Pretending.

Various lengths. Commentary.

I have three versions of this. I was never satisfied with any of them. Probably needs to be a long-form essay, not aimed at newspapers.

Version 1. 1,267 words

The news coverage of the sign-stealing scandal in Major League Baseball has included much discussion of both the written and unwritten rules that were violated by players and managers of the Houston Astros. While both types of rules are important, I find that over the years any discussion of the unwritten rules divides people into two camps that will never unite. On one side are modernists who would dismiss unwritten rules, and those who attempt to enforce them, as silly things. On the other side are the strict constructionists, who react with clench-jawed fury to any disrespect for the grand old ways passed down through the decades. I think there is another crucial aspect of baseball that is part of both types of rule, but to my knowledge it has not been called what it is: pretending.

Pretending predates baseball by millennia in the history of Mankind, and it also predates involvement in baseball for individuals. In my own childhood, before I ever played baseball, my friends and I would roam the fields and forests of farm country, turning sticks into swords, dirt clods into hand grenades, and trees into urinals (OK, that last one was not exactly an act of the imagination.) A favorite pretend game was Time Traveler. We would pick out two trees and declare them to be the edges of a time portal. We would rush through the portal and declare ourselves to be in another time and place, most often England in some war-torn century or other.

Our knowledge of actual history was sketchy, and we each had different ways of “being” English. I tended to work in bits of dialogue from the 1966 movie Alfie, doing my best Michael Caine. Another guy favored Bert (or “Buht” as we pronounced it) from Mary Poppins. And another guy loved to mimic Newkirk from Hogan’s Heroes. With our versions of those three Cockney characters starring in every adventure, Olde England was a very strange place indeed. Strange as we were, we still routinely trounced the imaginary Three Musketeers whom we always seemed to encounter on our travels, regardless of century. Buht penguin-danced them, Newkirk wise-cracked them, and I, Alfie, threatened to romance their women-folk to a jazz soundtrack.

As you can see, our pretending needed some structure, which baseball was to later provide us. There are countless examples of pretending in baseball, but I’ll give just two examples before getting to its relevance in the sign-stealing scandal.

The intentional walk, as originally designed, was almost pure pretense. The batter had to stand there with his bat, knowing he would probably not see a pitch over the plate. The catcher was required to start out behind the plate as though a pitch over the plate was possible, even though he knew better, then spring up and to the side to catch the wide pitch. Mistakes or subterfuge were possible, though, so while it was something of a pretend at-bat, it took skill and a bit of time to execute it. A few years ago, people in power decided that time was more important than both tradition and actually having to execute plays, and the intentional walk was changed to eliminate the pitches altogether. Now, the team on the field simply grants the batter a free pass to first base. I think this was a terrible move. It eliminated the possibility of a passed ball, and of the batter stepping forward and taking a hack at one of the wide pitches—both of which were important elements even if rarely seen in practice. The new way did, however, introduce yet another pretend element. We pretend that a baseball play was executed, despite no ball, bat, glove, or skill being involved.

Another pretense is the infield fly rule. With fewer than two outs and with a possible force out at third base, if a ball is hit into the air and is catchable with normal effort by an infielder, the batter is declared out whether or not the ball is caught. In effect, even before the ball comes down we pretend that someone caught the ball, even if they don’t. Every element of the situation is subject to the umpire’s judgment, so a rule that was intended to prevent too much use of a strategy of missing the catch so as to create more force out opportunities has taken on a life of its own, all involving judgment that amounts to pretending. First, the umpire pretends that the infield extends beyond the visible dirt part of the field. In general this means that if the ball is hit close enough to the infield that an infielder could catch it (even if an outfielder actually catches it), the rule applies. The actual limit of how far they can pretend the infield extends is subject to common sense, unless its 2012 and the Braves need a hit to score in a one-and-done wild card game (just for instance, and not that I’m still bitter.) In that case, all limits are off and the infield extends past the dirt, past the grass, over the wall, up the bleachers, and out into the parking lot. The umpire also uses judgment in pretending to know whether it would take reasonable or super-human effort to catch the ball. If, for instance, both an infielder and and outfielder stumble and swerve like lovable pretend-lush Foster Brooks and the ball falls far from them, the rule would not apply (except in the special 2012 Atlanta Braves case.)

