Eric has his Little League baseball team, and me? I’ve got the Playstation 3. So in the spirit of one downsmanship, I will be tracking my year on the virtual field, playing MLB 10: The Show, a masterpiece of a baseball video game and the pinnacle of the form.
One of the characteristics of a great baseball video game is its use of attributes. Power and contact for hitters, velocity, control, and movement for pitchers, these are the tweaks that let the gamer replicate a given player's real-life style. If you want to be a slap hitter the way Juan Pierre is on the field, or an all-or-nothing slugger like Adam Dunn, the game should let you.
Well, MLB 2010: The Show goes a long way towards doing that, and here are a bunch of examples of players and plays in which real-life style translates to in-game replication, as I've experienced them in online play:
Alfonso Soriano hits nothing but pop-ups to the left side, and occasionally one will leave the yard.
A 78 m.p.h fastball from Tim Wakefield feels like 98 after a banquet of knuckleballs.
Trevor Hoffman's change-up is nigh unhittable (okay, maybe this is more circa 2009 Hoffman's style).
Felix Hernandez's pitches are hard to hit even when they aren't perfectly placed.
Albert Pujols hits everything hard, all the time.
Results aside for a moment, for the real baseball video game nerd, everything comes down to style. Real baseball is a symmetrical ballet of movement and stillness, and the perfect video game should be too. From the game to the individual, the idea is to inhabit the bodies of these players and perform in the context of the game the way that they might on the field.
When baseball video games switched from generic players to granting individual players attributes according to their actual skill, the games began to sparkle. Suddenly, Glenn Davis was a power hitter, and Kenny Lofton a speedy slap hitter. From those first days, the desire for verisimilitude sucked in its first real breath, and each incremental step forward has been to satisfy the desire to control not just any team but the real team. Maybe there were some of us who were happy to hit with robots and children on the original NES, but for the most part the baseball gamer craves exactitude.
(The question I love is this one: will we ever reach the point when a video game will be literally indistinguishable from a video broadcast? I dream about that day.)
Well, at this point I am ready to re-annoint, for the millionth time, The Show as the best, most realistic baseball video game in the history of the world.
Why do I feel so strongly about this replication of real life? Because of Ichiro.
The Mariners can't hit for beans, in real life or in the game, so the most important hitter on my team is the best one: number 51. And seeing as how I'm following the team pretty closely this year, I've had a chance to watch him hit, spraying grounders and glancers, whiplash hits and squigglers, from the opposite field to the pull field, with every variation in between. The real pleasure of MLB 10: The Show? Ichiro hits with the same variety in the game.
In one game against the Yanks, controlled by an online opponent, I experienced just such a variety:
1st at bat: Ichiro hit a low hard line drive past A-Rod at third base, who didn't have time to react. Went for a single.
2nd at bat: Ichiro blooped a double that fell just barely out of reach of Thames in left field on a high inside fastball.
3rd at bat: I decided to guess fastball and yank one as far as I could. It worked, and Ichiro pulled a home run, just like the home run he hit against the O's on May 13.
That rundown could have been The Day in Ichiro sections from Every Day Ichiro. I love The Show.
In #10 are joined by internet baseball writing maverick Carson Cistulli, and get all Socratic about baseball's hot topics: Does the A-Rod hype overshadow the Braden perfect game? What does Supreme Court nominee Elana Kagan's batting stance say about her judiciary performance? And what the hell are the Mariners going to do about Ken Griffey Jr?
Along with three friends, I am coaching a Little League team of seven, eight, and nine year olds. All four of us are in our early twenties. Needless to say, we are the only coaches in the league without kids of our own. Our goal? Utter domination. Throughout the season I will keep Pitchers & Poets readers updated on the goings on surrounding the team.
There is something pleasantly meaningless about the scoring in our Little League games. A book is kept (for the purpose of future statistical analysis, obviously), and balls, strikes and outs are counted. The runs are tallied quietly and casually. Only when a team reaches its limit of five in an inning do runs become much of an issue.
The unofficial nature of score-keeping and the fact that nobody cares that much about winning, result in an environment where results are pliable. For instance, on Saturday we played our final game of the season against the dreaded Beekeepers (ed. note: we have more games, just no more against this team). It was a stunning match-up: the base umpire* was simultaneously oblivious to on-field events and high on the scent of his own power, the kids were focused from start to finish, and only once in two hours did a pitcher walk three consecutive batters leading to a coach-pitch situation -- and it was one of their guys.
*Even in Little League, umpires shouldn't be allowed to wear sunglasses. It looks totally incongruous.
Entering the sixth inning, we had reached our two hour time limit. But the consensus was that the teams were tied at 15-15. Since ours was the last game of the day, the coaches agreed to play one last inning. This decision did lead to one moment of confusion. When asked in the dugout if they wanted to play the extra inning, the Killer Bees players were very clear in saying no, they did not want to keep on playing. They were content to take the tie. But once reminded that we were the home team, and not just the bad guys would get to bat, the kids were ready to continue.
"Free baseball," said one Killer Bees father, his tongue clearly in cheek. "What more can you ask for?"
We wound up allowing four runs in the top of the sixth, to fall behind 19-15. Despite getting a couple of runners on board in the bottom half, the Killer Bees were unable to score. By the time we finally shook hands, the prospect of free snack was far more enticing than that of free baseball. In the end, it was revealed by our scorekeeper that the score going into that final inning was actually 19-14. Whoever had been keeping score for the Beekeepers made the mistake of counting a runner who crossed home only to return to third base on a controversial "one base on an overthrow" call by the aforementioned base umpire.
This was not the first post-game scoreboard correction, and obviously nobody assigned it much meaning. The kids got a competitive game, in which runs were scored as a result of baseballs colliding with bats (as opposed to runs being scored because of baseballs missing the strike zone). The fact that we thought it was tied -- the fact that they still cared what the score was so late in the game -- was impressive in itself.
[caption id="" align="alignleft" width="399" caption="The Killer Bees faithful were on hand Saturday. "][/caption]
As the kids get more competitive and become more interested in baseball, rather than say digging in the dirt or dancing in the outfield, we coaches have raised our expectations. We expect them to focus, to judge flyballs before taking off for the next base, to stand at the plate as if they are actually interested in hitting the ball. We have a steal sign. They generally follow it. All this has contributed to another new phenomenon: as coaches, we have become a little bit competitive.
Generally this competitiveness is directed at other coaches, some of whom seem not to share our good-natured approach to the job. They might, for instance, scream a little too quickly, argue a little too frequently, gesticulate a little too wildly. Or maybe wedon't like them because they are more interested in winning than stressing skills and fun. Either way, the temptation then becomes to stress winning ourselves, and thereby teach the villainous dads a lesson.
The other thing that has led us to think more competitive thoughts is the kids. There comes a time during every Little League season when things begin to click. This has little to do with the coaching and little to do with the talent. It has to do with age, with repetition, and with the steepness of the learning curve. For a nine year old, the mere act of playing baseball a few times a week for a few months is enough to generate huge improvements. You play enough, and eventually the muscle memory sets in. This week, all of a sudden, it felt like all those drills caught up. The Killer Bees finally clicked.
In this episode, we discuss baseball broadcasters in the wake of Ernie Harwell's death, determine the three types of All-Star voters, and plan our ideal baseball dinner party.
Along with three friends, I am coaching a Little League team of seven, eight, and nine year olds. All four of us are in our early twenties. Needless to say, we are the only coaches in the league without kids of our own. Our goal? Utter domination. Throughout the season I will keep Pitchers & Poets readers updated on the goings on surrounding the team. 
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