The Poetics of Baseball: an American Domestication of the Mathematically Sublime
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The Poetics of Baseball: An American Domestication of the Mathematically Sublime (to the memory of my father) Brian G. Caraher The strange congruence of baseball and poetics has something arresting, persuasive and peculiarly American about it. There are certainly innumerable poems about the game. Yet a theory of baseball as a game that approximates the pleasures and gratifications of poetic design and play has scarcely been pursued. I would like to claim that the sport of baseball involves more than a game of chance. Indeed my contention will be that a consistent, satisfying design and a coherent, cogent poetics can be disclosed at play within the various movements and measures of the game. This poetics, moreover, can best be judged as a homely and American version of the mathematically sublime. In general, the game of baseball pivots upon the enumeration of specific acts and events: balls, strikes, outs, hits, bases, runs, innings and so on. Baseball, furthermore, appears to offer a deceptively simple yet sensually gratifying intuition of such enumeration as it reaches toward a state of absolute magnitude, toward a perpetually youthful image of boundlessness. In other words, the game of baseball with its various enumerable actions captures a sense of being beyond enumeration, of being boundless and unbounded. This curious sense of what I choose to call the mathematically sublime depends upon a compact design that Illustration: Play BaU by Michael Langenstein, 1982. Reproduced with the kind per mission of Samuel A. Ramirez (NYC). 0Q26-3079/91/3201-085$1.50/0 85 orders the actions that can be performed in the game. In my judgment, the poetic design discoverable in baseball is as delightfully simple as the numerical series of 1,2,3 and 4. The fourth and final number in this series makes the design and the numerical progression work as a whole. It might be best, though, to work slowly through this series in order to recognize the value of each number before attempting to give a proper sense of the whole. Nevertheless, the number four puts into play the kind of mathematical sublimity that I would maintain is characteristic of the game of baseball.1 I The number one, of course, is the point at which any sense of enumeration and progression towards mathematical amplitude, mathematical greatness or absolute magnitude must begin. In baseball the number one marks or counts any individual event or individual performance. Events in baseball must be tallied individually. There's one pitch, one ball, one strike, one hit, one out, one error, one run counted or recorded at a time. More importantly, performances stand out in their singularity: the quality and performance of the pitcher, the eye and power or dexterity of the hitter, the control and deftness of the catcher, the quickness and execution of the infielder, the speed and timing of the outfielder, the intelligence and foresight of the manager or third-base coach, and so on. The agility and precision of any individual performance works to gain a singular outcome: a strike, an out, a hit, a run, a fly ball, a foul ball, a wasted pitch, a home run. Even the cardinal demand put upon any batter, especially the lead-off hitter—get tofirst base, whether on a hit, a walk, a hit batsman, a passed third strike or an error— encapsulates this point. And, of course, the multiform annals of baseball are filled with the memories, records, statistics, legends and sentimental exaggerations of the timely feats and notorious failures of individual players and their perfor mances. The number one is the necessary point at which any possible sense of magnitude commences in baseball. The number two is the figure of contest or agon in baseball. Two teams square off against one another in any given game or series of games. The pitcher squares off against the hitter, and the hitter battles the pitcher and any fielding position toward which he may be trying to drive or pull the ball past. The fielder pursuing a drive, a grounder or a fly ball engages also in a contest of time and skill with the opposing hitter-cum-base-runner. The quality and success of any given individual performance is almost always forged and tested in some agonistic contest that momentarily pits two players against one another. Moreover, the number two shows up when the pitcher or defense has an advantage in the agon in progress with an opposing hitter—namely, two strikes or two outs. The next pitch or the next play can shut down the opposing team offensively, at least until the next inning or the next game in a series. Even better, the team in the field, with one or no outs recorded and a runner or two threatening, can suddenly stage that almost miraculous defensive coup d'etat, the double- play, and take two outs and two runners away in one quick play. Yet the batsman 86 or team on the offense can have the number two figure to its distinct advantage as well. A hitter can double and render considerable damage; a two-bagger can clear the bases of runners, bringing one or more home to score. A lead-off double signals a tough inning for a pitcher and a defense and can send a flagging pitcher to an early seat on the sidelines. Second base, of course, is the first of two bases often labeled "scoring position." The number two yields as much of an offensive as well as a defensive advantage in baseball's agonistic contest of skills and chance. The number three in baseball is the most obvious figure of enumerated magnitude. Its presence, moreover, is the very figure of containment, of boundedness. Three strikes and the batter's out; the pitcher has successfully contained the potential threat posed by the man at the plate. Three outs and a team is out of their half of an inning; the defense has successfully held and contained the offense. Three is the number of chances given to a batter or a team to do or to perform something while at bat. When three chances are rung out—first by strikes and then by outs—containment is final. Runners left on base are rendered null and void, though recorded in the statistics with the oftentimes sad and embarassing rubric LOB. Indeed, moving a runner to third and stranding him at the end of an inning is the summary image of the number three as the figure of containment. The runner perches only one base, one hit, one error, one steal, away from scoring a run; yet he's simply one more LOB if the defense successfully contains or bounds his movement. The offense can even load the bases with three runners and still be held in check, held to three LOB at the end of an inning. And very rarely, yet almost always spectacularly, a team on defense can execute that demolishing gesture of absolute containment—the triple-play. Three runners and three outs gone in a thoroughly unanticipated net of containment! The pattern of three as the figure of containment demarcates the overall design of outs and innings in the modern game of baseball. A team is allowed 27 outs—that is, 33 number of outs. This allotment of outs, of course, is distributed over nine innings, also factorable by three. The modern habit of box scoring even underwrites this design of threefold containment: three groupings of three innings apiece. Moreover, a perfect game engineered by a particular pitcher would involve going through the opposing team's batting order only three times. A perfect game exhibits in all respects the image of perfect threefold containment: 3x9 batters, all contained three at a time. An extra-inning game breaks the perfect pattern, but nonetheless each extra inning allows three outs apiece to each team in order to break or maintain threefold containment A home team with the lead need not come to bat in the bottom of the ninth, of course. They expend only 24 of their allowable outs; they have managed to exceed containment by the visiting team, and the asymmetry of the box score images forth their victorious exceeding of the limits that could have bound them in defeat. The number four in baseball yields the very figure of exceeding limits, of breaking containment, of scoring the run or runs needed for victory. Scoring a run, needless to say, means touching safely and ever so briefly that "fourth base," 87 home plate. Even so seemingly slight a thing as a single hit or a walk not only breaks the potential pattern of a perfect game but quite often signifies that some measure of the batting order will come to the plate a fourth time before the game is over. A walk, a hit, a home run, an error, or the like also signifies that a fourth batter will very likely come to the plate in a given inning. Even the manner of issuing a walk bears out the significance of the number four. The fourth ball signals the momentary failure or defeat of the pitcher; the batter has not been contained with three strikes or an out; he has gotten the pitcher to exceed the limit of allowable balls—three, of course—and can take first base at any pace he wishes. Walking, coming home safely on a hit or a fly ball, scoring on a steal or a passed ball, bringing the clean-up batter to the plate in the first inning, and so on, all are marked by the figure of four.