Intentional walks and the infield fly rule are just two examples of pretending in baseball. Add in everything else that involves pretending, and you see how misguided are the people who complain that baseball involves too much standing around, and takes too long.

So, what does this have to do with the sign-stealing scandal?

Stealing signs refers to someone on offense observing the catcher’s signals to the pitcher, noting what pitches are thrown for which signals, and furthermore communicating this information to one’s teammates. The word “stealing” makes it sound like the signals are kept in a secure location, and the one illicitly seeing them is somehow breaking in. In fact, the catcher flashes the signals with his fingers, between his legs, down around knee-level of the opposing batter. Any batter with even average peripheral vision can see the signal just by glancing down for a split-second. Catchers are onto this, so while flashing the signals they also glance up at the batter’s eyes to see if he is peeking. <something about all the eye action> If the catcher sees the batter peeking, he is liable to signal up some chin music (a high, inside pitch) to warn him off. So, the batter, who can likely see the signals without even trying, has to pretend to not see them if he doesn’t want to get hit in the head. The catcher has to pretend he is signaling for a pitch over the plate, when he might not be. And the pitcher has to pretend that any beanballs are purely accidental.

All of this pretending around signals is part of the game. Both managing to see signals, and punishing those who you think are seeing your signals, are covered by unwritten rules that I think both the modernists and the traditionalists would endorse. You can mess around with the intentional walk, and you can devise situations where we pretend a ball was caught when it wasn’t, but you can’t sanitize the sport to the point where there is no secret jousting for advantage and no instant justice in retaliation.

Version 2. 661 words

The news coverage of the sign-stealing scandal in Major League Baseball has included much discussion of both the written and unwritten rules that were violated by players and managers of the Houston Astros. Some written rules were obviously broken. As for the other type, I find that lately, any discussion of the unwritten rules divides people into two irreconcilable camps. On one side are modernists who would dismiss unwritten rules, and attempts to enforce them, as silly macho displays. On the other side are the strict constructionists, who react with clench-jawed fury to any disrespect for the grand old ways passed down through the decades. I think there is another crucial aspect of baseball that is part of both types of rule, but to my knowledge it has never been acknowledged: pretending.

Pretending predates baseball by millennia in the history of Mankind, and it also predates involvement in baseball for individuals. In my own childhood, before I ever played baseball, my friends and I would roam the fields and forests of farm country, turning sticks into swords, dirt clods into hand grenades, and trees into urinals (OK, that last one was not exactly an act of the imagination.) A favorite pretend game was Time Travelers. We would pick out two trees and declare them to be the edges of a time portal. We would rush through the portal and declare ourselves to be in another time and place, most often England in some war-torn century or other.

Our knowledge of actual history was sketchy, and we each had different ways of “being” English. I tended to work in bits of dialogue from the 1966 movie Alfie, doing my best Michael Caine. Another guy favored Bert (or “Buht” as we pronounced it) from Mary Poppins. And another guy loved to mimic Newkirk from Hogan’s Heroes. With our versions of those three Cockney characters starring in every adventure, Olde England was a very strange place indeed. Strange as we were, we still routinely trounced the imaginary Three Musketeers whom we always seemed to encounter on our travels, regardless of century. Buht penguin-danced them or gave them a flurry of Step In Time high kicks, Newkirk wise-cracked them, and I, as Alfie, would break the fourth wall and tell the imagined camera how uncool those French guys were, to a jazz soundtrack. Oh how they fell before us. As much fun as Time Travelers and other games were for us, we clearly needed a more structured and socially-acceptable way to pretend.

Enter Little League baseball, where we were taught to play a sport that is half athletic endeavor, and half pretending.

Intentional walks, which no longer even require that any pitches be thrown, are pretend at-bats.

The infield fly rule allows an umpire to declare that everyone must pretend that a fly ball, still in flight, will be caught and that the batter is out—even if no fielder actually catches the ball.

The “neighborhood play” allows an umpire to pretend a runner is forced out at second base even if the second baseman was never in contact with the base with the ball in his possession.

If you add up these and other types of pretending, baseball starts to seem nearly as arbitrary as a game of Cockney Time Travelers Versus The Three Musketeers. But the seemingly-odd rules that result in so much pretending are intended to improve the game in some way, either by preventing unfair advantage, avoiding time-wasting, or preventing injury. So you see, whether a rule is written or unwritten, it may involve a requirement to pretend.

