My Life in Review: Have I been Lucky or What?

Did Spalding Get it Right?

In 1911 Albert Spalding, pioneer professional pitcher, sports entrepreneur and administrator climaxed his highly successful three-ply career with a book-length treatise, America's National Game. Baseball, Spalding vigorously argued, was "the exponent of American courage, confidence, combativeness; American dash, discipline determination; American energy, eagerness, enthusiasm; American pluck, persistence, performance; American spirit, sagacity, success; American vim, vigor and virility." At the same time, he pointed out at length the un-American characteristics of the British game of cricket, although patronizingly conceding that that sluggish game was well suited to the phlegmatic temperament and sedentary habits of English gentlemen.

From one perspective Spalding's contention may be easily written off as an embarrassingly extravagant and stubbornly alliterative eulogy, a chauvinistic tract and public relations "hype" or even a promoter's pique (he had failed to impress the Irish with the wonders of baseball in presenting all-star exhibition tours in England and elsewhere). From another perspective Spalding's claims constitute a provocative hypothesis i.e., sports reflect, to a considerable extent, the distinctive cultural characteristics (the national character?) of the societies in which they thrive and are honored by popularity and respect.

This sports-as-mirror thesis has been a matter of interest to some scholars and to this writer for a number of years. This spring, seventy years after the publication of Spalding's polemical tome and in an era when baseball's claim to its venerated label as our national pastime has become tenuous I had the opportunity to submit the Spalding hypothesis to a first-hand empirical test.

A chance encounter with a bona fide member of the famed Marylebone Cricket Club in London provided this Yankee diamond devotee with the opportunity to enter the sacred precincts of The Pavilion at Lord's Grounds, capital of the cricket world (M. C. C. could easily stand for Mecca of Confirmed Cricketeers). "Meet me at the Grace Gate." my instant benefactor and generous host confided, and, though my familiarity with the folklore of that great British game was faint and fragmentary, I was aware that in gaining entrance to that hallowed ground I would be passing through the portals memorializing Amazing Grace (W. G.), the game's greatest hero.

Until John Beddall, my host, arrived I could go no farther—mere money is not enough. He soon showed up flashing his leather-encased membership card which quickly beget a guest's green card, an exceedingly viable visa which, when held in open palm, enabled this alien to move past a half dozen attendants into the impressive twin-towered, redbrick structure known as The Pavilion, open, as the signs put it, "For members and friends only" ( I was later to learn that a member was entitled to but one friend per day).

The game we were to witness, the season-opener in the county championship chase between Middlesex and Essex, was in its second day and was "in progress" though there was no audible indication that that was the case. Until I caught sight of the playing field through the spacious front windows I feared we had arrived at the afternoon teatime break. My host ushered me into the famous Long Room—high-ceilinged, rectilinear with classical decor and certainly long, but I wondered whether the name derived from the room's size and shape or that of the inhabitants' faces or the extent of the silence.

There were more than fifty men present (and the men were over fifty), most of them perched on stool-like chairs facing, the wide expanse of glass which afforded a fine view of the game. Silence, as they say, reigned. Had we come in the midst of a vigil, perhaps in memory of W. G. Grace or some other demigod in cricket's pantheon? Had the home side been crushed under an avalanche of fallen wickets and were now being buried neath a flurry of "fours" and "sixes" by the opposition? Nonsense! We had invaded the "Cathedral of Cricket" and I was committing an act of desecration by talking out loud (within a normal decibel range for an American). My uneasy host hustled me out the other end of The Long Room before his membership card could be revoked on the grounds (no pun intended) of guilt by association.

If one is looking for confirmation of the stereotype of the reserved impassive Englishman with reverential respect for tradition and obsessive concern for proper decorum and protocol he need look no farther than the Long Room at Lord's, exclusively inhabited by gentlemen members and friends (absolutely no women allowed) correctly attired with jackets, ties and buttoned-up lips, the upper one properly starched. For an American accustomed to the noise-polluted atmosphere of a baseball park and taught to believe that the only restriction on freedom of speech is the injunction against crying "fire" in a crowded theatre even a brief stay in the Long Room is a startling and slightly unnerving experience.

Yet, the ambience outside was not perceptibly—or audibly—different. In fact as we walked into a spacious corridor John pointed to another glass door through which we could see a smaller group in somewhat more sumptuous surroundings—carpeted floor, baroque-like furniture—keeping soundless vigil. This, he told me was the inner sanctum or sanctum sanctorum reserved for certain officials of The Club (high priests?) and out of bounds for the "rumbustious residents" of the Long Room. Moreover, as we stepped outside to the open stands I could perceive no real change. The fans in the adjacent stands, restricted to M. C. C. members, and the general admission spectators scattered in a widely dispersed pattern in the other stands encircling the grounds all appeared to be participating in this solemn meditation and the stillness in this strange open-air sanctuary was interrupted only by the occasional crick of the bat.

