I always told people that baseball was really the only sport you could legitimately make films or write truly great books about. The most basic reason is that there are so many lulls in the action, so many hushed points where human interaction could be used to develop relationships, hash out conflict, and build to a climax, all while connected by the sticky glue of America's pastime. Not to mention that in those lulls lie big gaping openings for humor, either slapstick or thoughtful moments.
Cerebral films such as Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, and the ethereal The Natural are perfect examples. And if it's straight chuckles you're going for, there's always Major League, Mr. Baseball, or Mr. 3000.
As I age, I find these things to be true also of biographies, autobiographies, and histories in the realm of sport. I feel the main ingredient is the eccentricity of baseball players. These players are much weirder, right out front, than I've seen evidence of in football, basketball, or hockey (though the latter, I've read little about).
Baseball seems to have a sort of intravenous connection to the soul that starts in childhood. It pumps in history, as you go to the library to read about Aaron and Ruth, and feel the warmth of sunny afternoons listening to games while sorting through baseball cards (There's life in these motions too, just check out Josh Wilker's Cardboard Gods). The games carried short bursts of excitement that speckle an otherwise slow paced melodrama lacing itself into your evening.
Plus, children are just plain silly, and baseball is a kids game.
I find as I sneak into my 50's that the humor also applies to to the art of biography from the baseball insider. It weaves itself into the essays of fans whose love of the sport may take pauses as the elements of puberty, romance, and life itself occasionally interrupt, yet never quite recedes into the shadows.
At least not permanently.
What causes the bizarre nature of baseball's players, writers, and more often than not, fans? I've pondered that long and hard and haven't been able to field an answer. But I promise I will keep working on it. The first place I'll look will be the mirror.
As far as biographies go, not everything is a pile of yuks like Jay Johnstone's books, but generally there's a generous dollop of comedy in most cases. Some examples of course, notwithstanding. The two I'm reading right now, Ron Anderson's Long Taters and Larry Dierker's It's Not Brain Surgery are not exactly barrels of laughs, but are full of history and baseball lessons.
More often than not, it is the case that humor is heavily involved in the laying out of baseball players' remembrances and the fans connections to it. Try to watch a baseball documentary and not find humor, or maybe just some flaming outrageousness, that one can't help but laugh at. I watched ESPN's four-part series on the 1986 Mets and their World Series run, and despite all the sadness that may have been soaked in those still somehow victorious days, or current life statuses, there was so much incredible ridiculousness, so many quotes, off the field hi-jinks, and knee-jerk acts. These are often so unreal, you just couldn't help but laugh at them. (Bill Buckner's saga of unnecessary scapegoating notwithstanding.)
But it's there. The odd-ball natures of personality and crooked intensity of a baseball man. In full color. Read Jim Bouton's controversial Ball Four, Sparky Lyle's uproarious The Bronx Zoo, Kevin Cooks non-stop Ten Innings at Wrigley, or Jason Turbow's wonderful Dynastic, Bombastic Fantastic and tell me this game isn't a freakin' hoot. Even the moments where some of these guys want to practically assassinate each other in the locker room bring so much of humanity's stupidity into the glow of daylight, that you can't help but roll your eyes and chuckle at the least.
I don't have the inside views of the players or writers, but I doubt any athlete plays more practical jokes than the baseball player. Actually, John Kruk once said, "I'm not an athlete, I'm a baseball player", so maybe that's wrong terminology. Just read the affore mentioned Jay Johnsone's Temporary Insanity for probably case-closing evidence of this practical joke statement. Hot foots to Shaving Cream pies to hotel room chicanery, ballplayers love it.
Malapropisms?
Baseball players deal them like cards in a black jack game. From Yogi Berra to Jim Gantner, to Padres announcer Jerry Coleman. (Baseball announcers often write books as funny as the players. Try Bob Uecker's Catcher in the Wry) The funny thing is they have no clue they just jacked up the English language ("90 percent of baseball is half mental"). Thanks, Yog.
I could probably go on further, but I think I've dropped enough names here so that you can do the exploring yourself, and not be denied the wonderful first-time feeling of experiencing the hilarity. It's an old game. It's attached to America along with hot dogs and apple pie. Some of my earliest memories have elements of it affixed to them like peripheral images. To me, the chatter of announcers and repressed lull of crowds bring me back over 35 years, and to a certain degree, relax me. Yes, baseball is in the blood.
And in the heart.
And, deeply and enthusiastically entrenched in the funny bone.
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