Looking back on the best six weeks of baseball

The Phillies and Padres and Reds and Ohtani and Arraez and ...

Photo by Jesse Paul on Unsplash

Miles, Rigs, and I looked up at the TVs showing a golf tournament and the World Lacrosse Men’s Championship match between Ireland and Latvia. Such is sports programming at 11:30 a.m. in late June. Fairplay is San Diego’s best sports bar, and not just because their bartenders agreed to put on that afternoon’s Mets-Phillies game, a game certainly no other patron cared about. Ireland and Latvia were at least playing in San Diego.

Killing time, Miles pulled out his phone and showed us that day’s viral sports post: a baseball, a sphere almost three inches in diameter, ceased to exist in the left hand of Victor Wembanyama, the 7’5” phenom picked first in the NBA draft a few days prior. I chuckled at the picture. Rigs studied it. Finally, he said, “It’s like throwing sticks of butter.”

We three grew up together in South Jersey. As kids, Rigs and I would play tackle Nerf football as our older brothers, “watching” us, practiced with their band. As the catcher on our high school baseball team, he would use the middle finger to call for a fastball. Not once did we throw sticks of butter for sport. I’ve never thrown a stick of butter even in the kitchen. I’ve never thought to. Miles and I didn’t know what he meant, but we all laughed at the analogy all day, which occurred at the midpoint and became the defining moment of the best six weeks of baseball I’ve ever experienced.

The Phillies and Padres and Reds and …

Our nine lost that Saturday afternoon—Max Scherzer owns the Phillies in whatever jersey he wears—which would typically result in my having an existential crisis, but three things stabilized me. First, the loss was an aberration amid a torrid stretch. The Phillies lost just four times in the preceding eighteen tries, a winning tradition that I willed into existence, so for once I accepted that they can’t win them all. After the loss, and inspired by yet another Mets collapse the following day, the Phillies would go on to win nine of their next thirteen games heading into the All-Star Break.

The Phillies’ 23-9 record since June 3 harks back to their turnaround last season or even to the 2007-2011 glory years. In the first half of that dynasty, it seemed every player was at least dependable and the team fought for their wins. In the latter, they simply outclassed the rest of the National League. It’s why the team won five division titles, two pennants, and a World Series. There wasn’t hope in those years. There were expectations. At various points this summer, the Phillies inflicted on their opponents a thirteen-game road winning streak and twenty-six consecutive scoreless innings by their relievers. Since May 20, they have the best team earned run average in all of baseball, and it’s a revelation to not have to brace for impact anymore. In the offseason, I outlined an essay that would have described my being stressed out of my skull riding shotgun to a distracted and wanton driver. That driver was the Phillies bullpen the last decade. I’ve archived that one (for now).

On the TV to the left of the Mets-Phillies game was my second distraction: the Reds were hosting the Atlanta Braves in Cincinnati. In its demolition of the league this year, the Braves have been an 80s action hero—dominant, clinical, and somehow impervious to pain. They entered the year without a fifth starter, two of their best pitchers in Max Fried and Kyle Wright have been out for months, the ninth spot in their order was a black hole until June, and they had to replace a franchise stalwart in Dansby Swanson at shortstop. They’re on pace for 109 wins anyway. Like Rambo pulling weapons from every nook and cranny, the Braves just figure it out to smoke the competition.

But the best team in baseball and all other things in life are a mere sideshow to the Reds’ Elly De La Cruz. We quieted and averted our eyes from the Phillies every time he was up to bat. It would have been unacceptable to miss another one of his tanks or his hitting for the cycle or stealing second, third, and home during a single at-bat, feats he accomplished within weeks of being called up from the minors on June 6. Amid worsening climate change, the rise of ethnonationalism, and an increasingly unequal economy, I often feel beaten down by the world and inure myself to existential uncertainty by claiming that I feel nothing. That is, until I watch Elly De La Cruz play baseball and I feel alive and hopeful again.