Now, however, my impression of the situation began to shift. The cathedral analogy no longer seemed applicable . It struck me that the crowd was suffering from some kind of malaise—perhaps a bout of ennui contracted by observing an event less exciting than watching the grass grow. Then, when I noticed that a long hit, a sterling defensive play and an effective "over" by the bowler were greeted with instant albeit polite and muffled applause. I realized my impression was wrong. The lack of audible response, which I interpreted as yawning boredom, deadly despair or a desultory attitude was, it became clear, actually acute concentration, undistracted contemplation and adherence to the traditional protocol of a cricket match,

Turning my attention to the action on the field I soon concluded that "action" might be too strong a word for what was going on. True, the bowler displayed much kinetic energy in his long running approach and spirited delivery of the ball but the batsman seemed casual and curiously uneager to race from wicket to wicket, Time after time he blocked the ball with his bat or poked it a few yards and remained rooted in position beside the wicket. The fielders scattered in shifting formations which inscribed no meaningful patterns for me, appeared to be equally desultory as they picked up the ground balls carelessly even purposelessly and lazily returned them to the bowler

The scoreboard contained a complete record of the status of the game, indeed it presented sufficient data to enable one to reconstruct every significant development from the game's beginning to the current moment, but I was baffled by this plethora of information and some of the strange nomenclature, With John's help I was able to determine that Middlesex had accumulated 153 runs in their first "innings" (for an American a "singular" use of the plural or a "plural use of the singular") and that Essex was pecking away at that formidable target steadily but slowly. By the time (about 5:30 pm and two hours after we had arrived) darkening skies produced a condition called "bad light," a judgment call which officially ended the day's proceedings with the "pulling of the stumps," Essex had overtaken their opponents, achieving a 159 total with only five fallen wickets ( i.e. only five outs of the allotted ten) and thus had excellent prospects for building a big lead on the morrow.

The disappointment—for an American observer—of having the game called on account of "bad light" was slight compared to the disconcerting news which followed. John informed me that, with the first innings extending into the third day, it was quite possible that it would be impossible to complete the second and final innings that next day and very likely that the contest would end without resolution in a draw. This was more difficult for a Yankee baseball fan to take than the silence of the Long Room and environs and too long stretches of what appeared to be "batting practice" only occasionally broken by such significant happenings as runs and much more rarely fallen wickets. The next evening's newscast confirmed my hosts prediction and this American's frustration; the match concluded inconclusively—no winner and no loser.

This brief encounter—and it seemed longer—with cricket in its purest traditional form provided me with sufficient evidence, I immediately felt, to validate Spalding's conclusion that cricket was alien to the "American character" in several respects: its glacial tempo, its apparent lack of hustle on the field and real lack of bustle in the stands, and its high probability of an inconclusive outcome—making it, in American eyes a truly "interminable" game. Even for Americans who rejected the axiom that "nice guys finish last" it is difficult to accept the fact that they frequently might not finish at all! Yes, it's easy to come to the unstartling conclusion that Spalding was right and that his hypothesis has stood the test of time—nearly three-quarters of a century. Moreover, it is easy for an American to become a passionate participant in his put down of the English game and to assume his stance regarding the superiority of the American "National Pastime."

However, to let it go at that would be to settle for a narrowly nationalistic interpretation but, to take an ahistorical, myopic view of the situation over the past century. Baseball, which Mark Twain identified as "the outward and visible expression of the drive and push and rush and struggle of the raging, tearing, booming nineteenth century," no longer occupies the most honored position in the minds and hearts of American sports fans. The prime focus of attention and locus of interest of the American sports public has shifted from diamond to gridiron. Ironically, the displacement of baseball from the top spot stems from reasons strikingly similar to those attributed by Americans (and Spalding) to their rejection of cricket: its rocking-chair rhythm, the sporadic stretches of inaction, the lack of a sense of time urgency and its frequent failure to satisfy the crowd's appetite for spectacle.

Likewise cricket has slipped badly in the esteem of the British public and ranks way below Association Football (soccer) and rugby in number of devotees. Save for the international test matches the crowds at cricket contests have dwindled often to a smattering of diehards and a few clusters of the curious. What I saw at M. C. C. was a well preserved specimen of the traditional game, the game Spalding witnessed and described, which is in danger of becoming an anachronism in the late twentieth century.

