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Home runs have universal appeal

John Jeansonne

2:53 PM EDT, April 22, 2009

This sudden aversion to home runs is, at the very least, mystifying. While all the charts and wind studies are being rolled out with frantic concern, and some of the baseball commentariat are apoplectic over the 20 homers struck during the first four games at the new Yankee Stadium -- ESPN's Buster Olney called it "a whopper of a problem" -- there is a temptation to ask: Don't fans like home runs?

With all the corny word plays on "The House That Ruth Built" in describing the new Bronx ballyard, how could anyone forget that stadium was designed to evoke the grandeur and pizzazz of the original joint, itself a monument to the home run? As the larger-than-life Ruth -- the acclaimed "Sultan of Swat" -- came to be seen by historians as a celebration of America's power during the Roaring 20s, so did Maris and Mantle muscle their way into baseball lore with their 1961 pursuit of Ruth's awe-inspiring 1927 home-run record. Of all the memorable Yankee Stadium moments over 86 years, Mantle's 1963 home run that almost became The Only Fair Ball Ever Hit Out of Yankee Stadium loomed especially grand.

Conventional wisdom is that Ruth's unprecedented home-run prowess saved the national pastime in the wake of the 1919 Chicago Black Sox scandal, and that the Mark McGwire-Sammy Sosa home-run extravaganza of 1998 likewise revived a sport languishing after the 1994 player strike. McGwire's record 71st home-run ball fetched $3 million on the memorabilia market and Barry Bonds' 73rd homer in 2001 led to a nasty, and lengthy, legal scuffle of two men claiming the rights to the ball.

It is true that some baseball purists get nutty over the value of the statistical production in certain venues -- especially the sacred home-run total -- which is how the Colorado Rockies came to store baseballs in a humidor to offset the effects of thin air a mile above sea level. In anticipation of the Rockies franchise materializing in the early 1990s, a physicist at the University of Denver produced a 17-page paper declaring that "a ball hit at 35 degrees from the horizontal at 110 mph with a backspin of 2,000 rpm, will travel 440 feet in Denver but only 404 feet at sea level."

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It should be noted the study not only found that a batted ball would travel about 9 percent farther in Denver, but an outfielder would be able to throw about 9 percent farther as well, and a 100-mph fastball in Denver would cross the plate .003 seconds sooner than at sea level.

But the very existence of such egghead attention to atmospheric impact, like worrying over juiced baseballs (and juiced players) is further proof of the home run's universal appeal. Check out the SportsCenter highlights' home-run focus on a nightly basis. Think of what prompts "curtain calls" in stadiums around the country. For all the hand-wringing over steroid-powered homers in the McGwire-Sosa-Bonds era, there is an undeniable strain among the vox populi that simply yearns to see the ball go over the wall.

Several years ago, a man name Eisenstein proposed in an essay -- very possibly tongue-in-cheek -- that the home run was such a dull play (overwhelmingly static, with players essentially standing and watching), that anytime a fair ball was hit into the stands it should be an out. Hall of Fame relief pitcher Bruce Sutter's response to that was a predictable, "I think when they hit it out it should be a double play."

Of course, almost no non-pitcher agreed. Fans howl and dance and applaud home runs. (And, in some precincts, engage in the dumb act of throwing home-run balls by opposing players back onto the field; why not enjoy a rare big-league souvenir?) Novels are not written about singles hitters (or relief pitchers, for that matter). Atlanta Braves slugger Dale Murphy once said, "If a guy hits 30 home runs, even if he strikes out 100 times, that's OK."

When baseball's rules committee lowered the pitcher's mound from 15 inches to 10 after the 1968 season, members of the pitching fraternity were convinced that it was done to aid hitters and, by extension, to please spectators. The same motivation was cited when the renovated Yankee Stadium opened in 1976 with the center field wall -- previously in binocular range from home plate at 461 feet -- moved from behind the famous monuments to in front of them, at 410 feet. Left-center field distances were reduced yet again before the 1985 season so that a walkway to the monuments could be created beyond the outfield wall to restore fan access.

Among the Yankee hitters at the time who believed that the outfield distances had not been reduced -- "Man, they just painted new numbers on the wall" -- was Willie Randolph. But, in fact, the old "Death Valley" of left-center had become survivable. And now Greg Rybarczyk, who runs the Web site hittrackeronline.com, is contending that the new stadium's rightfield wall is five and a half feet closer to home plate than the one at the abandoned park across the street.

Which could help explain the 14 homers to right field in those first four games. But, maybe not. And it could be that angst over the frequency of round-trippers is being fueled by the reality that, in those first four games, the visitors hit more (11 to 9) than the Bronx Bombers did. It is difficult to believe that home runs do not remain a favorite baseball development. This is because home runs are a form of exaggeration, and what would sports be without exaggeration? Home runs long have inspired the coining of new words, such as "Dial 8" years ago, when a long-distance call from a hotel room required dialing 8; and "going yard," "hitting a dinger," etc., etc. Baseball announcers continue to work mightily at coming up with some distinct call for a home run, but one never hears them kissing a ground-rule double goodbye.

Home runs are magic; they disappear. They are superhuman; in books and movies, Paul Bunyan types use wagon tongues for bats. A home run, by (beyond baseball) definition, is "something that exactly succeeds in achieving its goal." What's not to like?