De La Cruz’s promotion to the majors was followed by Joey Votto’s reactivation from the injured list, and in just seventeen games, the 39-year-old has hit seven homers and possesses a one-dot OPS. Votto’s late-career resurgence, together with the De La Cruz supernova, has vaulted the Reds into first place, although the national baseball media is mostly fixated not on the N.L. Central standings, but on the off-the-field exploits of Votto. Haha, a white Canadian jock reads a lot and speaks Spanish, haha, get it? Reporters should instead be questioning Reds’ president Phil Castellini, who whined about the fans after they protested the dismantling of the team’s roster after the 2021 season. Did the criticism toward his firesale affect the decision to call up the 21-year-old De La Cruz? Does he think De La Cruz, the most electric player in baseball and who overnight exploded open marketing opportunities for the Reds, is worth more than the prorated league-minimum salary he’s earning? If not, does Castellini believe his own wages should also be arbitrarily suppressed? I want to know if he’s now going to take credit for the team’s success after throwing the fans and city under the bus. Does he realize that fans will pay for his product if he’s willing to invest in it? Why did he complain about his customers in the first place when he’s a member of a legal monopoly and his profits are guaranteed by subsidies? Does his sense of entitlement come from the fact that he’s rich and important because his father owns the team?

I’m sad that neither De La Cruz nor Votto were on the active roster earlier in the year when I attended the Phillies’ home opener against the Reds with Miles. After the pregame pageantry, Miles turned to me and asked, “Been in an accident?” I was confused. “Call Friedl, Fraley, and Stephenson for all your legal needs!” The banality of a lineup has never been so perfectly summarized. (No offense to the Reds Law Firm. The trio has posted 3.7 cumulative WAR—not bad!) De La Cruz apparently had an injured hamstring to start the season, but I’d rather blame the owners, who often manipulate a young star’s playing time to save a few bucks. 

The final reason why I paid no mind to the Phillies’ loss was because we had tickets to that night’s Nationals-Padres game, left field, front row. I was just as excited for Miles, visiting from back home, to take his first ride on a bus. It’s not his fault. The United States does all it can to spare middle-class white people from sharing public space with humans they don’t know. The first bus I ever took was in San Diego only a few years ago, after I discovered Mike Davis’ City of Quartz and grew exasperated by usurious car ownership. Waiting for my houseguests now are a preloaded transit pass and the urbanist values I thrust upon them. Of course, transit is the correct way to get to a game, since baseball is an urban sport that grew to form and became popular because of trains. Everyone knows freeways and single-family homes destroy the historical character of the city.

We got off the 7 at City College, threw a game of darts at El Camino, then walked to Petco Park, where we took our seats next to a Padres season ticket holder. He has caught many home run balls over the years, he told us, and, with a baseball mitt in tow, he was ready for more. Miles, Rigs, and I had to rely on our bare hands. “We’ll have to catch it like it’s a stick of butter,” Rigs said. We ended up having nothing to worry about, with the Padres losing 2-0 in a languid affair. The most excitement came from Juan Soto making a fine outfield assist from the left field corner and our yelling to former Phillies legend and Nationals outfielder Corey Dickerson that we miss him in Philadelphia. If he heard us, then he didn’t think it was funny.

Nothing has been funny to Padres fans this year, as their team sits four games below .500 at the All-Star Break. I initially reveled in the Padres’ struggles. It seemed the Padres and Phillies were on similar upward trajectories and forming a new rivalry following last year’s NLCS, and it would be negligent to not mock their fans’ attempt at a rally song. There’s also something irritating about an expansion-era fanbase complaining about their team. Losing is genetic, passed down and intensified through generations. The Phillies’ 11,228 total losses, the most in sports history, are as much a part of my being as my skin and bones. In developmental terms, the Padres are toddlers; it’s cute when their fans think the sky is falling.

At the same time, it’s not my place to tell the fanbase how to think or feel or act, especially when the fans have been the lone bright spot in the Padres’ season. The team ranks in the top-five in attendance and every game I went to this year was packed. More than just there, the fans are engaged and cheering their players into contention, or trying to. It's not good when the team with arguably the most talented roster in baseball is uncompetitive. It gives normies fewer reasons to plug into the sport, or more reasons to tune it out, degrading the little thread of the civic fabric that the sport represents. It could also chill the free agency market, depriving the fans of stars and the players of money, and let the Los Angeles Dodgers make the playoffs yet again. The corrective to their losing is clear and simple: the players need to perform to their talent. How is that brought about? I have no idea. Probably no one does. Whether at the blackjack table or the ballpark—two of my favorite places in life—sometimes a group of people are just unlucky together. I do know I’ve surprised myself by rooting, silently, for the Padres to return to winning form.

