Fools On The Hill

Over the course of this baseball season I have attended roughly 80 games, seen roughly 80 first pitches and recognized three first pitchers. One was Ted Williams at the All-Star Game. One was Malik Rose, a backup forward for the San Antonio Spurs. The third was a clown from Ringling Bros. I recognized him by his shoes.

Throwing out the first pitch used to be cool. It used to be an honor. It happened on Opening Day and on special occasions, and it meant something. Before tossing out the first ball at the 1986 World Series, Speaker of the House Tip O'Neill practiced for two weeks in a Capitol hallway. He threw a perfect strike. Harry Truman—who apparently believed that when it came to ceremonial first pitches, the buck stopped with him—drew seven Opening Day starts. FDR had eight. On Aug. 14 H.D. Lee, a regional manager for Korean Air, did the honors at Dodger Stadium. Lee was neither presidential nor accurate—his offering missed the plate by three feet. Good thing no one was watching.

The first pitch is no longer a distinction but a pathetic marketing tool, like Beanie Baby Day and Meet Keith Osik Night. You take care of the home team, the home team takes care of you. That's why Jeff Briggs, a relative of someone who won a contest sponsored by grocery store chain Dominick's, skidded out the first ball at a game at Wrigley Field in late July. Why Casi Carter of First Union, the "exclusive financial services provider of the Devil Rays," did so at Tropicana Field two weeks ago.

The first pitch is so tarnished that it's not necessarily even the first pitch anymore. On the same night that Briggs had his pregame moment on the mound, so did Gary Palmer, a "guest of the Cubs," and Doug Valassis, a "friend of the Cubs." Pity Ray King, the Chicago reliever assigned backstop duties. Catching Valassis ain't easy.

Two hours before a June game at Dodger Stadium, I noticed a statuesque, twentysomething redhead slinging heat in the visitors' bullpen. There were 10 or so girls nearby, all wearing pink hats, all holding dolls. Who, I asked one of them, is the warmup pitcher? "Duh," she replied. "It's Barbie. She's throwing out the first ball."