Baseball, Squatters, and Padiddles

   Driving home the other evening from my son’s baseball game, I got to thinking: Isn’t baseball a peach of a thing? I mean the game of it. There’s really something to it, if we take time to notice.
 
   Sometimes, I hear people say that baseball is America’s Game. Admittedly, I’m not entirely sure about what everyone actually means when they say that, being as how baseball is huge in other places like Cuba and Japan and all, and being as how baseball can probably trace its roots to English games like rounders and cricket. But I have to agree. There is something fiercely American about baseball. I can feel it.

   For the rest of the world – so we’ve been told – soccer is the thing. “World’s Most Popular sport” and so on. We’ve also been told that there’s a perfectly logical reason for this: Accessibility. Come one, come all! Even the poorest kids on the planet can get hold of one ball and a patch of dirt, right?
 
   I have no reason to doubt one of these claims, but I question the other. Here’s what I mean: In my travels I’ve found that soccer is indeed the King of all Sports in most other places. Go to England, Europe, Asia, Australia, South America and see for yourself. It’s soccer, soccer, soccer. But I’m not buying the accessibility logic. I don’t believe that fanboys the world over go berserk over soccer because it’s accessible. I think soccer is prevalent and popular around the globe because the former British Empire spread it on thick, like butter on toast.
 
   By the way: I don’t think it’s wrong to call soccer by the name soccer, so that’s why I’m doing it. From what I understand, soccer was the preferred term for many moons, before the “globalization” of the sport. So, I don’t think I’m being a stinker. I feel like I’m being O.G. If anyone wants to call soccer football, that’s fine and dandy. As an American, when I hear football I think of something else.
 
  For some reason or another, soccer has never taken hold in North America. The British tried their best to get us interested, and many others have tried to do so since. But this ain’t India or South Africa, by George.

   Canadians, being Canadians, go for hockey – which is actually a lot like soccer, if you think about it, except for the ice and the part where people punch each other’s teeth out. Americans, being Americans go for baseball.

*          *          *

   Speaking of O.G. . . .
 
   I came of age in the 1970s, and I can tell you, first hand, that soccer – which was just making its way into U.S. youth sports leagues back then – was considered by almost everyone I knew to be “gay” and/or “communist.”
 
   Ain’t that something? People were not only not interested in soccer, but threatened enough by it to call it names.
 
   As a kid, the “communist” reference went right over my head. I totally get it now, though. As for calling soccer “gay” . . . well, that was an ear-burner back then as much as it is now, but my kid brain could at least make some sense of why the gay string was getting plucked.
 
   Unlike all other youth sports that we’d ever heard of in rural Appalachia, soccer was co-ed. And most folks back then and there were pretty darn sure that boys and girls playing sports together must somehow be gay. It went against the map of the world; the county line wasn’t drawn where it was supposed to be. The hillbilly logic of the time went both ways, too, so to speak. It wasn’t just that the sport of soccer itself was gay. Boys who wanted to play on a sports team with girls were fags, and girls who wanted to play were dikes. That made it personal, rather than abstract, and it made for some seriously weird social pressure for any kids who just wanted to play soccer because they thought it was fun.
 
   Owing to all that weirdness, I can’t remember any kids in my old neighborhood who ever signed up for soccer. Any expression of interest would’ve resulted in parental intervention consisting of kicking those kids' ninny asses right back into real sports after a god-awful dinner of liver and onions and a hand-over-heart recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance. The few kids I knew from school who did play soccer were harassed and bullied relentlessly for taking their stand. They had balls, I’ll give ‘em that.  
 
   I remember one poor kid, Jon-Mark Roland, who made the mistake of bringing his brand-new soccer ball to show-and-tell one day. He demonstrated some amazing footwork tricks for the class, up at the front of the room, bouncing his ball this way and that on his knees and toes and heels, all the while keeping it from touching the ground. I could tell that Jon-Mark was really proud of his skills, and rightly so. The whole class clapped when he finished, even our teacher, Mr. Hendricks, who was a serious hard-ass. It was Jon-Mark’s shining moment. It also made him a marked man.
 
   I saw Jon-Mark later that same day, during recess, getting walked to the school nurse’s office by the principal and Miss Hardy, who taught social studies. It was a walk of shame. He had a bloody nose and a purple eye and it looked like he’d just had a dirt bath with some gravel thrown in for good measure. Jon-Mark hung his head, sniffling – either just starting to cry, or just finishing up – as he was slowly, humiliatingly escorted past everyone’s whispers and snickers, cradling his punctured, dead soccer ball.
 
   Oh, how the times have changed.
 
   I’d still say there’s still an undercurrent of suspicion about soccer to this very day in many parts of America. But no one talks about it. I wouldn’t say it’s a violent undertone. I mean, thankfully, I don’t think anyone’s getting his or her ass kicked over it anymore. But there’s an undertone, nonetheless. And I can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with the communist angle.

