By Tony in Hitchin
League 4
League 7
Annie Szemanski wasn’t the first woman to reach the major leagues. The story of her journey from the Federales League of Bolivia to starting second baseman for the Sparrows is an invention, a piece of fiction, the vehicle for Garrison Keillor to teach us a life lesson or two in his whimsical, gentle, Midwestern style. But it made me think of the role women play in the National Pastime. After all, can it really be the National Pastime without our better halves?
Do you know the name of the first writer to mention baseball in a published book? The answer is Jane Austen, in Northanger Abbey, 1818. You see, baseball never was, never will be, and never should be the exclusive domain of us guys.
In pure fantasy terms, and looking only at the national fantasy game we run in the UK, the teams with the best names are invariably run by girls. A glance at this week’s standings confirmed to me, once again, that this is the case: ‘We Are The Bleacher Babes’ and ‘The Dream Catchers’ jumped out at me, one managed by a Rachel, the other by a Helen.
What fabulous team names they are, names that a guy would never come up with. We guys go for something more violent, a name that reeks of machismo - Sluggers, Mashers, Bashers - or invoke some obscure reference to a favorite movie or quote that nobody else in the world will ever get.
But the fairer sex tends to go for something simpler, something softer, knowing that there are more important things in life. During the hours that we’ve wasted searching for “the perfect team name”, our significant other has performed a dozen tasks that we’d mentally file under “To Do … Later.”
A week or so ago, I was sitting quietly in an almost empty bar in North London trying to decide what moves to make in our national fantasy competition. I had a copy of my team roster, a fresh pint, and a pen, and I began the surgery that my team desperately needed.
I circled the three players who just weren’t getting it done and decided that I needed a new left fielder, a new third baseman, and the best closer I could afford. I’d have to guess at the price of whichever players I’d bring in, but this wasn’t going to stop me.
I was merrily jotting down the names of some potential new Blowfish - the Avenging Blowfish, that’s my team (see above) - when two smartly dressed city types asked if they could sit at my table. “Of course. Please do,” I replied and went back to my musings.
After about ten minutes, one of the two disappeared, and, as I knew he would, the remaining fellow asked me what I was doing. “I’m trying to fix my baseball team before Sunday,” I told him, “and I can’t decide who to bring in.” The chap smiled politely, as a foreigner does when he hasn’t a clue what you just said and doesn’t wish to offend, and looked for someone else to talk to.
That’s fine. I don’t want to convert everyone into a baseball fan, and I’ve been following the game for long enough to know that when someone screws up their face as if detecting a foul smell and replies “bunch of pansies playing rounders if you ask me” the best thing to do is to not get involved and certainly not to point out that, actually, I didn’t ask you.
So, back in the bar, the unimpressed suits eventually drifted off leaving me to my team and the tough decisions we all have to make from time to time. 5:00 came and went, and the bar got busier, but I decided that, instead of looking for a quieter spot, I was going to get the job done there and then - so I plowed on.
Another few minutes passed before two girls approached my table: “Would you mind if we sit here? We promise not to disturb you.”
The two girls sat and began discussing whatever it is that girls discuss over a shared bottle of wine. I barely noticed they were there, until one of them laughed so loudly that most of the bar turned to look at her. She mouthed a “sorry” to me whilst turning a subtle (and I must admit rather fetching) shade of pink, while I hoped that my smile would be interpreted as it was meant: “No problem, don’t worry about it, enjoy yourself.”
When the two girls started collecting their things, about to leave, curiosity got the better of them. “Excuse me,” one of them ventured, “can I ask you what it is you’ve been writing all this time? No, sorry, I shouldn’t ask - it’s none of my business. I’m sorry. We’ll be off now.”
(This does happen quite often, I have to admit. My handwriting is ridiculously neat, even ignoring the factors conspiring against me - being male, being left-handed, and holding my pen in a way that everyone tells me “just looks wrong.” About once a month, I’m asked where I studied calligraphy. Sadly for me, the attraction of my writing is not always matched by an interest in the content, but still …)
I smiled and replied, “Baseball. Well, fantasy baseball.” The girls’ faces lit up - they told me they were both going to sort out their teams on Sunday (our rosters fix at 6:00 each Sunday night), and we spent the next hour comparing teams. I’m sitting in a bar talking to girls about baseball. Gosh. Life is good sometimes.
Just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, sexiness is not something that can be easily defined, nor indeed should it be. But - and this is where I risk the wrath of every reader and my editor - a girl/woman who can talk baseball is definitely sexy.
If you’re ever looking for a new baseball book, whether for yourself or as a present for the love of your life, you could do a lot worse than tracking down “Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend”. Published by Faber and Faber, it’s a collection of around 70 short stories, essays and poems, all baseball-related and every author featured is female.
If you’re lucky enough to find a copy, look at the list of the titles contained in the book, and you’ll be at the counter paying for it before you know what’s hit you. Of course, your local bookstore will almost certainly not carry a copy - get them to find you one, or use one of the numerous websites where one might be found. You can thank me later.
The pieces in the book are rich and varied, covering every facet of the game: from childhood memories to favourite players, from Little League to the World Series and everything in between. The pieces brought to life names that I’d heard before and evoked memories that aren’t even mine.
Ladies, don’t ever leave us - we need you more than we usually let on, and so does baseball.