Is it still a numbers game?

Much has been written about the travesty that surrounds an obvious juicer taking the home run record. Much should be written. But where is the perspective? What has baseball truly lost?

To know that, one must know baseball. It is a game, more than any other, driven by numbers. Numbers provide the basis for hall of fame admission. They are used by fans to play games like Strat-O-Matic baseball and Diamond Mind simulations. Heck, there is even an entire industry of Sabermatricians that try to find new numbers in baseball.

When I was twelve, I remember studying US history as a sixth grader. I was amazed in March of that year when, after months of wars, constitutions and presidents, I turned the page to see a picture of a man playing baseball. It was Babe Ruth.

If you grew up when I did, you couldn’t study the history of the roaring 20’s without studying the impact of baseball on American culture. Babe didn’t just redefine baseball, he redefined America. It was in my freakin’ history book. I got to be tested on it. And it was because the Babe captivated the nation with his ability to hit the ball a long, long way. Babe’s home runs made baseball. And as every fan knows, he hit 714 of them.

After the Babe there were two immutable truths; baseball was THE sport, and in a sport of numbers, the homer was THE number.

From 1920 to 1994, Babe set the standard for home runs. Sure, his single season mark fell (by one) in 1961, and his career mark fell to Hank. But neither record was obliterated. Hank and Maris met the Babe’s standard, but the standard didn’t change.

Baseball was still the sport I’d read about in the grammar school history books.

During the “steroid era” the home run has changed dramatically. In the 75 seasons between 1920 and 1994, 18 times a player hit 50 or more homers; twice during that time span a player hit 60 or more. In the twelve full seasons since 1994, a player has hit 50 plus homers 21 times; six times a player has exceeded 60 homers. Steroids have, to state the obvious, brought us more home runs.

And in the process, the home run has lost luster. Fans outside San Francisco can sense something is being stolen, but I’m not sure they truly know what. We’re losing context for the home run. Without context, numerical debates are impossible.

None of you can tell me, without looking, how many yards Emmitt Smith has rushed for. We have no context to evaluate Emmitt Smith’s rushing ability. At least no historic context. The difference between what Smith did and what Jim Brown did is impossible to know. Football has changed too much. This is why it’s impossible to have a solid debate on who belongs in the NFL Hall of Fame. When is the last time you heard a numbers driven football HOF debate?
And in football, who cares? The NFL isn’t built on numbers.

Baseball numbers were eternal. They provided context for fans of today to compare our hero’s to our Dad’s hero’s.

But we have no context for Barry. He’s an obvious talent achieving something with chemical help not available to Ruth or Aaron. Is what Barry is doing remarkable? Ask me again in 20 years. Ask me when another generation has had the opportunity to juice and hit homers.

Numbers are the essence of baseball, and the home run was King of all numbers. It’s not just another number, it’s THE number; the stat that brought baseball from a sport to a national obsession worthy of mention in academia. And when Barry’s 756 settled over the fence, it was the final nail in the coffin of the context for the home run.

For a sport built on numbers, that’s a lot to lose; especially when the number lost was the number that put baseball in my history book.