Originally published October 14, 1993, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe
This is important. Before we get to the silly business of the day we must send a young boy to the ballgame, the first game of the World Series Saturday night in Toronto.
His name is Peter Gabarro. He is 12. He lives in Dover, New Hampshire. He is the oldest of three children and he spent the summer pitching his team to the Dover South Side playoffs.
However, in August, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Doctors at Children’s Hospital say it is inoperable.
You wake up this morning and think you’re having a bad day because you nick yourself shaving, have a fight with your spouse, bounce a check to the phone company, get a flat tire, get stopped for speeding on I93, get into an argument with the boss or get the flu. Think again.
An outfit called MakeAWish is helping Peter with the biggest dream of his short life. The boy wants to see a World Series game in the dome.
The foundation will provide air fare. They will cover the cost of a hotel room, too, but so far they have been unable to get tickets to the game.
Peter isn’t thinking much about next year’s series. As a matter of fact, he isn’t spending a lot of time assembling his Christmas list, either.
He is 12. He loves baseball and he wants to be there Saturday when the first pitch is thrown. That’s not exactly an unreasonable request.
If someone comes up with the tickets, Peter will see two different teams in Toronto, each playing its own brand of baseball. He will witness American League ball against National League baseball.
One is far superior to the other. The National League plays a better, quicker, more fanfriendly game.
Obviously, there must be a reason why one league excels. And, of course, there is.
It has little to do with talent. You can find as many gifted athletes in Seattle, Chicago, Toronto and Texas as you will in Atlanta, San Francisco, Philadelphia and Montreal.
Speed isn’t a factor, either. For every National League guy who takes the extra base, scores from second on a ball in the gap or goes from first to third on a shot to right, there is a guy in the American League capable of similar effort.
Even the strike zone isn’t an excuse. It’s the same in both leagues, but National League pitchers use it rather than nibble at it, knowing a batter can only do five things (swing and miss, swing and foul it off, watch it go by for a strike, or a ball, connect for a base hit) and the odds are with the pitcher. So they work quickly and games conclude in less time.
No, my friends, the No. 1 reason for the difference is quite simple. It is the size of the manager’s arse.
That’s correct. After a lifetime of extensive research and a summer of exhaustive analysis, I tell you today the rump of your average National League manager is smaller than the blimpsized behinds of their counterparts in the American League.
This is because National League managers stand during a game. They walk in the dugout. They pace, think, react and perform.
On the other hand, American League managers sit as if they were waiting for the crosstown bus. By the sixth inning, most of them look like Big Macs on the rack at a McDonald’s.
You want proof? Check out the playoffs. In Atlanta and Philadelphia, Bobby Cox and Jim Fregosi were always at the dugout steps.
In Chicago and Toronto, you had human bookends. Gene Lamont, the White Sox manager, sat, arms folded, mulling over his options: extra cheese and anchovies or today’s special?
Meanwhile, Cito Gaston looked as if he were in the front room at Waterman’s. Calling hours 2 to 4 and 7 to 9.
Cox of the Braves is older than Lamont, yet his ample arse is not nearly as wide as the huge bum belonging to the White Sox manager. Fregosi of the Phillies and Gaston of the Blue Jays are of a similar age, yet Fregosi a chainsmoking, pastaeating, beerdrinking lunatic looks better from the hip through the thigh than Gaston, who requires a push from a John Deere tractor to get through the locker room door and onto the field.
Go through each league’s teams and you will see I am right. It is indeed rare to have an American League manager standing and participating throughout the game.
In Boston, Butch Hobson is the oddity. While he doesn’t sit, he is still under the mistaken assumption that he is coaching a Southeast Conference football team instead of managing a pack of slow, aging, ailing, boring baseball players.
Therefore, to pick the Series winner, toss logic out the window. Go with the size of the manager’s arse and you’ll know why the flag goes back to the National League.
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