The Pitcher, Yes

So the dreaded idea of "the opener" advances, now promulgated not just by the Tampa Bay Tuckwilligers but by our own mighty Yankees.

Hurrah.

One argument for this is, of course, that it will save wear and tear on the pitchers.  Probably so—though full-time relievers have a dicey track record on endurance, too, their effectiveness often oscillating from year to year.

Another is that pitchers tend to do less well against a lineup the third time around.  Sure.  There are only so many pitches, and only so many ways of throwing them.

But so what?

I'm sure you could also prove that most marathoners run slower times on the last third of their races.  Maybe we should just make it 15 miles.  I'm sure the marathoners would "improve."

And boy, those decathlon guys sure look tired at the end of their event.  What say we cut it down to seven events?  They'll probably "improve."

An athletic challenge is an athletic challenge. To reduce that challenge is not to "improve" anything.

And whose arms are we saving, and for what?

The Knights of the Press Box like to point out that it helps teams like Tampa Bay to compete with their lower payrolls.  Is this our goal?  To increase the profit margins of undercapitalized hustlers in other cities?

Yeah, I know that will get ME out to the ballpark.

If every pitcher is going to throw 100-120 innings a year, then pitchers will be completely interchangeable.  Who will care if they get hurt or not?  How will we even know who the best pitchers are?

Really, why not replace them all with a pitching machine, or maybe someone's dad, or have everybody hit off a tee?  That will really save those old white greedheads we call major-league owners some moola.

It's the same logic with "improving" performance.

Guys get hurt throwing the baseball?  They also get hurt running into fences.  Let's get rid of them.  They get hurt BY thrown baseballs.  Let's ban inside pitching.  Throw a close pitch, and it's an automatic ejection.

They get hurt running the base paths.  Let's cut down the distance between those bags to 60 feet.  Hey, it's what they do in softball.

The pitcher is the hero of the ballfield.  You diminish him at your peril.

Picture football with a different quarterback on every set of downs.  Picture hockey where everybody is required to play goalie for five minutes (actually, that could be fun).  Picture basketball as a 48-minute layup contest.

The pitcher is the guy we all fantasized about when we started playing the game.  He's the wraith-like figure out there in the distance, who we want to take deep.  Or we are him, arm weary, bottom of the ninth inning, last game of the World Series with everything on the line.

The pitcher is indomitable success—and tragic failure.

It's the Polo Grounds rising as one as Matty walks down from the clubhouse and begins his walk to the mound in his distinctive white duster.  It's Pedro getting the same reception—with a few more catcalls—when he walked out to the pen one early summer evening I recall in Yankee Stadium, with storm clouds rolling in overhead.

It's The Great One striding in to "Enter Sandman."  It's Bob Gibson looking like death his own self out on the mound, Juan Marichal kicking his foot to the sky, Sandy Koufax dealing bullets.

It's old Pete Alexander, gassed in the war, telling Rogers Hornsby yes I am drunk but I can get this guy.  It's Dazzy Vance with his white tee-shirt sleeve flapping, the ball coming out of the white laundry drying on the rooftops of Flatbush.

The pitcher is the Great Rivera beaten by a wet field and a dumb play and a juicing fraud in Arizona, beaten like a knight pulled from his horse and butchered by peasants, but still walking off the mound with his quiet, impenetrable dignity.  It's Mathewson beaten by his catcher letting a pop foul drop and being taunted by a literal Klansman, but still holding his head up.  It's Walter Johnson losing his last big game while his fielders slopped around behind him in the rain and the mud.

The pitcher is Satchel Paige on tour, telling all his fielders to sit down behind him, because he's going to strike out the side.  The pitcher is Jack Morris hanging in to shut out the Cards in ten, and Bill Bevens losing everything, World Series no-hitter, shot at immortality, the lead, on the very last pitch of the game.

You want to get rid of the pitcher?  Go ahead.  I'd just as soon play Strat-O-Matic.