Beanball

Baseball has always been regarded as a pure sport. Grace and elegance have been the game's trademarks. With well-trimmed, greengrass playing fields and blue skies, a day at the ballpark has always had an air of refinement about it.

In this regard, baseball has always been different. Hockey has become almost a parody of what a contact sport should be. Football has always striven for grit; bloody noses are badges of honor. And even basketball, supposedly a non-contact sport, celebrates perspiration, endurance and size.

These sports, recreational perversions of the hard-work ethic, invariably invite fighting; intimidation is built into the rules. It is hardly surpassing that what's legal during game-time is condoned during off-time. Athletes are encouraged to be just as physical when the ball or puck is not in play as when it is.

But while other sports long accepted fighting as "part of the game," baseball seemed to maintain its integrity. Players were shy about tipping their hats, for fear of unnecessarily riling their competitors.

Well, the days of baseball's purity now are over. The allure of violent intimidation has finally caught baseball's eye. This year ushers in the era of the "beanbrawl," as Sports Illustrated has appropriately dubbed it.

Long ago, Leo Durocher said that nice guys finish last. Baseball players are finally taking his advice. Pitchers who play a little chin music no longer receive the benefit of the doubt. Throwing the high hard stuff inside is tantamount to a declaration of war, and retaliation by the batter follows shortly.

Andre Dawson had the nerve to belt an offering from the Padres' Eric Show deep into the Wrigley Field bleachers. When Dawson came back looking for more, show fired an inside fastball that decked the Cubs slugger. While Dawson lay bleeding, the benches cleared.

Rookie slugger Mark McGwire found himself ducking repeated fastballs against the Red Sox, and again America's pastime became the setting for an unsightly brawl.

Former Dodger ace Don Drysdale says batters are seeing the beanball in abundance because of their increased cockiness. After knocking a tater, hitters no longer dutifully jog around the base paths, models of humility. Instead, they stand still, in triumph, while the pitcher slumps on the mound.

But hitters have been cocky in the past. Even the Babe taunted opposing pitchers, going so far as to call his shot prior to the delivery of the pitch.

Such acts used to be swept under the run; everyone used to pretend everyone else was well-meaning. After all, when Jackie Robinson belted one racist opponent, it was only because he had twice ignored the player's taunts. "I had no cheeks left to turn," he said. Baseball players these day are more interested in sticking out their chins and putting up their dukes than in turning their cheeks.

The only reasonable explanation is that the increasing appeal of violent intimidation that has been creeping into professional sports since the 1970s has finally found its way to the baseball diamond.

Once football players softly dropped the ball at a ref's feet after scoring; now they defiantly spike it into the turf. And sacks no longer speak for themselves--war dances are needed to draw attention to the play.

Baseball players have begun to learn from their fellow athletes. The home run is no longer enough, nor is the strikeout. Instead, an almost extra-legal show of intimidation is needed.

The only way to explain the phenomenon is the influx of ever-better athletes into all professional sports. Babe Ruth was simply such a legend that he could be excused for showing a little bravado. More important, his very presence at the plate commanded respect.

Now, however, many baseball players are very good. Andre Dawson would be a bona fide superstar if it weren't for Don Mattingly and Wade Boggs. Dawson knows that even if he hits 30 home runs, he'll still be only one of many excellent players.

Dave Kingman and Greg Luzinski seemed larger than life in their time. But if they were in their prime now, they'd be receiving about all the attention that Steve Balboni merits. Given this context, the temptation to add some flair to a home run--to garner some additional attention--is great.

Likewise, pitchers could handle it when Reggie Jackson took them deep. But it's a little hard to take when a red-faced rookie like McGwire manhandles you--not to mention having the insult repeated by literally dozens of sluggers.

The frustration level has risen in response to the glut of hitting talent. It's been almost a decade since the game was last populate by so many players who legitimately deserve the label "future hall-of-famer."

And not surprisingly, at the same time that the game has become hitter rich, it's also gone pitcher poor. The American League this year even had a reliever with a four-plus earned run average on its all-star roster.

With so many batters better than so many hurlers, the potential for conflict has been greatly increased. Eventually, there may come a time when the number of standouts is few, and the game will have a place for the Kurt Bevacquas and Bernie Carbos again.

But until then, 20-homer hitters will have to be on the lookout for frustrated pitchers--and those in the bleacher seats won't have to strain to look in the dugouts and see who's on the bench.

Instead, they'll be able to find the benchwarmers on the field, wrestling their opponents to the ground in yet another "beanbrawl."