Which brings us back to the news coverage of the sign-stealing scandal. Such coverage errs, in my view, by implying that the mere act of stealing signs is against the written rules. It is not. What is prohibited by written rule is the use of mechanical devices to steal and communicate signs, and the Houston Astros certainly broke that rule many times over.

Version 3. 871 words

The news coverage of the sign-stealing scandal in Major League Baseball has featured mundane explanations of the rules that were broken by the Houston Astros. While there is some attempt to distinguish between written and unwritten rules, as though those are the only things that matter, I have not seen any mention of the importance of pretending in the sport of baseball, nor of the damage done to that aspect of the game. Professional baseball players are not only world-class athletes, they are also expert pretenders. The Astros’ use of technology to steal catchers’ signs was a major blow against the element of pretend, and it lent credence to the kill-joys who would introduce radar, video cameras, and more stopwatches into the game. True fans know that a sport that has been slandered as “too much standing around doing nothing” is actually a very busy sport, if you are aware of all the pretending going on at any given moment.

Most people know about the more obvious pretending in baseball, in the form of features such as the intentional walk (now an entirely pretend at-bat, with no pitching required,) the infield fly rule (which, when invoked, requires everyone to pretend that the batter is out before the ball comes down from the sky,) and the “neighborhood play” where a runner can be forced out at second base if the umpire chooses to pretend that the second baseman touched the base while he had the ball in his possession.

Batters stealing signs from catchers is a less obvious, more intimate form of pretending—or it is supposed to be, if you don’t start using zoom lens cameras from center field. The pretense is that the finger signs by the catcher to the pitcher are private communications, and the batter is expected to not glance downward to see the signs. But athletes have quick eyeballs and are highly competitive, so everyone knows a batter who does not appear to ever look down at the sign is in fact pretending. Knowing this, the catcher not only has to watch the pitcher to see his response to the sign, he has to look up at the batter’s eyes to see if he is stealing a glance. Then the catcher has to adjust the sign accordingly, or may even summon up a high, inside pitch as a warning to the batter: do a better job of pretending to keep your eyes forward. The pitcher then pretends that the resulting beanball was an accident, and everyone on both sides pretends to be outraged.

Once you realize the extent to which pretending pervades baseball, you start to realize the importance of pretending in all of our endeavors. It must play some role in our mental health and development. In my childhood, before I ever played baseball, my friends and I would roam the fields and forests, turning sticks into swords, dirt clods into hand grenades, and trees into urinals (we were out there pretending for long hours.) A favorite pretend game was Time Travelers. We would pick out two trees and declare them to be the edges of a time portal. We would rush through the portal and declare ourselves to be in another time and place, most often Britain in some war-torn century or other.

Our knowledge of history was sketchy, and we each had different ways of “being” British. I tended to work in bits of dialogue from the 1966 movie Alfie, doing my best Michael Caine. Another guy favored Bert (or “Buht” as we pronounced it) from Mary Poppins. And another guy loved to mimic Newkirk from Hogan’s Heroes. With our versions of those three Cockney characters starring in every adventure, Pretend Olde England was a very strange place indeed. As odd as we were, we still routinely trounced the imaginary Three Musketeers whom we always seemed to encounter on our travels, regardless of century. Bert penguin-danced them or gave them a flurry of Step In Time high kicks, Newkirk baffled them with wisecracks, and I, as Alfie, would break the fourth wall and tell the imagined camera how uncool those French guys were, to a jazz soundtrack. Oh how they fell before our swords and grenades, augmented by our wit and our accents.

Youth baseball was later to provide us with a more structured and socially-acceptable way to pretend, in addition to all the other trials and triumphs attributed to the sport by generations of writers who have spent any time at all on the diamond.

And so I hope it is not redundant to observe that, along with violating the the written and unwritten rules of baseball, by using mechanical devices to see and relay opposing catchers’ finger signs, the Astros also subverted the pretending that is such a vital part of the game. They subverted the meaning of the game for all the erstwhile time travelers who treasure every aspect of baseball which, whether they could play it well or not, gave and continues to give them a generous framework within which to exercise their imaginations. Let us hope that as Spring training nears, all teams take the resulting penalties seriously, and let us all return to pretending, the right way, together.

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