46 lines
3.1 KiB
Plaintext
46 lines
3.1 KiB
Plaintext
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BRAINLESS ECSTASY
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By M.L.Verb
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Each time it happens--and it happens as predictably as an unbalanced federal
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budget--I try to understand it. Even though it's long had me baffled, I'm sure
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we are supposed to learn something profound from it. When the World Series ends
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members of the winning team leap to the center of the field and form an
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anarchistic pile. This logjam of human witlessness jiggles around and collapses
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in on itself, threatening permanent injury to the celebrants at the epicenter.
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As the perimeter of the mass gets further and further from the middle, late
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arrivals heave themselves incautiously atop the jumping lump. I know one thing
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about it: This is not exactly spontaneous cumbustion. As the game nears an end
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you can see the off-field players moving toward the edge of the dugout,
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breathlessly awaiting the final out. It is clear what they plan to do--toss
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their highly paid, exquisitely conditioned bodies on what, in other countries
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and cultures, might be mistaken for a live funeral pyre. What, if anything, can
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these people be thinking? Possibly this: "I better get out and hug the pitcher
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as fast as I can. Otherwise he won't think I'm happy we won and, anyway, the
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world might end in the next 14 seconds and I won't get another chance to
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congratulate him. Especially if he goes to heaven and I don't or vice versa."
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Probably not. It's hard to think about eschatology with two out in the bottom
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of the ninth. Or possibly this: "Maybe if I throw my $175 glove in the air and,
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with brainless ecstacy, jump onto the growing pile of players I'll be in the
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inevitable victory picture taken by that guy over there from the Associated
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Press and I'll get my picture in newspaper over the country, even though it's
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doing something that could get me killed or, worse, end my career." Probably
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not. Few players would know what the phrase "brainless ecstacy" even means. Or
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that I lifted it verbatim from a Kurt Vonnegut novel. So we have to ask again:
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What are these people thinking? The answer, I've decided, is: nothing. And
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plenty of it. What we are really seeing out there is proof of what lawyers
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sometimes try to convince juries happened to their clients: temporary insanity.
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For a short time--and for reasons not altogether clear--the mental circuits of
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these players simply overload and fry. That causes them to do things that in
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other circumstances they would find deeply embarrassing. What they are
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experiencing, of course, is joy, unfettered joy. It happens so rarely--at least
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in THIS life--that when it does we like to have photographers there to record
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it. Unlike some folks I know, I personally favor joy. I have experienced it now
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and then and hope to again. But I fervently pray it never happens to me in a
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crowded major league baseball stadium in New York City, where fans have been
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known to join the victory pile and, in their abandonment, harvest major
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portions of both the infield and players' uniforms. Still, an overenthusiastic
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hug from a whole stadium full of fans and fellow players would have one
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advantage: You wouldn't be expected to write 50,000 thank-you notes. Would you?
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