October 19, 2003

October 19, 2003

ON CATCHING THE BALL

The bitter recriminations and physical threats and attacks by enraged Chicago Cubs fans against Steve Bartman are unwarranted, unfair, and childish. They suggest that this disgruntled crowd of Cubbies understands little about baseball, less about competition, and nothing about life. They know only one thing: “Win the Pennant.”

Steve Bartman, as our readers know, is the poor bastard who tried to catch the foul ball from his place in the left field stands at Wrigley Field in the eighth inning of the sixth game of the National League Pennant playoff. Bartman’s attempted catch deflected the ball and kept Moises Alou from making the out, some believe. And furthermore they think that Bartman was somehow magically responsible for the Cubs’ tailspin and subsequent loss of the sixth game and, of course, the pennant.

Even the Boston Globe sports columnist Bob Ryan, driven mad by the Red Sox traumatic loss, rages against the hapless Bartman. “Only a Red Sox fan can properly identify with Cubs devotees right now….It’s true that [Bartman] didn’t boot a ground ball or make pitches that resulted in the Marlins scoring eight runs in that inning, but Bartman did inject himself into the action,” and, speaking from within his psychotic rage with god-like grandiosity, he intones, “AND HE MUST BE MADE TO UNDERSTAND THE ENORMITY OF HIS TRANSGRESSION. THIS SHOULD BE A LESSON FOR ALL TIMES…” If he were able Ryan would no doubt have turned Bartman into a pillar of salt.

And even though you might have expected more sanity from the governor of a sovereign state, the moronic governor of Illinois, Rod Blagojevich, fanned the flames of this irrational hatred against Bartman, implying that lynching the guy might not be a bad idea. “I hope he made it home, but I’m angry at the guy.”

Bartman turns out to be a nice guy, a heartfelt Cubs fan and lover of baseball all his life. He even coaches the Renegades, a team of 13- and 14-year-olds in his neighborhood. The New York Times reports that Roger Shimanovsky, whose son was coached by Bartman on that kids’ team not long ago, says, “He taught those kids how to play, how to win right, and how to lose right.”

The day after the game Bartman issued a statement: “There are few words to describe how awful I feel and what I have experienced within these last 24 hours. I’ve been a Cub fan all my life and fully understand the relationship between my actions and the outcome of the game. [sic]

“I had my eyes glued on the approaching ball the entire time and was so caught up in the moment that I did not even see Moises Alou, much less that he may have had a play. Had I thought for one second that the ball was playable or had I seen Alou approaching, I would have done whatever I could to get out of the way and give Alou a chance to make the catch.

“To Moises Alou, the Chicago Cubs organization…and Cub fans everywhere, I am truly sorry from the bottom of this Cub fan’s broken heart. I ask that Cub fans everywhere redirect the negative energy that has been vented towards my family, my friends and myself into the usual positive support for our beloved team on their way to being National League champs.”

A manly, sensible, and redeeming declaration. Only he takes upon himself too much blame. After all, his action didn’t cause the team to fall apart and give up eight runs. The Cub pitchers gave up the runs. A championship team doesn’t fall apart because a player makes an error or misses a chance to make an out.

The extreme reactions of Cubbies suggest that they live in a dream-world where wishing can make things happen. The fact is that the Chicago Cubs were a good-enough team. Good enough to be a contender for the championship title, but not good enough to be champions.

Baseball is a game of inches, someone once said, and in a game of inches you need more than luck to win a seven-game series. Luck, or chance, or fate, or the unexpected, or randomness, or whatever you want to call it plays an important part in competitions—sports, war, and especially, life. Anybody who has lived a little bit knows that Captain Ed Murphy, the man behind Murphy’s Law, was right: In any complex undertaking, if anything can go wrong it will. And anybody who has lived a little longer knows that O’Tooles commentary on Murphy’s Law is also right: Murphy was an optimist.

Real champions—consistent winners—know this about life and sport. They expect it, they don’t depend on luck. They expect the unexpected whether it is a gust of wind going in the wrong direction, or the quarterback spraining his ankle, or Steve Bartman deflecting a possibly playable ball. Something unexpected and adverse will always happen. And the best way of not letting bad luck overwhelm you is to have overwhelming superiority and extra gas in the tank—reserves. It may be a peerless bullpen, or a really talented young reserve quarter-back, or overwhelming air superiority. Even these may not guarantee victory on occasion because of the phenomenon of the “perfect storm”—a collection of events that are three standard deviations away from normal bad luck. But real champions never win a hundred percent of the time, only mostly.

The Chicago Cubs nowadays are nowhere near champions—they’re contenders and that’s why they lost the NLCS, not because of Steve Bartman. They don’t have what it takes to win without luck. Maybe it’s that their management doesn’t have the smarts, or the team hasn’t collected enough talent, or they haven’t spent enough money to get it.

Yes, money. Maybe that evil man, George Steinbrenner, that rich, ruthless bully, has grasped the secret of life in the world of baseball—money. Maybe it’s not the whole secret, but maybe it’s a big part of creating a really championship team, unfair as that may seem.

Steve Bartman’s instinctive impulse to catch that oncoming ball was that of any red-blooded baseball lover. Every boy growing up in the rough-and-tumble of middle-class American boyhood is taught to catch the ball. He must learn to keep his eye on the ball, to overcome every little boy’s instinct to flinch and turn away and protect himself. It is one of the rites of passage into boyhood. Many kids don’t make that passage into boyish rough-and-tumble and become violinists or psychoanalysts. No matter, as long as there are the Steve Bartmans around at the decisive moment. The time to start worrying about America is when no one is there trying to catch that oncoming ball.