We’re still in what always seems like one of the longest months of the year–and this year, that seems exponentially true. It’s my birthday month, so I have a sizable amount of affection for it, but still. Between the bitter cold and Detroit’s exit from the NFL playoffs, not to mention the generalized chaos of history unfolding before us, I give.
Thank goodness that it’s only a couple of weeks until pitchers and catchers report. Despite cheering for the only team in baseball that has never been to a world series–the Seattle Mariners–hope springs with each new opening day. Perhaps this year will be the one.
I did not grow up watching televised sports, really. My father was a multi-sport letterman in high school, and my mother was resentful til her dying day about being forced to play half-court women’s basketball in 1950s Iowa. They both loved to play sports and to be outdoors hiking and skiing, but they did not have time (or make time) to watch sports. We lived out of the country quite a bit, too, and when we’d settle on some Army base out West, it was always in states that lacked professional teams.
That all changed when I went to graduate school in Seattle. One year, one of my housemates, a teacher at a local Christian school, was gifted a cast-off gigantic screen tv when one of her student’s family wanted to upgrade to an even more ginormous set-up. Our living room was dominated by this behemoth–and it became inevitable that many of our friends ended up hanging out at our house to catch the game. In the long summer months, when twilight delays far past suppertime in that northwestern latitude, it was the perfect background. I had always found baseball the most boring of sports, but early 1990s baseball in Seattle–the era of Ken Griffey, Jr, Edgar Martinez, Randy Johnson–made me an absolute convert. It all suddenly made sense as a student of literature; I joined the company of one of my most favorite Modernist poets (and huge baseball fan), Marianne Moore, who observed: “Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing./ You can never tell with either
how it will go
or what you will do. . . .
Indeed.
All of that is a long wind-up to why the selection of Ichiro Suzuki to the Baseball Hall of Fame last week was such a delight. Having lived in Japan in high school, I was a fan even before he joined the Mariners and was lighting up the Japanese baseball world. And then, as a Mariner, well…there was no one better. Ichiro may have never played in a World Series, but his statistics are incredibly impressive. So incredible, in fact, that it was largely assumed that he might join New York Yankee Mariano Rivera as an unanimous pick for the HOF, the ultimate recognition of an amazing career.
Until one dude didn’t vote for him. Just one baseball writer who didn’t find him worthy.

The internet was angry and aghast. Speculation was rampant about who the offender was, what the possible reasons could be for not selecting Ichiro, what petty motivations lay at the heart of the decision. How was this unfairness possible?
What’s true in this situation is what’s always true: we don’t know why. But also: it doesn’t change the achievement. Ichiro is still in the top vote-getters ever. He is still recognized as one of the most joyful hitters the game has ever seen. He’s still going to the Hall of Fame with great affection from fans, players, and baseball analysts alike.
Easy to say, but always not easy to do. What’s funny is that this whole drama reminded me of the way we professors react to student evaluations. Of course, they are usually (and rightly) varied. But even when we have many that say we are brilliant and funny and supportive and kind, that our class was enlightening or life-changing, that students learned and thrived–and then one is unkind or unfair or harshly critical, we remember only that one. It burrows and bothers. In the year I became Calvin’s first woman elected by the senior class as Professor of the Year, for example, I also had an evaluation that said “don’t try to relate to me, you are old” (I was then 34). I can quote you other zingers, such as “I don’t like that you called on me. And don’t wear those pants.” (NB: I have never discovered which were the offending pair).
For his part, Ichiro took all the kerfuffle with great humor, saying that he’d love to invite whoever it was over for a drink and a chat. He knows he’s a first round Hall of Famer. One vote takes nothing away from him. Why give Mr. No Vote any power?
That feels like an important reminder: to remain unbothered and ready to extend hospitality, even to those who might be inflicting disappointment or injustice or ill will. The negative voice can’t keep us out of halls we’re meant to enter. Maybe that’s what “he prepares a table before me in the presence of my enemies” means. The feast is still there no matter what our enemies may say of us. And it turns out, they’re invited to join us, too.
5 Responses
What a lovely essay and such wise words.
Oh, I needed this. Thank you for all of it, but especially the last paragraph.
I may have recently declared: let’s get back to watching more baseball again this summer.
Thank you for this, Jennifer.
Thanks so much for this. It spoke to me on many levels. A fellow Mariners fan, rooting for a team that has made mediocrity its middle name. Celebrating Ichiro, who may be the greatest baseball player I have ever had the pleasure of watching (and I have seen a lot). Wondering about those couple odd and unpleasant comments on my teaching reviews and which students were responsible. And then the ending paragraph – a perfect pitch. If you find yourself back out west, I invite you to a baseball game!
I’m curious to know how you came to know the works of EM Delafield. She’s my husband’s grandmother, but here in Canada she seems to be unknown.