*          *          *

   While driving and thinking about the true meaning of baseball – and soccer, too, I guess – I happened to catch a radio story about “squatters.”
 
   The radio story had to do with how squatters have recently been causing problems for property owners around the country. Squatters being people that keep their eyes peeled for unoccupied apartments, houses, businesses, etc. – and then when they find the right place, one that checks all their boxes, they go ahead and just move right in, make it their home. Once they’re in, they hunker down, staking their claim.
 
   A woman named LaVonda told about she owned the house where her mother had once lived, and about how her mother had died from the Big C, and about how squatters had taken over the whole place. They changed the locks on her and everything. LaVonda did what anyone would do: She called the cops.
 
   The police were of no help to her, of course. That’s because, as they claimed, “it’s more a civil matter, than a criminal one.” But – let’s be honest – the cops probably weren’t too interested in bending over backwards for someone like LaVonda.
 
   Anyhow, she diligently kept after things and somehow got the courts involved. But this didn’t help matters either. Not in a practical sense, anyway. Apparently, squatters pretty much have the same rights as legal tenants in LaVonda’s home state of Illinois. Her squatters stated in court, openly and proudly, that they are “professional squatters.” They admitted to the court that they hadn't paid LaVonda a dime.
 
   After six months LaVonda is still waiting for a legal resolution. The squatters are still sqatting in her mom’s house. She said, “I don’t know what to do now. Nobody’s helping me. I dream about my mom still being alive and coming home with bags of groceries in her hands, and finding these strangers in her house. It scares her something terrible. I wake up shaking and crying when I have that dream. It’s like this situation is disturbing my mom’s soul. I can feel it.”
 
   I trust LaVonda's feelings on this, and I had an idea for her as I was driving along.
 
   The idea was sparked by a play I’d seen at my son’s baseball game about an hour earlier. There was this kid on the opposing team who kept stealing bases like a madman. He even stole home twice. There was just no stopping him. He was just too ornery and fast. Our pitcher kept trying to pick him off, but to no avail. So, here’s what our pitcher finally did to take care of this bandit: After gloving a returned ball from the catcher in the sixth inning, he just casually walked over and tagged the kid out. The kid was standing about a mile off second base, and he just stood there frozen, like a deer in headlights, as the pitcher walked over to him and gently tagged him on the shoulder. Tap.

   “You’re out!” the field umpire yelled. And that was that. The base thief was furious. He was a victim of the unexpected.

   Baseball allows – no: encourages – that sort of out-of-the-box thinking. It’s built into the game.
 
   Anyway, I’d like to offer my baseball-inspired idea as a freebee to anyone who’s facing a situation like LaVonda’s:
 
   Step 1: Hire a private detective to watch your squatters. Have them report to you about how many people are living at your property, their coming-and-going habits, etc. A private detective will charge less money that the courts, and actually provide a real service in return.
 
   Step 2: One day when your squatters are away from your house or apartment, and you feel like they’ll be gone for a spell, have a locksmith come and change the locks. Go ahead and install one of those cheapo DIY security systems at the same time. I’m not talking about one of those camera things that links to your phone. I’m talking about a system that automatically calls the cops when a window or door is opened.
 
   Step 3: After you’ve changed the locks and have your security system in place, go ahead and start confiscating all the squatters’ stuff inside your house, and then either sell it or scrap it. After all, all this stuff actually belongs to you!
 
   Step 4: If your squatters ever try to break back into your property – you’ll know because your security system will go off, the cops will arrive, and you’ll be able to press breaking and entering charges. Unlike squatting, B&E is something cops actually enjoy sinking their pointy teeth into.
 
   Tag! They’re . . . out!

*          *          *

   Confession: I usually find myself listening to talk radio, rather than music, while driving around.
 
   It’s not that I love to hear people yammering about this and that. It’s just that I figure I’ve already heard and enjoyed about 95% of the excellent music that I’m ever going to hear in this lifetime, so why bother too much with the new stuff? There's just not much of a value proposition to it. No offense, Miley. No offense, Cardi B.
 
   Plus, talk radio gives me a chance to apply baseball strategy to real-world problems like the LaVonda case, and that’s kind of fun.
 
   Epiphany: Had I been a soccer player in my youth, rather than playing 2nd base for the A’s, I bet I would have a whole different perspective on problem-solving. I bet I would advise LaVonda to stick with her court battles, see them through, keep up the good fight. I bet I’d advise her to trust the system to set things straight, rather than trying to fix the situation herself.
 
   Aha! This little ditty of a realization brings me a little closer to understanding why baseball somehow horns in as America’s Game, while soccer is the World’s Game. Americans are distinctly different creatures from the rest of the herd, and perhaps that’s why we birthed baseball and continue to dote on it so.

