I’ve been trying to figure out why I was so enthralled by the World Baseball Classic, which ended last night with a riveting game between the U.S. and Japan. To be clear, it wasn’t just me. The WBC has been around since 2006 (and played every four years or so), but this was by far its most successful year. Based on the early-tournament viewing numbers, prognosticators guessed last night’s finals would be the most-watched game in history. For those unaware, the WBC is the World Cup of baseball. It pits countries (and Puerto Rico) against each other in a two-week tournament. There are powerhouses (U.S., Japan, Dominican Republic, PR) and underdogs (Great Britain, Czech Republic, Chinese Taipei, Israel). Most rosters are filled out by players who were born in those countries; some of them, like former Met Matt Harvey who played for Team Italy, just have ancestors who lived there.
You know me: I love watching regular season baseball, even when it’s boring. Even when it’s the 8th inning of a blowout in July. The stately pace of the game reflects to me the rhythms of life. It slows down my breathing. It’s an antidote to the modern world. But there’s no denying the intensity of a tournament like this one, in which, after the first round, a single loss means elimination. And there’s no denying the infectiousness of the players’ enthusiasm. The regular season is work for them. In the WBC, they’re playing for their country, their hometown, their family, their forefathers. And it shows. Every hit is a cause for celebration. The dugout empties with every home run. It’s like playoff baseball but with even higher stakes.
It’s a tournament rippling with personality. Each team has its own rituals and celebrations. The English team did a little teacup thing every time they got a big hit, which they borrowed from the British national football team. The U.S. guys saluted each other. The Japanese team lined up on the third base line after every win and bowed to the fans. Even the crowds had their own quirks. In Chinese Taipei, I noticed the fans chanting, “Safe! Safe! Safe!” during a replay review, willing the umpires to confirm the call on the field. Honestly, we could bring that one to MLB.
We should also bring the unabashed emotion to the majors. Historically, the league has discouraged shows of emotion except in the biggest moments. They expect these guys to perform incredible feats and then simply put their heads down and walk off the field. This is one of baseball’s many unwritten rules, and if you violate one of these rules—if, for example, you admire a 450 foot home run—you’re going to receive some sort of comeuppance. Or worse, your teammate is. In a situation like that, it’s not surprising to see the next guy get beaned with a pitch. It leads to injuries, fights, ejections. All bad things.
There were no beanings in the World Baseball Classic. Every extra base hit inspired a roar of achievement from the batter. Hell, Jeff McNeil even pimped a leadoff walk last night. And yet there was no retribution. Why? I mean, good! But why? It’s clear that the unwritten rules of MLB don’t apply globally, which should be a signal to the rest of the league that they’re stupid and should be ignored from now on. Maybe part of the issue is that it isn’t worth giving your opponent a free baserunner in an elimination game; we don’t see retribution beanings too often in MLB playoffs either. But the bottom line is that we now know baseball works just fine without them. Don’t punish a guy for beating you. Just beat him next time. (It also clearly works fine without a pitch clock, but I digress.)
That’s what MLB should take away from the WBC. But I’m curious what I will take away from it. A strange thing happened to me during this tournament. I found myself rooting for players I spend six months of every year hating. Well, not hating. But at least being annoyed by. Guys like Ronald Acuna, Jr., Trea Turner, and Kyle Schwarber, who the Mets play 13 times each this year. Or Adam Wainwright, who has haunted my dreams for 17 years. I was pumped when Acuna doubled to lead off the eighth inning against the U.S., an immediate response to the 7th-inning grand slam by Turner that put the U.S. ahead for good. I wasn’t rooting for the U.S. I wasn’t rooting for Venezuela. I wasn’t thinking about injuries or contracts or who was going to be on the team next year or whether the GM was doing a good job or whether we won that trade we made two years ago. I was just enjoying good baseball, and that’s a helluva lot more fun than living and dying with every pitch of the Mets season, which I’m about to do for the next six (hopefully, seven) months.
Now that I’ve relinquished my love/hate dichotomy—if only for a few days—will I be able to carry these good vibes over to the regular season? Will my fondness for Acuna, Turner, and Schwarber stick with me? Or at least, will I hate them less? Will I remember that these teams are just randomly assembled, that none of these guys are really Mets or Phillies or Braves, and that the things that stick are family and home and not an imagined community of people who root for the same colors?
I’m going to try. I’m going to remind myself that Ronald Acuna, Jr. was once my friend and not my enemy. I’m going to remember that these guys aren’t so invested in the major league teams they play for, so maybe I don’t need to be either. Maybe this year I can watch a Mets-Braves game in late September with the division on the line, and recall the WBC. What I really should be rooting for is good baseball. We got a lot of it in the last two weeks. I hope we get a lot more of it this year.