Denver, urbanist haven

On the Fourth of July weekend in Denver, an old Navy buddy and I caught the second game of the Tigers-Rockies series. It was the first game in MLB history in which nothing happened. The capacity crowd, the most docile group of people I’ve seen at a sporting event, reflected the vibe on the field and patiently waited for the post-game fireworks. I never really understood fireworks. As a kid, I remember thinking, “So we just look up at loud noises?” As an adult, I have never sought them out, and I align with folks concerned about the impacts of the blasts and waste they create. It doesn’t help that MAGAs corrupted the word “patriot” with their fascist agenda.

We stayed for the show because it came with the ticket. Though I was annoyed it took forty-five minutes for everyone to vacate the outfield seats to the playing field, I’ll admit it was fun watching families and kids ham it up for the big screen as we waited. I’ll also admit it was humanizing to see Rockies players emerge from the dugout in civilian clothes and join the party with their families. And I’ll admit that, once the fireworks started, I was transfixed. I was as relaxed and contemplative there at Coors Field watching the fireworks as I’ve been in decades. Maybe I’m a fireworks guy now, but there was something comforting about the scene that I’ve decided, for once in my life, to not over-analyze.

After the grand finale, we followed the throngs onto the streets of downtown Denver, grabbed a couple scooters, took a protected bike lane to a multi-use path, then rode along a creek back to my friend’s house. We went from our seats to our beds in twenty minutes, and earlier that day, we had taken a quick and free trolley ride to the ballpark. It was a fitting weekend to be reminded of tyranny, the tyranny of the car.  

Ohtani and Arraez

The Bat-Signal was lighted. The Los Angeles Angels’ Shohei Ohtani was to make his next start against the Padres on Independence Day. Like with Elly De La Cruz, Ohtani’s at-bats are appointment viewing. Unlike Elly De La Cruz, Ohtani is also a pitcher, making his starts appointment viewing. With his superpowers combined, Ohtani had in June one of the single greatest months in sports history:

• .394 average

• 15 home runs

• 1.444 OPS, one of the twenty-five best months by OPS in history

• 493-foot home run, the longest in baseball this year

• 5 pitching starts

• 3.26 earned run average

• 1.23 strikeouts per inning pitched

• On June 27, hit two homers and struckout ten batters

To wrap my brain around Ohtani, it was helpful to compare his June to Luis Arraez’s. Across the country in Miami, Arraez hit .406 for the month and, depending on the day, was batting over .400 on the season. (Cooling off a bit in July, he has a .383 average at the break.) That’s impressive! The last player to hit .400 in a season was San Diego native Ted Williams in 1941. Both Ohtani and Arraez were out of their minds last month, but under the hood Ohtani is in another galaxy. Advanced baseball stats have him hitting the ball harder and squarer than almost everyone in baseball. He walks a ton and he’s faster than the average player. Arraez, on the other hand, has a single skill: putting the bat to the ball. While he never swings and misses, he doesn’t hit it hard, he doesn’t walk, he’s slow, and he can’t play defense. Oh, and he isn’t one of the ten best starting pitchers in his league like Ohtani.  

This is all to say I booked an earlier flight back to San Diego, then met Rigs and my dad at Petco to catch the game. Unfortunately, July started differently for Ohtani. Even from the 300-level, we could tell his fastball lacked zip, and he seemed fidgety, unfocused. He didn't have his stuff and it looked like he knew he didn’t have his stuff. The Padres’ Jake Cronenworth, scuttling through a season-long slump, became the first batter to hit three extra-base hits in a game against Ohtani, who ultimately gave up a run for each of the five innings he pitched. At the plate, he went 0-for-3. It turned out he had been dealing with a blister on his pitching hand, and earlier in the game, Angels third baseman Anthony Rendon suffered yet another injury. The day before, the team placed Mike Trout on the injured list with a bizarre hand injury. And in the weeks prior, a slew of role players got hurt. Their lineup by the eighth inning was unrecognizable, and the mood on the Angels side became funereal. I can’t blame them. The world realized that afternoon that we will likely never see Mike Trout and Shohei Ohtani playing in the playoffs together. The Angels are winless since.

I was exhausted when I got home, and the next morning I woke up sick. On the couch and surrounded by tissues that week, I watched the Phillies sweep the Tampa Bay Rays, then close out the first half of the season against Arraez’s Miami Marlins. It felt like something had ended. If it wasn’t an era, then maybe it was a moment. Whatever it was, I’m glad I witnessed it and that I did so with some of my favorite people.