*          *          *

   Major League Baseball (MLB) teams play 162 games every season. That’s a shit-ton of baseball games. With 30 major league teams, that amounts to 2,430 games getting played every season. Gulp.
 
   Compare that with 17 games per season for NFL teams (football), 64 games per season for FIFA World Cup (soccer) teams, and 82 games per season for NBA (basketball) teams and NHL (hockey) teams.
 
   Having 2,430 games effectively democratizes the MLB, for teams and spectators alike. On the team side, you can really trust the rankings after that many games. That’s because any two teams will end up facing each other multiple times in a season rather than just once or twice. So, a few lucky wins are not going to artificially earn any team a championship. On the spectator side, it’s pretty easy for people to go catch a live MLB game if they want to. I bought tickets online to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field a couple years back, the day before the game. They were not expensive, and the seats were killer. Talk about accessible. Try that with any other professional sports event.
 
   I think there’s plenty more to be recognized and said about America’s Game than this democratization concept – which is really just my from-the-hip reckoning about how cool the MLB is compared to other professional sports leagues. I think there’s something baked into the ethos of baseball itself that makes it special. And, for whatever reason(s) – maybe because I’m American, actually – I feel compelled to take a swing at what that might be. Pun intended.

*          *          *

   To do this, I’m going to have to hold baseball up, toe-to-toe, against soccer. That’s a pun for the soccer side, to keep it fair. Here goes nuthin.’
 
   I’d say that baseball is fundamentally an American (Libertarian) game because, while it appears to the casual observer that not much is going on, there is actually a non-stop flow of deep strategy, and real opportunities for anything to happen, at any time, permeate the game. Great offensive and defensive plays are a delicate combination of individual skill and teamwork – too much or too little of either, and the whole thing goes kaput. All players have significant offensive and defensive roles, and they’re fully engaged, invited to bring all of their skills and cunning into the game.
 
   I’d say that soccer is fundamentally a World (Communist) game because, while it appears to the casual observer that a lot is going on, there is rarely any sort of real accomplishment (scoring). Great offensive and defensive plays, while presenting themselves to be the result of teamwork, are actually due to individuals temporarily breaking away from the herd, punching their way through the restrictive fabric of the game. Basically, it’s a lot of running around, with very little outcome. Players are assigned specialized offensive or defensive roles that are expected to serve the team as a whole, yet they are handicapped by arbitrarily imposed rules – the most notable being that most of the players are unable to use their hands.
 
   Oh, I could go on. But that’s it, in a nutshell.
 
   I realize that it’s a gross over-simplification to call all Americans Libertarians, and everybody else in the world a commie. I know the world's more like a mixed bag of nuts. But I’m doing it anyway. Again: No offense, Miley. No offense, Cardi B.  
 
   I’m doing it to make sense of things, in my own head. It helps me understand the violent opposition to soccer that I witnessed in my youth. All that apparent craziness may have been an unconscious, instinctual, over-the-top, response to smelling a communist rat. Jon-Mark Roland may have been an unwitting ambassador of the Red Menace, and playground bullies felt the need to take a poke at him without even consciously realizing why.

*          *          *

   As I continued to drive home, I counted one, two, three, four padiddles. A new record! A new "PB," as my son would say – PB being Personal Best.
 
   Growing up, my parents never gave it to me straight about padiddles.
 
   They said, “Whenever you see a car with just one working headlight, that car’s a padiddle, and that means you have to kiss the girl who’s in the car with you.” To prove this, my mom and dad would kiss whenever they saw one.
 
  What they didn’t have the nerve to tell me was how the game is really played. Padiddles aren’t for kissing. Seeing a padiddle means you and your girl are each supposed to take off one article of clothing.
 
   Imagine my surprise when my high school girlfriend, Laura, suddenly took off her shirt one night while I was driving her to the movies. “What are you doing?!” I asked. Not in a complaining way, mind you – just in a way that expressed my shock and awe.
 
   “Padiddle,” she said. “That was a padiddle that just went past. Now you take off something.”
 
   Growing up, my baseball coaches bent the truth, too. For instance: Whenever I had a swing and a miss while at bat, I’d sure as eggs hear a coach yell, “Choke up!” or “Choke and poke!” Choking up meant moving your hands up and away a little from the nub on the bottom of the bat.
 
   Well, I remember taking that piece of advice literally until I learned better for myself. Early on, before I got my wings, I’d always reposition my hands on the coach’s advice, choking up, as it were, and it would always kill my swing, making things worse instead of better. Over time, I learned that “Choke up!” and “Choke and poke!” had nothing to do with choking up in a literal sense. These were just candy-coated ways of saying, “Next time you swing, hit the ball, dummy!”
 
