Today’s blog
Lynn Murphy Mark
Sad sacks
In baseball, the bases are often referred to as “bags”, implying that they are soft. They are not. The rule says they must be filled with a soft material, however, they are coated with thick rubber and a synthetic coating, designed to handle the weight of players wearing shoes spiked with metal. Perhaps you’ve noted the odd “glove” that players put on when they are on base. That is designed to protect their fingers as they slide head-first, arm extended, into the rigid base.
Then there is “home plate”, also considered a base, but not named as such. It is a sturdy rubber thing 17 inches wide that is firmly anchored to its spot. A classic baseball move is for the umpire to produce a little brush, then bend over and sweep home plate clean, presumable so the players will not miss it on their way in to home to score a run. In a more self serving mode, the umpire needs the visual of the plate to judge balls and strikes. There are regulations defining the strike zone, an area roughly from a players knees to a halfway point between their shoulders and the top of their pants. That means the umpire must adjust the zone to fit the player.
I have done plenty of calling balls and strikes from the comfort of my couch or from my seat in the stadium. “Come on! That was a ball!”, is heard anywhere baseball is being watched particularly if the home team is at bat. That quickly becomes, “Come on! That was a strike!”, when the opposition is up to bat. There is no real accuracy to such statements, and in the end it’s the guy in black who is the final arbiter. There are probably more words tossed to the guy that rules home plate than to any other figure on the field.
The Umpire is the Emperor in the baseball world. A player’s ability to remain in the game is dependent upon the Ump’s discretion if a rule has flagrantly been broken, or if a smart-mouth player makes too controversial a statement aimed in the umpire’s direction. So it goes with a manager who leaps from the dugout to argue a call. It’s amusing to watch as the manager’s neck veins stand out while his mouth is issuing passionate statements about the umpire’s judgement. This behavior is often tolerated for a brief time until the most egregious proclamation issues forth and the umpire has had it. With one sweeping motion of his arm, a person is ejected from the game.
This happened the other night in a Cardinals vs Cubs game. Our catcher was beaned on the head by a Cubs player swinging his bat in too wide an arc. Bleeding ensued and Contreras was escorted off the field. He apparently refused stitches and simply asked for his scalp edges to be glued together. Anyway, our pitcher did not tolerate such behavior on the part of the Cub’s batter and at his earliest opportunity he aimed the rock hard, 90-miles-an-hour missile at the Cub’s guy’s butt with uncanny accuracy. The umpire immediately tossed our pitcher out of the game. Our manager expressed his opinion and he got tossed out too. The pitcher got a five game suspension, which seems excessive, so he is appealing it.
I’ve almost forgotten my whole reason for starting this blog – that is about how disappointing it is to be a Cardinals fan these days. Usually by this time Rose and I have been to a couple of games and have picked monthly dates to venture to baseball heaven. Not so this year. We can sit at home for free and watch the players pass up one opportunity after another to score runs. The only consolation is watching our players play defense. Arenado is brilliant at third base. Our outfielders have made some spectacular catches. Occasionally, a pitcher will be really good at the cat and mouse game that goes on between pitcher and batter. But, for the most part, our guys are playing a sad version of Cardinals’ baseball. This weekend, the Cubs are in baseball heaven, not us.