Baseball to the Rescue, Again: Finding Order in a Season of Disorder

  

Twilight at Roger Dean Stadium, Jupiter, FL

This year, as in years past, I greet the baseball season as a kind of pagan renewal—a way to cleanse my spirit of the nightmares and chaos of modern life. It offers a return to the beauty and structure of the game I once played and still follow, albeit casually, no longer as an obsessed fan. I remain loyal to my NY Yankees, as I have been since achieving baseball consciousness, and, since retiring to Florida, I’ve enjoyed the serendipity of landing in an area with not one but two minor league teams sharing a nearby stadium which also serves as the spring training home of the Miami Marlins and the St. Louis Cardinals. But it is the Single-A affiliates that draw me: the Jupiter Hammerheads (Marlins) and the Palm Beach Cardinals.

 

Sometimes they play one another; more often, one is on the road while the other hosts a rotating cast of Single-A clubs. I don’t especially favor one team over the other. I go to experience the game. And frankly, given the choice between the nosebleed seats of a major league park at Broadway prices and a minor league game at a fraction of the cost—with seats that make you feel part of it—I’ll take the latter every time. Such is the experience of being a “Silver Slugger,” attending some twenty-plus Wednesday night games at Roger Dean Stadium: $50 for the season, including a hot dog, a Coke, and even a free T-shirt when you pick up your tickets.

 

Purists might say that at such prices you get what you pay for—bush league play. I beg to differ. Everything about the minor league experience feels major league: the field is immaculate, professionally maintained, and the quality of play is high. Yes, there are occasional errors, but I’ve seen plenty of those at the major league level as well.

 

Less than ten percent of the players I’ve watched will make it to the majors, and fewer still will achieve anything like stardom. That hardly matters to me. I go to see the game, and as long as minor league baseball treats it as something close to a sacred ritual, I’ll be there.

 

This year, that ritual feels especially necessary. I made a similar point last season, writing about the early months of Trump 2.0 and what felt, even then, like a sledgehammer taken to the Constitution. This piece is, in a sense, a continuation, or perhaps a fast-forward, of that earlier entry, Watching the Game, Remembering the Dream.

 

Now the sense of political chaos seems to have widened, reaching beyond our borders and unsettling alliances we have long taken for granted since World War II, with our military at times appearing less a stabilizing force than something more transactional.

 

“Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.” Perhaps the answer lies not in nostalgia but under the lights of some 120 minor league teams, playing their weekday games and weekend doubleheaders, offering a small but steady vision of normalcy. The more the game changes—the pitch clock, electronic calls, slightly larger bases—the more it remains itself. The rules endure. There is still order within the chaos, and even a measure of hope within the surrounding sense of drift. And where else can DEI and meritocracy coexist so seamlessly—a place where those with talent and discipline can succeed, no matter where they come from? This, at least, feels like the real American credo.

 

This season, I’ve managed seats right behind home plate, close enough to feel part of the game itself. From there, the essentials come into focus: pitcher, catcher, batter—and even the umpire.

 

Last Wednesday night’s game had its share of highlights—a triple, home runs, several double plays—and ended with the Jupiter Hammerheads defeating the Daytona Tortugas (affiliate of the Cincinnati Reds) 7–4. But it’s not any single game that matters. It’s the structure, the ritual, and last Wednesday night the chance to watch a young left-hander from the Dominican Republic, Keyner Benitez (just 19 years old) throw mid-ninety mph fastballs while working his slider and changeup, giving up only two hits over 4.1 innings (one unearned run). At 6'1" and about 170 pounds, he has time to fill out, to build strength. Who knows what he might become.

 

When I wrote last year’s piece, another lefty was on the mound—a major leaguer on a rehab assignment, Ranger Suárez, a Venezuelan pitcher then with the Phillies. Ironically, on the very night I was watching Benitez, Suárez was pitching against my Yankees at Fenway Park (traded to the Red Sox last winter). He lost. From a baseball point of view, it was a very good week.

Watching the Game, Remembering the Dream

 

Ranger Suarez Delivers a Pitch at Roger Dean Stadium

Ah, the start of the Minor League Baseball season—and with it, the return of our regular “Silver Slugger” Wednesday night games at Roger Dean Stadium in Jupiter. We come to see either the Palm Beach Cardinals or the Jupiter Hammerheads, both Single-A ballclubs: the former affiliated with the St. Louis Cardinals, the latter with the Miami Marlins. The entire season of Wednesday night games—including a hot dog and soda and one free tee shirt—costs just $40 for us old-timers.