Efforts have been made, even at the expense of revered traditions, to stem the decline of public support, restore cricket's popularity and make it commercially viable. One day matches are being staged; games are being played with a limit to the number of "overs" to ensure a reasonably early conclusion and other changes are being suggested to make the game more attractive to unconfirmed spectators. The M.C.C. has relaxed its membership restrictions and since the early sixties, has "lowered the gates," sacrificing exclusivity and purity in the interest of liquidity and solvency. Similarly, organized baseball has introduced non-traditional features such as the designated hitter and gaudy uniforms and has even considered limiting the time between pitches to gain the support of a wider segment of the American public and to recapture its position as the premier sport attraction.

Thus, when one takes the wider and longer perspective, the hypothesis that patterns of sport reflect the larger patterns of culture appears even more sound and significant. However, from the standpoint of the genuine student of the sport, the mirror-thesis leads to a rather unhappy conclusion i.e. to maintain popular support undergo modifications (modernization, massification) designed to attract the uninitiated, casual and spectacle-minded fans. This process can corrode those traditional elements of the game which have commanded the respect of the true aficionados those dedicated to the game "for the game's sake."

When one considers sports from this point of view the supra-cultural evaluation of the respective sports may be drastically different. Thus cricket can be perceived as the purest, yes superior, game with its stress on hard-won skills, complex strategies, specialized, even esoteric tactics and emphasis on intrinsic performance rather than the rapidity and conclusiveness of the outcome. The leisurely rhythm gives one time to contemplates appreciate and anticipate—to analyze and second-guess the possible strategies—the quietude precludes the distractions of mindless shouting and extraneous noise pollution, the length of the match provides time to enjoy, enjoy, enjoy—to savor the finesse, the intricacies and the subtleties, the lack of decisive outcome irrelevant to the pleasure of watching the matching of wits and the display of grace and prowess.

Traditional baseball has some of those same qualities, though not to the degree that traditional cricket contains them. Like cricket these days it finds itself fighting to preserve those features which have made the game endlessly fascinating to the dyed-in-wool devotees of the sport.

In the light of these considerations can one still say that Spalding got it right? Not completely. While his sport-as-cultural mirror thesis is certainly sound his assumption of the superiority of baseball is, indeed, questionable. Ironically, the cultural forces alluded to in his major premise have continued to operate and, quite probably, might alter his other conclusion. If he were alive today he would either have to concede gracefully that baseball is no longer our national pastime and bow to football as the quintessentially American game or deplore the cultural changes which have relegated the diamond sport to a lower place in the sports hierarchy. If he took the latter position—and I'm inclined to think he would—he would have to carry the banner of purity and tradition, denounce the corrupting obsession with widespread popularity, extol the intrinsic excellence of the game and argue for the preservation of that sport in its purest form as it should be played—free from the contamination of mass cultural whim and caprice. He would. I believe, accept the assertion that a great sport, which captivated successive generations of Americans for nearly a century and a half, should not be altered to cater to the uncultivated appetites and undiscerning eyes of spectacle-minded dilettantes.

The application of that logic and consistent reasoning would produce a different comparative assessment of traditional cricket and baseball. It would compel one to contend that one is in no position to make judgments about a sport unless he thoroughly understands its rules, spirit and protocol, unless he has a grip on the peculiar skills and strategies which constitute the real challenge of the game but which are not readily apparent to the casual or uninformed observer. It would accept the premise that just as "the unexamined life is not worth living" so the unstudied game is not worth watching. It would embrace the corollary that a sport so simple that it is automatically understood, that contains little which is not obvious to the uninitiated spectator is deficient in substance and intrinsic value. By this logic, the failure of a game to yield easily and quickly its excitements, its peculiar fascination, "mysterious'" appeal and mystique would be a mark of excellence rather than a deficiency. Indeed, it has been that logic—as well as cultural bias—which has led British devotees of cricket to assign baseball, perceived as an overgrown offspring of the ancient but "childish" game of rounders, a much lower place on the sports ladder.

It is easy for us American students of the diamond pastime to see that British evaluation as uninformed and unfair. It is equally easy for us to make just as flagrant—perhaps even more egregious—error in our assessment of cricket. Spalding's "put-down" and my rather contemptuous, culturally-conditioned response to my experience at Lord's are both "typically American" reactions and uninformed judgments. A greater familiarity with that game would not breed contempt but respect; understanding would bring fascination rather than impatience; comprehension would evoke appreciation for a game played for the game's sake—the intrinsic intricacies the complex defense strategies, the subtle skills of the bowlers, the clever judgment and esoteric prowess of the batsmen and the outcome would have been fairly incidental to the enjoyment of that sport in its purest form.

So neither Spalding nor I got it completely right—the first time. It was ignorance of that game combined with our American cultural conditioning which prevented us from being "bowled over" but not from being "stumped." If Spalding were alive today and aware of the recent developments I think he would agree.

Dr. Crandall had a lifelong love of sports.  Click here to see a photo of Dr. Crandall in college athletics.

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