dunks of the NBA.
Based on my son’s reaction, I would hesitate to even call it the American Pastime anymore.
That award goes to the NFL without question.
Perhaps baseball could make itself more appetizing to a younger generation if it sped things up. Less pitch outs, less time outs, less delays.
The season itself is a chronological train wreck.
162 games?
Really?
That’s just stupid.
The season is so long, it begins at tax time and doesn’t end till people set back their clocks in the darkness of an aproaching winter.
That sounds depressing, doesn’t it?
162 games? How many turns of the calendar?
By then, who cares?
But the World Series, still has a magic to it.
It’s magical because it is final.
Best of 7 games.
Every pitch has the potential to be THE PITCH.
A run, a strikeout, an error?
It all has potential to be something memorable.
The World Series is over now.
My kids would tell you thank God.
Only 4 months till pitchers and catcher report.
I’ll bet the time flies by.
Life’s Crazy™