 

As if that weren’t already a great deal, the level of play is impressively professional, and the stadium itself is a gem. It never fails to move me: climbing the steps, then suddenly that wide green vista opening up before me—the field, the sounds of warm-up, the pop of the gloves, the crack of the bat. It’s a ritual that stirs something deep.

 

Lately, I’ve become especially mindful of the rules of the game. Though mostly unchanged over the decades, recent developments have enhanced the experience: the pitch clock, slightly larger bases, the runner on second to start extra innings (a clever way to speed things up), and at the minor league level, a limited pitch challenge system—two per team. MLB is likely to adopt it next year; it was already tested in spring training.

 

I used to think of the United States Constitution’s “rules” as similarly immutable. But recent months have shown me how bendable—and even breakable—they can be. In contrast, the orderliness of baseball has taken on a special resonance. Not just the written rules, but the traditions. Take the bat boys, for instance: their duties aren’t outlined in rule books, but in the close-up intimacy of minor league games, you notice their little rituals: delivering fresh balls to the umpire after a foul, retrieving gear after a player reaches base, clearing bats—these details form part of the game’s cadence. By comparison, the current political arena feels like chaos, laws broken and traditions ignored. Baseball’s steadiness is a kind of comfort, especially in these times.

 

I came to my first game this season with particular interest, having just finished what I consider the most revealing account of life in the minor leagues during the 1950s: A False Spring by Pat Jordan. I, too, had my major league fantasies back in that same decade. Even then, I knew they were far-fetched—but it was nice to dream.

 

For someone as gifted as Pat Jordan, however, those dreams had more substance. A “bonus baby,” he signed with the Milwaukee Braves right out of high school in Bridgeport, Connecticut—for $36,000. To us kids, it was awe-inspiring to see someone our age being paid that kind of money to play the game we loved. He had a blazing fastball and would sometimes strike out nearly every batter on an opposing high school team—talent most of us couldn’t imagine. But his abilities peaked early. Over the next three years, he found himself playing in forgotten towns, living the lonely, uncertain life of a young man on the road, his once-sharp edge mysteriously dulled. I’m not sure he ever fully understood what happened. Yet, he went on to write one of the finest baseball books I’ve ever read—introspective, lyrical, and profoundly honest about those years.

 

Here’s a passage I chose at random, describing John Whitlow Wyatt, Milwaukee’s pitching coach. Wyatt often stood beside Jordan and quietly coached him in the bullpen during training:

 

Whitlow was a handsome, gracious Southerner in his early 50s. He was tall and erect and loose-limbed, and he had the alert blue eyes of a much younger man. His face was soft, pink, except for a light stubble of beard, while the rest of his body was the color and texture of worn leather. Whitlow spoke with a measured drawl so creamy that each word blended into the next and whole sentences became sweet parfaits. When he spoke, his lips curled back from his teeth the way a horse’s do. He seemed to be tasting each word carefully and with pleasure before swallowing it.

 

And so I walked into Roger Dean Stadium, thinking of Pat Jordan—long retired from baseball but having found himself as a writer.

 

There are more than 5,000 players in the minor leagues at any given time. That night, I was about to see 60 of them. Single-A teams like the Palm Beach Cardinals and Jupiter Hammerheads can carry 30 players each, with no more than two having five or more years of minor league experience. That ensures plenty of turnover from season to season. Of those 5,000 players, only about 10 percent ever make it to “The Show”—and some of them only for a few fleeting games. Over the years, I’ve watched players like Giancarlo Stanton (then known as Mike), Christian Yelich, and Andrew Heaney rise from this very level. Most do not.

 

But last Wednesday, we were lucky. On a rehab assignment with the opposing Clearwater Threshers was starting pitcher Ranger Suárez of the Philadelphia Phillies. I love sitting behind home plate to watch pitchers work—especially crafty lefties like Suárez. He can hit in the low 90’s with his fastball, but he uses it to set up his curve/slider and a devastating changeup, which breaks like a screwball—a pitch you don’t see much anymore. For several innings, he had a no-hitter going. The final score: Clearwater Threshers 7, Palm Beach Cardinals 1. But honestly, the score means little compared to the pleasure and familiarity of the game itself.

