A Blow for the Republic

We, the people, have formed a most perfect union with the home run

By Richard Hoffer

We are not a patient people. We like our food fast, our oil changes in a jiffy and our politics inside a 30-second sound bite. That's how important our lives are; we can't afford to dawdle over every little thing. Even at play, we prefer efficiency. Squeeze bunt, hit-and-run, sacrifice fly? Here's a better idea: Lean back, swing from the heels and, on the off chance you connect, score your own run. One crank of the bat. Take you a quarter minute, tops.

Plus, it's much prettier to look at. That's the other thing about us. Given the choice, we're much more likely to enjoy the razzle-dazzle than we are to appreciate actual utility. We're not practical folk. Everybody knows this about us. That's why, for a few years back in the '50s and '60s, we kept wanting fins on our cars. The fins weren't aerodynamically necessary, nor did all that chrome make the cars any more reliable.

Now let's get back to sports. Yes, you can win a basketball game with some kind of four-corners offense. But you'd better not be trying to draw fans in a market that includes another team full of guys throwing no-look passes and hanging from the rim. We place great importance on production values. Winning is not everything. Entertainment is.

We like slam dunks, home runs, the long bomb, holes in one. They're fun to watch, easy to digest and the essence of efficiency. The purists drone on about the Sweet Science, and all we want to see is a first-round knockout. What else would you expect of a country that celebrates its independence with fireworks (which are also sometimes used to celebrate home runs but, as of this writing, never holes in one)?

As for independence, what is the home run but a show of it? That's how American the home run is. Teamwork is for the aristocrats, the dilettantes. We're a nation of rogue, can-do folks who create spectacular events out of sheer will. It's that old gunslinger mystique, you know. The West wasn't won by committee. In case you haven't noticed, a loner mentality underpins our democracy. It's what gives everybody, no matter his pedigree, hope. Anybody can succeed. You don't even have to know what you're doing. One swing of the bat, if you pull hard enough, and it can happen at any time. Oh, yes, we're a nation of home run hitters.

Swingers, anyway. And that's one more thing that makes the home run uniquely ours. You can expire at the plate three of four times and still find redemption in the lucky blow. And, once it connects, the swat is impressive enough in its barbaric way (so big, so long—full of sports calories) to atone for any of the three whiffs before it. This, too, gives us hope. Our society is so grounded in the idea of second chances—the second marriage or the rebuilt business—that we could not possibly tolerate a sport that somehow prevented us from starting over. Isn't that what America is about, starting over? Didn't we, 200-plus years ago, start over? So that we wouldn't have to watch 1-nil soccer games?

In our heads, we know that quick fixes can cause more trouble than they're worth. We know that life often needs to be finessed. We know that declaring bankruptcy does give you a fresh start but not a clean slate. We know that the first marriage, so wonderful to escape, can leave a long trail of support payments. As for baseball, we know that pitching and the bunching of singles is the way to go. This year is typical—only one of the major leagues' three home run leaders plays for a contender, and the best team in baseball (the New York Yankees) is light on sluggers.

We don't care, though. That odd guy in the seat next to us, drawing lines and making dots on his scorecard, may be aghast at our obscene preoccupation with pointless power. But we don't care. We're Americans and all our pleasures are guilty ones. We want the belly laugh, we want the three-car wreck on the straightaway, we want those fireworks. And, being American, we want them now. So just dig in, man. Close your eyes and swing.

Issue date: October 7, 1998