Death In Baseball

At least he was living his dream. That is perhaps the only positive one can take away from Josh Hancock’s passing. He had just received his 2006 World Series ring—something that the large majority of players will never have, and he had found a home in St. Louis, succeeding there after being bounced from team to team during the early stages of his career. But 29 is awfully early to be checking out.

There is the old baseball adage: “Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes it rains.” Sometimes you die, too, but I suppose cliché writers try not to be overly morbid. Death, in this case, postponed the game between the Cubs and the Cardinals, melting any and all animosity between the division rivals—just as it did in 2002 when Cardinals pitcher Darryl Kile died. Who can forget how Cubs catcher and overall baseball spokesman Joe Girardi tearfully announced to the crowd at the Friendly Confines that the late-June match-up would not be played? The postponement of the game is the sport’s true moment of silence. But the rest of the baseball world must carry on, and the games are always rescheduled, never cancelled.

Why? Because baseball is perfect. It’s a notion that’s been purported since the game’s early years, and even ESPN has recently picked up on the idea for a new advertising campaign. The perfection of baseball goes beyond the seldom-seen, yet infinitely-legendary occurrence of a “perfect game” thrown by a pitcher. In fact, maybe it would be better if those rare gems were called “super-perfect” games, simply because every single game of baseball is perfect. There is never a time limit. There is never a tie. The game is played till someone wins. Rain can delay it. Death can postpone it. But nothing can stop it.

The tributes and memorials for a fallen player are always important. In fact, they seem essential. The Cardinals will wear Hancock’s number for the remainder of the season, just as they did with Kile’s. There will be countless articles written and memorial services held, and there will be no joy in Milwaukee tomorrow, when the Cardinals travel to face another division rival and prove that life and baseball go on, even in tragedy and sadness. But one may wonder why all this solemn remembrance is so essential. Certainly any tragic and sudden death deserves a memorial, but when there are thousands of these deaths every day, why do only our fallen batsmen seem to receive such special tributes, and only the active ones at that? When a retired player dies, there may be a long obituary written. If he was especially famous, a tribute film may be played before a game. But for those not enshrined in Cooperstown—for the bench players turned car salesmen—death only signals the final slip into obscurity. Active players, however, are still connected to the perfection of baseball, which is why their passing always seems so unreasonable.

When an active player dies, especially during the season, the grief is overwhelming. Josh Hancock and countless other before him made it to The Show. Perfection. Play one game and you are immortal, forever recorded in the record books. And in the fans’ collective mind, immortal means untouchable. As Josh Hancock stood on that dirt mound—surrounded by verdant fields and thousands of his best friends and worst enemies—as he gripped the ball with recently rosined hands, running his fingers over the seams and leaning in to read the sign, he was as close to divinity as humanly possible. And gods don’t die. Except when they do. In which case, it only seems right to take the day off.