Not that question! We were already married. The question was: will you go to the World Series with me? And this question was far more stunning than any marriage proposal. She knew I had far better options for that ticket. My wife didn’t really care about baseball, had minimal ties to Boston (where she had lived for only a year) and didn’t feel like going much of anywhere because she was very pregnant.
Which, of course, was why this request was so important to me. I desperately wanted to take my daughter (or, at that point, possibly, my son) to her first World Series game. And the only way to do that, since the soon-to-be-Sarah was still in utero, was, of course, to take my wife, too.
I had heard about all those obsessive baby-boomer parents who had read stories to their unborn child or who had played Mozart and Brahms on the expectant mother’s belly in hopes of stimulating their intellect or cultural acuity. How ridiculous! But Fenway Park was a different matter entirely. I wanted my child to soak up the sounds, the vibes and the rhythms of the greatest ballpark and most passionate fans in baseball.
And now I am here to tell you that what goes around comes around–most joyously. My daughter, who is a college student in St. Louis, called this week to say she has cadged two tickets–note the symmetry here–to Game 5 of the 2006 World Series. And she would be overjoyed if dad would meet her in St. Louis, meet her at the park. In lieu of that, of course, she would be equally overjoyed if I would simply pay for the tickets so that she could go to the game with somebody else. (I said it was a joyous tale, not a fairy tale.) So, needless to say, I am going to Busch Stadium on Thursday night with my daughter. I will be wearing Cardinal red, though in my case it will be Stanford University Cardinal red since after paying for these tickets, I can’t afford another baseball cap. But beyond the warm sentimentality of this father-and-daughter yarn, there is hidden a slightly more serious subtext. I will not only be wearing Cardinal red, but I will be rooting for St. Louis.
For a half century, I, as a Boston fan born and bred, have rooted for the American League team in the World Series. (The only exception, of course, has been the New York Yankees.) And I love the Detroit Tigers, having spent a summer in Motown frequenting old Tiger Stadium, love Jimmy Leyland and the old-time baseball virtues he represents, love the Cinderella story that the 2006 Tigers represent. Still, I am switching sides, not to find common cause with my daughter, but to protest the Kenny Rogers affair and another cover-up by the see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil leadership of Major League Baseball.
Once again, MLB is treating the fans as if we are complete idiots. We are talking about a pitcher, Rogers, who had the worst postseason record in history for anybody who has hurled more than 20 innings. At least he did before this season. Are we supposed to accept that somehow he has also acquired a demonic curveball, the key to his 23 consecutive shutout innings that threatens a century-old record? And are we really expected to believe that he somehow also acquired a hand smudge throughout this postseason–perhaps a religious marking to celebrate Ash October?
It’s preposterous. Rogers, a man we formerly knew as an ill-tempered bully, now appears–at least to many folks–to be a cheat and a liar, as well. Athletes are acutely attuned to their bodies. No pitcher could be unaware of gunk on his hand, be it an accidental accumulation of dirt, as he claimed, or pine tar designed to make the ball go crazy. (No more than a slugger could be unaware of what was in the pills or shots he took.) Moreover, either Rogers is dissembling when he told reporters that the umpire said nothing to him–or the ump was lying when he said he told Rogers to get rid of whatever was on his hand. Now which seems more likely? Detroit fans and the “no big deal” apologists for Rogers pitcher are quick to point out that he pitched seven more shutout innings after his hand was cleaned off. But since nobody bothered to check, for all we know the mystery matter was simply relocated inside his glove.
Cardinals manager Tony LaRussa is, of course, the real mystery man in this contretemps. I can imagine a host of reasons, both admirable and less so, that LaRussa chose not to make a stink about Rogers–though he says he does not believe it was dirt on the hurler’s hand. He may not have wanted to embarrass Tigers manager Jimmy Leyland, a friend and man he admires. He is also perceptive enough to recognize that by raising the matter of cheating, he would inevitably resurrect questions about whether he turned a blind eye to his own superstar, Mark McGwire, during the slugger’s St. Louis heyday. And he is astute enough to know that the last thing baseball needs is another scandal–and that MLB might not hasten to punish the man who has been the singular star of this October.
LaRussa says he noted the problem, the umps fixed it and that he didn’t want to “go crazy” about what is part of the game. If that is truly the case, there is something righteous about that old-fashioned desire to settle things on the field. And more than a few columnists have noted that this kind of sneaky, rule breaking has always been more or less countenanced by players and fans alike. Still, that seems an unacceptable notion in what baseball claims as the poststeroids era. And I perceive a quantum difference between the gamesmanship that is part of every sport and deliberate cheating, whether by human growth hormone, corked bats or tarred baseballs.
I wrote last week about how Rogers represented a stirring tale of redemption, an America’s favorite in sports and, indeed, all walks of life. Can I retract that? It now seems more likely that he represents one of the most unappetizing trends visible at all levels of sports–a win-at-all-cost disregard for the integrity of the game. And pretty much anybody who isn’t looking at this World Series through Tiger-striped glasses senses that this is another “tar”-nish in an already tarnished era for baseball.
The “truth” is unlikely to come out now, not unless Rogers decides someday to sell his tell-all story. And there’s not much the average fan can do about it. (It’s almost impossible for fewer people to be watching the series on TV.) So I’m doing the only thing I can: joining my daughter in rooting for the Cardinals. It seems, for a host of reasons, to be the right thing to do.