 

Most of these players will go on to other things in life. Few will become writers like Pat Jordan. But they will have played the game—and that is a reward in itself

Baseball and a Sense of Normalcy

 

Beautiful.  The field.  The playing of the National Anthem.  The stuff we took for granted, not knowing what its absence would mean.  A year lost.

Minor league baseball has resumed.  I feel for the young players, their own dreams put on hold.  A year is an eternity to these kids.  They play the game with heart and professionalism.  One of the plays in Thursday night’s Class A ball game between the Jupiter Hammerheads and the Palm Beach Cardinals involved Jupiter starting pitcher Chris Mokma unleashing a wild pitch with a man on third, his rushing to home to cover it while the catcher caught the ball on a rebound from the backstop, firing it to Mokma, the ball arriving just as the Jupiter player slid into home.  It’s one thing for a catcher with his protective gear to tag out a runner from third but the pitcher is naked.  Mokma fearlessly dove at the runner for the out.  It just demonstrates heart playing the game.

Mokma gave up three runs quickly but then took command on the mound.

I like to “scout” watching minor league ball – which players might make it all the way to the majors and in a big way.  I’ve watched several in this ballpark mature and correctly called their future success, including Giancarlo Stanton (then Mike Stanton).  Perhaps I’ve witnessed another Stanton in the making , the Cardinal’s 6’5” third baseman Jordan Walker (only 18 years old!), hitting for power in his first few professional games and a .400 average.  He has quick hands at third, a strong arm, and went over the railing for a foul ball (showing heart!) and he will move on to the next level.  At 18, the Cards will probably hold him back for a couple of years.  But #37 reminds me of a young Stanton.

The “sleeper pick” is the Card’s starting pitcher, John Beller.  He was an undrafted free agent out of USC.  Just shows what a good scout can uncover.  I’m biased when it comes to Beller as he is a lefty (as am I ), and a crafty one.  Watching him feeds my old baseball fantasies.  He doesn’t have the overpowering fast ball, but his breaking stuff, makes his high 80’s fastball effective.  In his nearly 7 innings the other night he threw a 3 hit, 0 run game and with 12 strikeouts, demonstrating the effectiveness of his mixing his fastball with curves, changeups and a slider.  At “only” 5’11” he is smaller than most major league pitchers but so was lefty Bobby Schantz at 5’6” from my boyhood years, a pitcher who had great success because of similar tools as Beller.  Would be nice to see him go all the way, perhaps a Cinderella story in the making.

The final score (5-3 Cards) was meaningless to me.  Just to be out there again, under the canopy of a Florida night, watching the field of dreams of some future major leaguers, meant everything.

Baseball.  Another step towards normalcy.  Breathe.

Maybe There is Hope

Why?  Because baseball continues to reflect and give voice to the American Dream.  Work hard, have talent, succeed, in spite of ethnicity or humble beginnings.  It stands as a bulwark against the tide of dystopian xenophobia promoted by no less than the President of the United States.  It is rule based and while it has succumbed to instant replay challenges, pitch clocks, and exotic statistical metrics, it has essentially changed to remain the same.

There used to be a similar familiarity about the checks and balances of our three branches of government, comforting as a citizen, but we now have a disrupter in the White House, someone who has no sense of history, a disdain for culture, and who measures everything in clicks, sound bites, and winning and losing.  And now he is set to ignore an equal branch of government, Congress, and apparently Republicans there are willing to be accomplices, their sacred vow “to affirm support for the Constitution” relegated to mere hollow words.  If baseball was played this way, players might as well refuse to return to the dugout after strike three is called, saying the people want to see hitting, so let’s make it 4 or 5 strikes before one is called out.  Just tweet it and it shall be.

The recent political developments would normally envelop my blog with multiple entries, as well as more on gun control because of the recent tragic Colorado school shooting, However,with the publication of my book, Waiting for Someone to Explain It, I vowed it would serve as a cathartic statement on such topics, thus allowing my writing life to return to some kind of new normalcy as well.

