Sister Wynona Carr – The Ball Game (1957)
I’ve tried ’em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball. – Annie Savoy (Bull Durham)
Amen to that. While music repeatedly has the power to bring me closer to a higher power, baseball is the greatest spiritual nourishment of all. From a tattered little league sandlot to the Giants’ magnificent home on the San Francisco Bay, every ball field (with the exception of Yankee Stadium) is a cathedral offering divine refuge … or maybe just a good time.
Like Annie Savoy, Jesus and I never did quite come to an understanding, but I’m a fan of gospel, so naturally Sister Wynona Carr’s bewitching marriage of baseball and the Bible is a big hit with me.
It must be the overt religious content that keeps this tune from being a mainstay at professional ballparks across the country, although to this non-believer’s ears, there are few things more offensive than the banal top-forty babble that routinely desecrates stadiums across this great land of ours. Certainly, this song would be a wonderful alternative to the cavalcade of American Idol-inspired mediocrity that passes for in-between inning entertainment, but some misguided do-gooder would probably be offended by the religious content and write an angry letter denouncing the transgression of religion into the public sphere.
At least, that’s what I thought until I saw that the Reds are hosting, once again, “Faith Day” this year, which I initially mistook for a celebration of a country singer, but is in fact an evangelical event. I’m slightly ashamed to admit that I reflexively found the idea of Faith Day at the ballpark somewhat offensive – not because it encourages Christians to believe in their destructive fairy tale version of life on the public dime – but because the musical highlight will center on the “inspirational” crooning of Jeremy Camp, a purveyor of Christian Rock. However, after managing to listen to one of his songs almost in its entirety, it quickly became apparent that Jeremy Camp is a dangerously subversive man. Clearly, his “music” is a thinly veiled call for mass suicide. If all goes to JC’s devious plan, April 16 in Cincinnati promises to make the Jonestown Massacre look like a footnote.
While Jeremy Camp is clearly a false prophet, baseball routinely tries our faith, so it seems appropriate to illustrate the downside of blind devotion by allowing his insipid stylings to waft like a cancerous cloud over a crowd of believers. I, of course, wish no ill will to the Christians and have no interest in seeing them led like lemmings to their death. At this point, one can only hope that some balance will be provided by piping “The Ball Game” into the mix of the day’s festivities. That may be the crowd’s only chance to regain their spiritual footing after having been unwittingly led down the path to despair by Mr. Camp. After all, baseball is a metaphor for life itself and Wynona Carr, who also wrote “The Ball Game,” deftly uses the Greatest Game as a template for religious salvation. “The first base is temptation / The second base is sin / Third base is tribulation / If you pass you can make it in / Ol’ Man Solomon is umpire / And Satan is pitching the game / He’ll do his best to strike you out / Keep playin’ just the same.”
Indeed, baseball and religion both have their controversies, but it’s hard to argue with that call.
Sister Wynona Carr – The Ball Game MP3
The Persuasions offer a fine version from 1996.
Over the next week or so to celebrate the official beginning of spring, I’ll try to come up with a list of the best baseball songs of all time. In no particular order, we begin with:
Belle and Sebastian – Piazza, New York Catcher (2003)
Belle and Sebastian dare to ask if Mike Piazza is gay, an allegation that has dogged the certain Hall of Famer for much of his career. Despite being well-scrubbed from the internet, it was widely rumored in L.A. that when Piazza was a Dodger he was married to Eric Karros in a clubhouse ceremony attended by their teammates to celebrate their “roommate” situation in Newport Beach. I believe Piazza was dressed up as the bride for the festivities, although that may be my prejudices speaking. Just because he’s a catcher doesn’t necessarily make him the more feminine of the two. Karros, after all, is noted for his soft hands at first base and Piazza is notorious for carrying a big stick. Either way, the couple should be praised for happily co-habitating in a Newport Beach bungalow for four years. Certainly, their liaison would have lasted longer had not the notoriously homophobic Fox News Corps gotten in the way of their special relationship and traded Piazza to the Marlins in 1998.
Alicia Rickter: The Ultimate Flipper?
