As the summer approaches, during which the United States will celebrate the 250th anniversary of its founding, it has only become clearer that America has a very bizarre relationship with its past. Among many, there is an obsession with, even worship of America and its origins in the Revolution. The current presidential administration is one of the most disturbing examples of how this idolization of America — whether as a genuine commitment to the “idea of America” or as a cynical strategy to legitimize their own political interests — can be so problematic. Often, it results not only in ridiculous spectacle but in attempts to ignore, obscure, or completely rewrite the truly violent history of chattel slavery and colonial conquest that have defined the United States’ past. It is quite common and insufferable to see those who often declare that “America is not a country, it’s an idea” attempting to undermine the very premises of freedom and equality they supposedly espouse.
A natural reaction to this seemingly pious yet utterly dishonest embrace of the mythology of America is to simply reject the country’s founding ideals altogether as disgraceful hypocrisy. I have certainly felt this way before, especially after becoming politically involved on the left and learning more fully about the horrors of this country’s past. Even so, I still find it difficult not to be compelled by the principles, in the abstract, that America is said to represent, such as freedom and a commitment to individuality. I don’t mean individualism, though, in the way it is often understood today — as an ideology of selfishness and social atomization and a justification for severe wealth inequality. Rather, I understand individuality as the capacity and obligation for people to act independently and develop their distinct abilities — an orientation that necessarily resists imposed authority and was a radical foundation for the American Revolution. To be clear, as these ideas are used currently in American life and politics — “freedom” to paradoxically justify the severe chilling of free-speech and “individualism” to legitimize a corporate capitalism that in reality deeply constrains the individual — they are completely debased. But perhaps, at least conceptually, the ideas themselves are not wholly irredeemable.
Recently, with this possibility lingering in my mind, much of my time has been occupied by the start of the baseball season — the sport which, of course, has been coined “America’s National Past-time.” I’ve always considered this to be primarily a marketing scheme, a patriotic appeal to American nostalgia without much substance. While I do think this is likely the case, I’ve also been wondering whether the game of baseball actually does have something fundamentally American about it — or at least something that reflects the romanticized mythology of the “idea of America.”
The reason for this nickname is primarily historical — baseball’s popularity in the mid-1800s served as a unifying force for a country reeling from the Civil War. In the early 20th century, baseball’s full emergence as a national sport contributed to a distinctly American cultural cohesion to which the budding American Empire aspired. I do, however, also think there may be something distinctly American about the game of baseball itself that is not simply due to the sport’s timely historical emergence.
As a Mets fan, these are the kinds of questions one begins to think about while diligently sitting through three-hour games in which baseball’s second-most-expensive team seems intent on winning absolutely nothing except the race for last place.
Somehow, despite this trauma of our recent losing streak, I still think there is something uniquely enjoyable and perhaps distinctly American about the game of baseball. By distinctly American, though, I certainly don’t mean that what I love about baseball reflects the condition of the country today or our undeniably tainted history. Rather, I believe that what makes baseball great, and so unique, is that it embraces a certain sense of freedom and a commitment to individuality that characterize modern American mythology. Perhaps baseball lives up to “the idea of America” more than America ever could.
Baseball might be the most bizarre team sport ever invented. In many ways, it barely functions like a team sport at all, and among the major national sports, in particular basketball, and football, there is no comparison. The entire game is centered around isolated, discrete moments (at-bats) in which two individuals, one from each team, face-off — the batter and the pitcher. Each at-bat, then, is slightly different based on whoever steps onto the mound or up to the plate, and both pitcher and batter must tailor their approaches to the individual quirks and weaknesses of their opponent. These face-offs, the pitcher versus the batter, are so pivotal to the game that it’s theoretically possible (although admittedly extremely unlikely) for a game to be completed without any of the fielders getting involved at all.
The structure of a baseball game, and its emphasis on individuality, allows a striking level of equality between every player. Every hitter gets a (for the most part) equal opportunity to be the center of the game, to be the focus of the action. Every fielder, when the ball comes to them, is solely responsible for making the play. Every pitcher, of course, is in individual command of the game as soon as they take the mound.
There is admittedly something beautiful about the rhythm, coordination, and teamwork necessary for a basketball or football team to run smoothly, but, to me, these sports sometimes come to feel less like a collection of individual players making an impact in their own way and more like a machine. In football, in particular, most of the players (especially offensive and defensive linemen) fit and work together like cogs, each performing their own specific, limited role. There is a clear hierarchy within a football team such that, while some players (the quarterback, wide receivers, running backs, among others) shine, most become swept up in the rhythm and flow of the game — they become part of the mass of blockers and rushers. Every player on a baseball team fields their own distinct and spatially isolated position, has their own unique style of play, and has their own batting stance. The same cannot really be said of a football team.
Basketball does provide more of an opportunity for individual players, no matter who they are, to become the center of the game for a time, but, even so, the sport still clearly possesses a machine-like flow that distinguishes it from baseball. Each batter gets a pretty much equal amount of time at-bat per game, while some basketball players, even those in the starting lineup, may get a fraction of the amount of minutes on the floor as their colleagues. Physically, basketball is also quite exclusive — if you aren’t one of the tallest people in the country with an obscenely low body fat percentage, you have little hope of going to the NBA. In baseball, though, a 5’6” second baseman can steal the MVP from a 6’7” right fielder and no one considers it odd.
When it comes to the freedom of the game, I think there is also no question that baseball is superior. Probably the most infuriating feature of basketball or football is the overbearing and sometimes completely arbitrary control that the rules and referees exert over the game. An ill-advised holding call can utterly change the direction of a football game, as any Eagles fan watching the Super Bowl in 2023 knows painfully well. In basketball, too, many have rightfully complained that the enforcement of fouls is getting completely out of hand and has taken over the game. While baseball fans certainly enjoy complaining about bad calls themselves, the umpires’ influence over and involvement in the sport is incomparable with referees’ ability to completely dominate the course of a basketball or football game.
Baseball also happens to be one of the only team sports without a game clock. An inning might take five minutes, or it might take 30. If the game is tied after nine innings, it continues — and could, theoretically, continue forever. The freedom of the game to progress at its own pace, without an artificially imposed time limit, is another one of the great things about baseball, and perhaps part of what makes it, in my mind, distinctly American.
The embrace of freedom that is a key part of the American mythology is admirable not in how it’s deployed today — as a defense of violent speech and corporate capitalism — but in the (at-its time) revolutionary idea that we should be free from authoritarian rule, free to live how we want as equals. It is, of course, a bit comical to juxtapose such grand visions of political liberty with the freedom of a baseball game to enter extra innings. Even so, I think the unique beauty of the game — its freedom from external control and its embrace of individuality — lives up to the very best of what American mythology has to offer.