   That’s another thing about baseball: Good coaching can only get you so far. At some point you have to stand at the plate on your own, make your own decisions, make your own sense out of what’s happening around you, realize when a curve-ball's being thrown at you.
 
   When I was younger, I used to see padiddles all the damn time – if not every time I drove at night, then every other time, for sure. But then, sometime around ’95 or so, they all seemed to disappear off the face of the earth. I figured car technology must have improved to the point where headlights had stopped burning out like they used to. I got used to not seeing padiddles, except for maybe once in a blue moon.  
 
   Strangely, just in the last few months, I’ve been seeing padiddles all over the place. Suddenly, they’re everywhere. The roads are lousy with ‘em. What does this mean?
 
   Well, it means me and my wife are going to be getting naked, for one thing!

   But I have a sneaky feeling that there’s more to it than that. I suspect that seeing all these padiddles is a sign. A portent. Something’s stirring on the roadways of America. It's going to take a baseball strategist to figure out what's happening.

*          *          *

   My drive home from the baseball game was coming to an end. I took a left onto the country road that delivers me to the pleasantly crunchy, comforting gravel of my driveway.
 
   I thought about a concept called sobernost that I hadn’t thought about in a long time. It’s an obscure term, so bear with me here. Sobernost is an old Russian word that’s meant to describe the need for cooperation between people at the expense of individualism. But it’s more than that. It’s also a revered, collective identity that arises in people as a result of shared experiences and a shared history. It’s the notion that what lies at the heart of each person is not some individual essence, but some small part of a greater whole. It’s the seed from which cultures in Eurasia have bloomed and flourished.

  While sobernost is a lovely concept in some ways, it seems as if it fails to work at scale. The trouble is that it’s been historically exploited by socialists and communists, who seek to gather the masses into voluntary, collective sacrifice rituals that benefit the State.
 
   If I dare be so bold: I think sobernost is not only a concept that’s foreign to most Americans, but one that’s instinctively repulsive to us.
 
   Here in America, we breathe air of a different kind. The Chinook people spoke of it, beautifully, as tamanous, the Guardian Spirit of the individual who endeavors to get us all tangled up with luck and destiny and individual creativity and whatnot. Tamanous is the gentle-yet-forceful, quiet-yet-inescapable message that’s whispered into the ear of anyone who makes their home on this continent. It tells us that there is a distinctly different, yet correct way for every person to live their life.

   For many indigenous cultures that lived here in this land that we currently call America, establishing a sacred relationship with one’s tamanous is the fundamental spiritual quest for any person. Learning to dance with tamanous is the purpose of being alive, of being incarnated as a human. There’s plenty of evidence that our tamanous quest, as modern Americans, is a living, breathing part of who we are, culturally speaking. 
 
   If I dare be so bold: I think tamanous is not only a concept that’s foreign to most non-Americans, but one that’s instinctively repulsive to them.
 
   How does tamanous infuse American life? Well, one really good example is how Americans bent religion to their own liking not long after arriving here from Europe or Africa or wherever. European (Roman) and African (Egyptian) orthodoxy held the sobernost-ic view that individuals are a mere fiction, existing and serving only as one tiny aspect of the Universal Body of Christ (Ra). Then, less than a generation later, after having just set foot on this amazing and rebellious American continent, Christians and Kemetists from afar – newborn Americans, mind you – abandoned their old views, and started imagining that everyone might be better off trying to relate to Jesus (Ra) individually, as their personal savior.
 
   Why on earth did all those obedient collectivists, go bonkers and jump ship like that? Tamanous-whispers, I’d say.
 
   OK – I get it. Religious stuff can get a little nutty, so maybe it’s not the best example to throw out there. But, whether you’re religious or not, you have to admit that religion can sometimes be a gateway drug for spirituality. And as such, churches create plenty of opportunities for tamanous to leak in.
 
   I have a better example of how tamanous infuses American life, one that’s not a hot potato like religion, one that’s way more chill, more neutral, more relatable: Baseball.
 
  What are the tamanous-inspired messages of baseball? “Be yourself! Be alert and smart! Anything can happen!”
 
   Contrast this with the sobernost-inspired messages of soccer: “Serve the group! Don’t use your hands! Run hard but don't expect to score!”
 
   Baseball, like any other sport or game – even soccer – is mini-model of life, is it not? It’s like a micro drama in which we can poke our curious monkey fingers into the Archetypical Goo and see if we feel anything familiar. Whether we’re participating or just watching, it’s us play-acting at being heroes and villains, and experiencing life’s wins, losses, fair plays, and fouls. And, we all come at it from a cultural frame of reference, for sure. That’s our baggage. Or our birthright, depending on how you look at it.
 
   “Ah, the injustice!” we sometimes holler. Other times it’s, “Hooray, what a miracle!”
 
– O.M. Kelsey