A Dissertation on the Deities of the Diamond #1

Part One

I once interviewed a man who played AAA minor league baseball. He relayed to me the following story that he swore was 100% true. However, first I would like to warn anybody who suffers from lachanophobia (the fear of vegetables) to skip the next five paragraphs as you will possibly find the content of them to be absolutely terrifying.

A while back, when this gentleman played under the guidance of legendary manager Earl Weaver, he found himself mired in a state of stagnation inside the batter's box. So, before a game in Elmira, NY, the slumping slugger decided to head to the grocery store and buy his usual purchase of tobacco. Then, he abruptly changed his routine by buying a carrot, as well. He reasoned that carrots are purportedly good for eyesight, so eating one could not hurt him at that point.

This pleased the Mighty Gods of Baseball as he was rewarded with a base hit later that afternoon. The next day he decided to buy tobacco and two more carrots. Naturally, he was rewarded with two hits that night.

Like any logical person would, he repeated the process again but bought three carrots. Of course, he got three hits that night. Then he really pushed the envelope and bought four carrots the next day. Not surprisingly, he tallied another four hits.

Unfortunately, he grew too greedy at that point and opted to buy five carrots. This displeased the fickle Gods of Baseball greatly who decreed that he would go 0 for 4 that evening.

To this day, the man is wholly convinced that he pushed his luck a little too far. (At least he still enjoys eating carrots on a daily basis.)

The notion that his superstitious behavior could influence his performance in the batter's box is absolutely ridiculous. After all, any baseball fan knows that the players have no control over the outcome of a game. Instead, the fans do.

Tell me if this situation sounds a tad bit familiar. You're watching a game and the phone rings. You leave the room to answer it and your team suddenly scores a run to take a lead. Conclusion: they scored because I wasn’t watching during that play.

Or, you're watching a game with your favorite pitcher on the mound and he’s gone seven and two-thirds inning without giving up a hit. You say out loud: “I can’t believe he’s going for a no-hitter.” On the next pitch, the opponents’ .214-hitting shortstop (who has been relegated permanently to the eighth spot in the lineup) bloops a single up the middle. Deflated, you slump back in the chair, cursing your judgment to dare utter the words “no hitter” causing the Gods of Baseball to inevitably extract their swift brand of vengeance.

And they always do! The Omnipotent Ones have no mercy when it comes to fans, except for those who root for the Yankees. Even the Baseball Gods are a little afraid of George Steinbrenner.

Now, let me play Devil's Advocate for a moment. I understand there are people out there in the world, armed with psychology degrees, who claim that fans invent the idea that their actions can control a game and to counter the helplessness and frustration that accompanies being a bystander.

You feel like a fly caught in a spider's web as you watch your team slowly unravel in the bottom of the ninth. First, your team's closer gives up a walk. Then, a single. Then, another damn single. Now, the other team is looking at bases loaded with no outs and your team is only up by one run.

You can’t coach the team. You can’t bat or field for them. All you can do is perform a desperate superstitious ritual that you hope will parlay the favor of these so-called Deities of the Diamond back to your team’s side.

Sometimes that means wearing your baseball hat backwards, or upside down, or my favorite: upside down and backwards. Sometimes it means not watching a certain play; other times it means not leaving the room during a play no matter how full your bladder feels and how at-risk you are for developing a urinary tract infection.

Sometimes the Almighty Spirits can be influenced by a fan yelling as loud as humanly possible, even if it deafens small children nearby, or the Divine Ones may prefer that you remain silent so as to not jinx a special game.

Admittedly, the notion seems just a tiny bit crazy, and yet, almost every avid fan believes it at one time or another.

Case in point: I attended an Arizona Diamondbacks’ game on Thursday (June 11) and even someone as stunningly intelligent and mentally stable as I started to question the notion.

First, let me point out that the team possesses a 26-35 record as of this writing. I am completely cognizant of the fact that there are only two worse teams in MLB this year: the Kansas City Royals and the Washington Nationals. That’s lofty company, to be sure.

However, whenever I have watched the Diamondbacks live in their Phoenix stadium this year, they have been virtual maestros of the mound, performing almost flawlessly every time. In fact, they are unbeatable when I am in the house.

Of course, I’ve only been to three games, but take a look at the following results:

Diamondbacks 2 Rockies 0
Diamondbacks 10 Cubs 0
Diamondbacks 2 Giants 1*

(*It should have been zero, but I'll explain how I blew that from happening later.)

I know... I KNOW the thought that I possess strange super powers to help spur my favorite ballclub to inexplicable victory is completely irrational. I know this.

Yet, as I watched the game, a feeling nagged at me: it was completely against the odds that a team THAT bad could play SO good in my presence. Against my better judgment, I started to believe in the existence of the Gods of Baseball... again.

Then, my mind cleverly deduced exactly why: It’s all science’s fault. You see, I had remembered something I studied back in college.

In experimental research, the term observer effect (also called the Hawthorne effect) refers to changes that the act of observing will make on the phenomenon being observed.

Hmmmm.

I had arrived at Thursday’s game simply hoping to go 3 and 0 at the ballpark for the year and nothing else. I wasn’t trying to appease the Baseball Gods. Heck, I even joked that the Diamondback players felt a need to impress me every time I showed up. But, as each “zero” popped up on the scoreboard after the visiting team batted unsuccessfully, I realized that no opposing ballclub had scored a run in my presence for almost three full games.

The odds of such a thing happening are so remote that you are more likely to find Bigfoot and the Abominable Snowman doing the Macarena on Wrigley Field as the overhead clouds turn magically into pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers.

So, as the top of the ninth inning approached the other day, I posed the question to myself: Could I actually be Arizona’s lucky charm?

TO BE CONTINUED...

(Part Two will be posted tomorrow.)