“As American as apple pie” frequently gets conflated with baseball.  The baseball of my youth was mostly all white players with Jackie Robinson breaking the color line in the National League in 1947 and Larry Doby the American League a few months later.  As an adult I once sat next to Roy Campanella  (who came up to the Dodgers the year after Robinson) at a luncheon; it was sometime in the 1980s.  He was in a wheel chair because of the automobile accident that ended his playing years.  We briefly talked about the old days, not about race, but about baseball.  He was interested in my childhood dreams of pitching but of course I tried to turn the discussion to him, but he was reticent in that regard, I think there was an inherent sadness about missing his buddies, and his last years in baseball. After Jackie Robinson he was the second black player inducted into the Hall of Fame.  I remember his humanity and putting up with me and my questions.

I think of him from time to time especially as the landscape of American baseball changes to reflect our immigrant heritage.  It is truly an international sport and it is no more apparent than here in the United States.  One wonders, if baseball could change and still be the great sport of yesteryear, why not America?  Isn’t that what it means to “make America great?”

And it is nowhere more apparent than in the Miami Marlins’ farm system.  As the Marlins’ CEO (and one of my favorite Yankees of my adult life) Derek Jeter said: "We want Miami to be the destination for top international talent.  This organization should reflect the diversity of the South Florida community."  And indeed it does.

Although we’ve already seen a few Jupiter Hammerheads’ games this season, the Marlins’ Class A+ team in Jupiter, this was the first opportunity to write about one and although Wednesday night’s game involved dropping a 5-1 decision to the St. Lucie Mets, it was notable in other ways.

The first thing that caught my eye after the singing of the National Anthem was the image of the American flag in the background with the Hammerhead’s pitcher, Edward Cabrera, standing in the foreground waiting for the sign.  

He joins the ranks of players from the Dominican Republic, boasting probably more professional baseball players per capita than any place on earth.  We’ve truly, rightfully assimilated the best of the best on the field.  We just need to do so as a nation of citizens.

I was looking forward to seeing him pitch; a highly touted, skinny 6’4” ballplayer who can routinely throw in the high 90s.  His young, 21 year-old body still has time to fill out and will make him even more formidable.   During his last start he had struck out 13 and now has more than 20 scoreless innings to go along with his 1.50 ERA.  While he pitched well for 2 innings (scoreless, and 2 K’s), apparently he had a fingernail problem and had to leave the game.  But one sees how he gets his speed from his whip like delivery.  Edward Cabrera is a player to watch for MLB action, or at least moving up a notch in the minors this year.

He was replaced by Daniel Castano, a lefty who caught my fancy, my being a lefty with baseball dreams which never went beyond my teenage years.  When the Miami Marlins traded away Marcell Ozuna, they got three highly ranked minor leaguers and sort of as an afterthought the left-handed pitcher Castano was thrown in.  He’s labored in the minors but has good control.  His low base on ball to strike out ratio is an attribute of a more mature pitcher.

In five innings he allowed five hits and four runs, although two were unearned, and he struck out five. His ERA is still around 4.00, but his mechanics were powerful, mustering up speed and good breaking stuff.  He was at the low end of the draft (picked in the 19^th round) and he is one of the “old guys” on the team at the age of 25.  He’s listed at 6’4” but seems smaller as at 230 lbs he is stocky.  Somehow I think this guy has some chance of making the majors.  Here he is in action:

But that is not the end of the multicultural story.  The shortstop Jose Devers, only 19 years old, is another Dominican.  Disappointingly, my New York Yankees traded him to the Marlins.  He is now one of the high ranking shortstops in the minors, hitting around .370.  If the name sounds familiar, he’s the cousin of Red Sox third baseman Rafael Devers.  How cool would that have been if the NYY held on to him for the Sox / NYY rivalry?  During Wednesday night’s game he went 2 for 4. 

Also on the team is the highly touted 22 year old Cuban Victor Victor Mesa who the Marlins signed for about $5 million, along with his 17-year-old brother, Victor Mesa, Jr. for $1 million. To my knowledge, the latter is yet to play minor league ball, but his older brother looks like he has the right stuff.  They’re sons of the famous Cuban baseball player – you guessed the name, Victor Mesa.  Here’s Victor Victor at bat:

Finally that game was the first rehab assignment for one of the Marlin’s regulars, Garrett Cooper, who unfortunately made a bush league error playing left field and seemed to have difficulty getting back into the grove, but the last I looked he was batting over .500 so I can only assume he’ll be joining the parent club soon.

It was one of those special Florida nights, a cool breeze and on the field the kind of multiculturalism which is to be embraced, not feared.