Mike Piazza, meanwhile, adamantly claims he is not gay and has proven it by getting married to Alicia Rickter, a former Playboy model and Baywatch “actress.” Oh sure, it would be easy to mock Piazza’s bride for being perhaps the most obvious choice for a beard one could find … but she actually doesn’t look as plastic as I suspected she might. Who knows, maybe she cured him? After all, I wouldn’t be surprised if images of her were routinely used in homosexual re-education gulags run by rabid Christian fundamentalists.
At any rate, I hope Mike Piazza is not gay for no other reason that that it would be sad if he were. Instead of being in the closet, he could have been a great spokesman – not just for young gay athletes in the closet, but also for an array of men’s beauty products. In fact, he could have been the Jackie Robinson of his era.
Instead, he’s just a guy who made a fortune playing baseball and married a hot actress. He wasn’t just a good player, he will forever be remembered as one of the greatest hitting catchers of all time. A dream for sure, but somewhat uninspired considering that he could have been a pivotal figure. How much more interesting Mike Piazza’s life would be if he could have been the person who so many others wanted him to be.
Belle and Sebastian also reference Sandy Koufax, the great Dodger from the late 50s and 1960s: “The pitcher puts religion first and rests on holidays.” Koufax was also rumored to be gay and got so upset about a story in the New York Post, owned by Rupert Murdoch, that he severed ties with the Dodgers out of protest. Koufax was 67 and the Dodgers, as noted earlier, were also owned by the diabolical, gay-hating Murdoch at the time. (Koufax has since reunited with his old team, who are now owned by an entirely different brand of idiot). If anything, Koufax’s reaction was a bit extreme, revealing an unflattering degree of anti-homosexuality – a sadly common affliction of actual self-hating homosexuals. Koufax, as the song states, is famous for refusing to pitch in Game One of the 1965 World Series because it was Yom Kippur. I suspect many people thought his adherence to faith was “gay” not in the homosexual sense, but simply “gay” in the lame sense. It’s a semantic problem that comes up frequently and due to the confusion it creates, it’s probably a good idea to simply refrain from using “gay” as a synonym for that which is lame. I suspect, though, I won’t be able to help myself until a good, solid role model from a traditionally heterosexual segment of society comes along and articulates the errors of my ways.
Song of the Day: The Baseball Project – Past Time
It’s Opening Day – the greatest day of the year.
Spreading the Grouplove Around
Grouplove played a triumphant set for the world’s greatest radio station, Seattle’s own KEXP, while at Mellow Johnny’s bikeshop for SXSW. It sounded great on the radio and now they have video of their finale posted online.
I’m sort of in love with this band, but I’m kind of afraid I might regret it in the morning. Maybe it’s just their name and the inevitable remorse it suggests, but I have an odd sense of deja vu, like after the time I came home with Poi Dog Pondering in 1989.
The Stub Project: Low – Troubadour – LA – 4.12.1996
At first glance the idea that there would be rough-housing or stage-diving at a Low concert is absurd. After all, the trio from Duluth put the slow in slowcore. True to form, for much of the show I desperately wanted to lay down, thinking what a brilliant move it would have been for the band to travel from town to town with a van-load of couches.
However, after a while, listening to Low became a struggle, if not a sort of torture – much like the stress positions that would later become popularized at Abu Ghraib. Certainly, Low are known for their trance-like appeal and the music had indeed become hypnotizing to the point that I could feel my heart slowing down. It was as if I was being sucked into quicksand, enveloped in their drone. I assume this effect is their goal, propelling their listeners lower than the ground traditionally allows.
If so, mission accomplished. Unfortunately, for me, going this low felt like I was being buried alive. Not ready to go without a fight, I began to feel rather violent, as if the only way I was going to get out of the Troubadour alive was if I killed a couple of people on my way out. And, if I correctly recall, my friend Jonathan felt the same way. The night is largely a blur after that, but I’m pretty sure we must have left early, otherwise this show could have easily been a bloodbath and I can find no evidence on the internet to suggest it was … What we did with ourselves once set loose on Sunset Boulevard, though, is anyone’s guess.
lonesomebeehive 