The Perfect Game

Seriously, Cass? More baseball stuff? Well, feel free to move along if you don’t have a yen for The Perfect Game but if you stick around, I’ll try to connect it to something closer to our hearts.

The great Rogers Hornsby, famous baseball player and manager, was once asked how he amused himself after the baseball season was over. “I’ll tell you what I do,” he said. “I stare out the window and wait for spring.”rogers

Well, by the time this post appears, the 2016 World Series will be history and regardless of who triumphs, all of us who are fanatic about the game will sit down to stare out the window until spring . .  training . .  arrives. In the spirit of that, I’ve been contemplating how much trying to write a book reminds me of playing a baseball game.

The first and most obvious resemblance is the air of utter uncertainty at the beginning of things. Entering the ball park, you are confronted with the tabula rasa of the emerald field, some of its features standard from park to park (pitcher’s mound to home plate, the distance between the bases) and some unique (the Pesky Pole in Fenway, pesky-polethe brick outfield wall in Wrigley). Is there another sport where the ground rules change from venue to venue?

Within all that blank and unruly space lies the possibility there is in the game—either game—and all the uncertainty of how to begin and where to go. For an instant, before the work begins, everything is clean and hopeful and perfect. And then . . the first pitch. The first sentence. And if you read a lot, other writers’ first sentences can stall you right there. You want to throw a strike.

“None of the merry-go-rounds seemed to work any more.” (John Dunne, True rum-punchConfessions)

“Sunday morning, Ordell took Louis to watch the white-power demonstration in downtown Palm Beach.” (Elmore Leonard, Rum Punch)

“Jackie Brown at 26, with no expression on his face, said that he could get some guns.” (George V. Higgins, The Friends of Eddie Coyle)

You launch into your book with no more idea what is about to happen on the field than the peanut vendor high in the left field bleachers. You hope you can write a sentence that draws like one of those. The game begins. But slowly. Thoughtfully.

From the first pitch, the first words set, you are now the impatient victim of incremental progress. Each ball, each sentence, sends you deeper into the construction, the whole you will not see before it’s done. You lay your words in, make your pitches and take your at-bats, bit by bit, moment by moment, each one building on the ones that came ahead of it and those that might come after. But ever so slowly, with much staring and spitting and rubbing up the tools of your game. Each tiny mote of effort lives in and of itself and at the same time, contributes to a whole.

What is beautiful about this incremental process, though, what makes it both difficult and addicting, is the endless possibility. With each pitch, each word, idea, and sentence you throw out, you create a further place of possibility. What comes next? A bunt? A full swing? Fast ball or slider? A bit of dialogue, some description, a little backstory? Each bit sends you in a new direction, into more possibility, and more, until the possibilities begin to limit themselves by what has preceded them. And then you can only bet on certain acts, certain words, to take you to the end in sight.

And hovering over the whole, always? Failure. The best hitter in baseball—Ted Williams, please; ted-williamsJoe me no DiMaggios—only hit the ball safely four times out of ten. Most writers I know would accept that rate of success in a heartbeat. And truly? Isn’t that part of why we continue pitching the balls, swinging the bat, moving the pen? Nothing in what we do is perfectible and if it were that easy to succeed, everyone would want to do it. And none of it would mean as much.

I had a student tell me once she wished to have written a book, by which I understood she wasn’t yet willing to commit to the plodding, necessary, sometimes nasty work of shaping her ideas, building her story, learning her characters. I hope she eventually learned what she would have to do to bring her wish into the present.

Because the final similarity is this: really, no one much cares what you’re doing. It’s at bottom, a game—an important one, but still only a game—and when the stands are empty, when you type The End, your pleasure is likely not in the product you’ve ended up with, but with the time you’ve spent inside the game. The process, folks. Much as we love the sunshine of fame (minor or major), the win, we have to love to play the game even more.

About Richard Cass

Dick is the author of the Elder Darrow Jazz Mystery series, the story of an alcoholic who walks into a dive bar in Boston . . . and buys it. Solo Act was a Finalist for the Maine Literary Award in Crime Fiction in 2017 and In Solo Time won the award in 2018. The third book in the series, Burton's Solo, came out in 2018 and Last Call at the Esposito in 2019. Sweetie Bogan's Sorrow was published in 2020, to thunderous pandemic acclaim. The sixth book in the series, Mickey's Mayhem, will come out in 2021. Dick lives and writes in Cape Elizabeth.
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5 Responses to The Perfect Game

  1. David Plimpton says:

    Very interesting on the process.

    It reminds me of my new hero writer, William Gass, (whose masterful “Middle C” (2013) I’m reading now). He reminds me of myself in his description of the process, unfortunately not the result, in my case.

    This from Wiki: “Despite his prolific output, he has said that writing is difficult for him. In fact, his epic novel The Tunnel, published in 1995, took Gass 26 years to write. On the subject of his slow and methodic pace he has said, “I write slowly because I write badly. I have to rewrite everything many, many times just to achieve mediocrity.”

    A contrarian view on baseball from one of my characters:

    “A call to the Reardon residence in Closter found Sneerdon watching a mind-numbing Dodgers-Cubs baseball game, where both pitchers sampled the catcher’s full repertoire of signals before finally uncorking an offering to the twitching batter. Sneerdon was only too happy to hear the offer of a foray into enemy territory”

  2. Kait Carson says:

    What a fun metaphor for a writer’s life. Thanks for the glimpse into your process. In the words of Yogi, “It ain’t over till it’s done.” At least I think he said that…

  3. Fabulous post, Dick. Process is key, in writing and in baseball. When you’re in the middle, you really don’t how it’s going to turn out. That’s the blind faith part.

    While on the subject of baseball, I’m pleased the blind faith of Cubs fans was rewarded this week.

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