Baseball is many things: an institution, a tradition, an obsession. It is also achingly boring to watch. Last year, the Wall Street Journal looked at three Major League Baseball games and timed how much real activity occurred in each. The findings? Although a typical baseball game stretches past three hours, the actual action in a game—moments like hits and runs and fielding—totals just eighteen minutes. And so, over the endless minutes of nothing, fans are fed distractions: food and beer, of course, but also absurd chants, mascot foot races, the wave, the Jumbotron. By the time Melky Cabrera came to bat in the bottom of the fourth that night, the Fletchers had already seen themselves on the seven-story screen three times.
Today Cabrera plays for the Toronto Blue Jays, but four seasons ago he was a Brave. The team roster listed him as six feet, 210 pounds. A switch-hitter, he was batting left-handed against right-handed reliever Elmer Dessens from the Mets. On the first pitch to Cabrera, Dessens threw an 88-mile-per-hour fastball on the inside part of the plate.
Cabrera’s swing, so quick and effortless as to seem almost an afterthought, connected solid but late. On the telecast, the ball disappears from the screen as if it were never there.
How fast was it going? We don’t know for sure, but a line drive from a major league batter can easily exceed 100 miles per hour. We know some other things. We know that a baseball weighs five ounces. We know that force equals mass times acceleration. We know that Fred Fletcher’s six-year-old daughter, whom he will identify only as “A,” was sitting precisely 144 feet from home plate. The laces on her sneakers were knotted in neat bows. And she—well, not just she, but everyone around her—had less than one second to react to Cabrera’s line drive.
Less than one second.
If price connotes quality, then the best seats at Turner Field are in the SunTrust Club, a luxury section that has its own VIP entrance, full bar, chef stations, and the closest seats to home plate. They start at the inside edge of the visitors’ dugout and circle around to the start of the Braves’ dugout. Behind the SunTrust seats, occupying a narrower section, are the Henry Aaron seats, protected by a net. Similar setups can be found at virtually every other major (and minor) league park in America, simply because the spectators behind home plate are believed to be the most exposed to errant bats and balls.
The next best seats at Turner Field would be in sections like 116L, behind the dugouts, where the Fletcher family sat that night. You might argue these seats are even better than the ones behind home plate because there’s no netting between you and the action. (...)
At a typical major league game, between thirty-five and forty batted balls fly into the stands. For many fans, this is as much a part of the experience as beer and peanuts. They bring their weathered gloves and wait for a ball to loop lazily in the sky before plummeting toward the seats.
Line drive foul balls are different. In humans, there is no such thing as an “instant” response; what we see must be interpreted by the brain, and that process can take a tenth of a second. If a ball is traveling at 100 miles per hour, it will have already covered a dozen feet before you even realize it’s headed toward you. That, of course, assumes you’re actually paying attention.
by Christine Van Dusen, Atlanta Magazine | Read more:
Today Cabrera plays for the Toronto Blue Jays, but four seasons ago he was a Brave. The team roster listed him as six feet, 210 pounds. A switch-hitter, he was batting left-handed against right-handed reliever Elmer Dessens from the Mets. On the first pitch to Cabrera, Dessens threw an 88-mile-per-hour fastball on the inside part of the plate.Cabrera’s swing, so quick and effortless as to seem almost an afterthought, connected solid but late. On the telecast, the ball disappears from the screen as if it were never there.
How fast was it going? We don’t know for sure, but a line drive from a major league batter can easily exceed 100 miles per hour. We know some other things. We know that a baseball weighs five ounces. We know that force equals mass times acceleration. We know that Fred Fletcher’s six-year-old daughter, whom he will identify only as “A,” was sitting precisely 144 feet from home plate. The laces on her sneakers were knotted in neat bows. And she—well, not just she, but everyone around her—had less than one second to react to Cabrera’s line drive.
Less than one second.
If price connotes quality, then the best seats at Turner Field are in the SunTrust Club, a luxury section that has its own VIP entrance, full bar, chef stations, and the closest seats to home plate. They start at the inside edge of the visitors’ dugout and circle around to the start of the Braves’ dugout. Behind the SunTrust seats, occupying a narrower section, are the Henry Aaron seats, protected by a net. Similar setups can be found at virtually every other major (and minor) league park in America, simply because the spectators behind home plate are believed to be the most exposed to errant bats and balls.
The next best seats at Turner Field would be in sections like 116L, behind the dugouts, where the Fletcher family sat that night. You might argue these seats are even better than the ones behind home plate because there’s no netting between you and the action. (...)
At a typical major league game, between thirty-five and forty batted balls fly into the stands. For many fans, this is as much a part of the experience as beer and peanuts. They bring their weathered gloves and wait for a ball to loop lazily in the sky before plummeting toward the seats.
Line drive foul balls are different. In humans, there is no such thing as an “instant” response; what we see must be interpreted by the brain, and that process can take a tenth of a second. If a ball is traveling at 100 miles per hour, it will have already covered a dozen feet before you even realize it’s headed toward you. That, of course, assumes you’re actually paying attention.
by Christine Van Dusen, Atlanta Magazine | Read more:
Image: John E. McDonald
