michael-dean-k/

I did not expect to be able quote whole scenes of The Sandlot (1993) from memory, but there I was, the annoying co-watcher to my wife who barely remembers it. I must have watched it a dozen times. If not, the few viewings of it must have been a religious, formative experience. Somehow it came on, via streaming, already more than half way through, but early enough to be inside of the dream of Benny Rodriguez¹ where the ghost of Babe Ruth delivers his classic line: “Remember kid, there's heroes and there's legends. Heroes get remembered, but legends never die.”

Did this quote shape my elementary consciousness? Many of my essays here are about “textural immortality” and legacy—doesn’t that word have a shared root with legend? Has my drive to devote my life to creating something memorable (something that outlasts me and shapes the future) a product of a 1990s cult film with a $7 million budget?

Obviously the answers to those questions are lost; all that is left are fuzzy caricatures to reason with. I can’t know exactly the evolution of my psyche, but it does seem that in almost every phase—from baseball, to music, to architecture, to technology—there was this boyish desire to be Ruth-like, to master and transcend a genre, to have a bunch of goofy nicknames, to have leagues of kids yell my name in unison, and to be remember beyond my life. To lean into and live by that line is to become a megalomaniac.

There is a second half to that quote (which is less memorable): “Follow your heart, kid, you’ll never go wrong.” This disarms the grandiosity of the prior line. The goal is not to become a legend for legend’s sake, but to be attuned toward your heart (towards “the way,” nature’s order, the virtuous thing, the hard thing) which puts you on a path, perhaps towards doing legendary things, but the path is the point.

The other day I was listening to a podcast and noted “the purpose of life is the transmission of legacy.” The context is that in the face of death, we strive for immortality in different ways. The immature and impossible version of this is physical immortality. Religions promise spiritual immortality. Pharaohs and estates focus on material immortality. They referred to another option, “secular immortality,” which I’d rather call “symbolic immortality.” This is about living into the future through art, language, and symbols. This can be more modest than the cultural immortality of Babe Ruth; this can exist solely within the family. I’m talking about the paintings we have hung up of my wife’s grandmother, and the sayings from my great grandmother that I’ll pass down (“be your own person, choose your friends wisely”).

There are two ways to think about death. The first is cosmic deflation, to realize that Babe Ruth, the entire culture he's within, and even the species itself, are all just a temporary evolutionary blip; if everything will be cosmically forgotten, then it’s futile to strive to be remembered for anything. Alternatively, you could see your immediate chain, the generations before and after you, as equal to yourself, to see the whole lot of you as a single entity, and to act in a way that could be exemplary for your kids.

There is a viral video of Milwaukee Brewer pitcher, Jacob Misiorowski, throwing a 104 mph fastball to knock an apple off a teammates head, who is sitting on a chair at home plate, arms crossed, back to pitcher. Yes, it's edited, but will everyone tell? What if 5% can't? How many hundreds of kids will try this stunt? Reminds of me of William S. Burroughs thinking he could drunkly shoot a beer bottle off his wife's head and missing. I guess the allure of virality can poison anyone.

Starring out into a baseball field in late November, puddled and unkept, it struck me how, at one point in life, baseball was the whole frame of my existence: watching it, talking about it, playing it, traveling for it, dreaming about it, collecting cards, making Excel spreadsheets for those cards, memorizing the statistics of every starting player on every team, etc. Obviously, I’m nostalgic about it. That was just what I was into. I do wonder though, was that whole phase of my life a natural part of childhood that I was meant to get stuck in and grow out of? Or, was it mostly a big waste of time, spirit, and attention? I guess what I’m questioning is, is there a version of my childhood where baseball only took up 20% of my psyche instead of 100%, and would I be better off for it today? Would I be similarly nostalgic? Would a lesser obsession have freed up more bandwidth to develop in other areas? Or am I who I am today because of that obsession?

Surprised to learn that John Olerud has one of the highest all-time OPS (on-base plus slugging percentages) in New York Mets history. He wasn't necessarily a power hitter, but for over a decade (1992-2003), he had more walks than strikeouts each season. He also set the NYM record for walks in a season: 125 walks in 1999. His skill was discernment, knowing when not to swing.

After 3 slow innings at the Yankees game, I told my wife, “watch, this guy is going to hit a home run,” and then boom, next pitch, lefty Cody Bellinger pulls a line drive HR just left of the foul pul. The odds are 1:300. What’s weirder is the pitch before I said “foul ball” (the home run was almost foul). Could not reproduce.

My cousin-in-law works for the Yankees and I got to learn about the ways data and technology are changing the game (for example, the catcher no longer calls pitches with signals, but has a mini computer on his wrist, and the pitcher hears the calls through a bone-conducting speaker in their hat that relays the pitch straight into their brain in the language of their choice. Yogi Berra could not conceive.

During the Star Spangled Banner, I noticed an older man at my 2:15, who rotated his body to face the flag at 10:00 (as you should). He held his salute through all the assholes who yelled “fuck the Red Sox” during the pauses, and I sensed America is a kind of religion for him. When it finish, he shot his hand off his hat with a bold gesture, an assertive thrust towards the outfield.

Imagine a concept called "Angels in the Outfield" (named after the movie), an AI-powered “fantasy league” that is more popular than living baseball. You could assemble the best all-time players for each team (ie: all-time Mets roster), and then run simulated seasons each year. You could already achieve something like this through any MLB video game; but to make it good, it would require more than accurate statistics, mechanics, and hyper-realistic graphics, but personality recreations of each player (ie: a convincing first base conversation between Pete Alonso and Joe DiMaggio would be part of the uncanny fascination).

In every sport I played as a kid, I had one incredible strength but also a debilitating weakness that made the strength pointless. In soccer, I had the hardest shot on the team, but couldn’t dribble to get into position. In baseball, I could spectacularly dive to catch any ground ball, but my throw to first base would be off by 15-30 degrees. In basketball I’d get 8 consecutive rebounds and miss every layup. I don’t buy the “lean into your strengths of angle,” for writing, for anything.