En la recientemente premiada novela "The Art of Fielding" (el arte del fildeo), su autor, Chad Harbach, ofrece esta caracterización del juego de béisbol:
"El béisbol, con sus maneras sosegadas, era un juego extravagantemente conmovedor. El fútbol americano, el basketball, el hockey, el lacrosse, todos ellos eran deportes tumultuosos (...).
El béisbol era diferente. Schwartz lo consideraba homérico -no una refriega, sino una serie de contiendas aisladas. Bateador vs. lanzador, fildeador vs. pelota. Uno no podía causar revuelo, bufando, o golpeando gente, como Schwartz hacía cuando jugaba fútbol americano. Uno se mantenía firme y esperaba, tratando de mantener la mente en calma. Cuando llegaba el momento uno debía estar preparado, porque si se equivocaba todos sabrían de quién había sido la culpa. ¿Qué otro deporte no sólo mantenía una estadística tan cruel como el error, sino que incluso la publicaba en el marcador, a la vista de todos?"
In game six of last year’s World Series, with the Texas Rangers one strike away from clinching the franchise’s first championship, Lance Berkman, the St. Louis Cardinals’ aged first baseman whose thick physique and round face had earned him the nickname "Fat Elvis," lined an inside fastball into shallow right-center, plating the tying run from second base. Even though he had just fulfilled the childhood fantasy of nearly everyone playing and watching the game that night by rescuing his team from World Series defeat, Berkman betrayed little emotion. Instead, he stoically slipped off his batting gloves and leaned in to listen to the instructions of the first-base coach, as if it were yet another humdrum hit in his distinguished career.
Es el final de la temporada regular, el momento de las despedidas. Recuerdo abandonar el campo de juego en el 2002, después de que jugáramos nuestro último encuentro. Uno de mis compañeros de los Phillies de Filadelfia dijo que era un "momento de tristeza" porque uno nunca jugaría más con este mismo grupo. Así que nos dimos grandes abrazos, a sabiendas de que esta familia nuclear se dispersaría para siempre.
In game six of last year’s World Series, with the Texas Rangers one strike away from clinching the franchise’s first championship, Lance Berkman, the St. Louis Cardinals’ aged first baseman whose thick physique and round face had earned him the nickname "Fat Elvis," lined an inside fastball into shallow right-center, plating the tying run from second base. Even though he had just fulfilled the childhood fantasy of nearly everyone playing and watching the game that night by rescuing his team from World Series defeat, Berkman betrayed little emotion. Instead, he stoically slipped off his batting gloves and leaned in to listen to the instructions of the first-base coach, as if it were yet another humdrum hit in his distinguished career.
