It has become a familiar sight.  A baseball player, usually Latin or African-American, hits a towering shot to the bleachers or pitches out of a jam.  He then points his finger to the heavens, giving thanks to his god for the gifts that enable him to play a boy's game for a man's paycheck.

The gesture, which has no more sacramental significance than the phrase "God bless" as a farewell, seems innocuous enough, but you will search in vain for any mention of its religious meaning when you watch the highlight films or turn to the sports page the next day.  "David Ortiz points to the sky," read the caption beneath a photo in the Boston Herald last summer as the Red Sox slugger celebrated a long-distance dinger.

Ortiz and other players like him aren't just pointing to the sky, of course.  If they wanted to do that, they could stick their digits out towards the horizon and avoid the glare of the sun.  They are pointing to their god in his heaven.

So why the journalistic circumspection?  Has religion become the belief that dare not speak its name?

Just as major league batting stances filter down from big leaguers to kids, coverage of youth baseball appears to be taking the same agnostic line.  A careful viewer of last summer's Little League World Series would have noted that the tow-headed kid who recited the organization's pledge at the beginning of each broadcast omitted the first line--"I trust in God."

The fact that some sports heroes believe in god may stick in the craw of sports reporters, who are trained to be skeptical.  Members of the working press see professional athletes up close every day, and must write about them knowing their failings in matters ranging from the romantic to the pharmaceutical.  If no man is a hero to his valet, it should be no suprise that journalists who cover major league baseball view the heavenwards gesture as sanctimonious.

The advent of religious displays by professional baseball players dates from the sixties, when significant numbers of Latin Americans began to reach the big leagues.  Roberto Clemente, the Puerto Rican outfielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates, was one of the first players to make the Catholic sign of the cross as he stepped into the batter's box.  If you were a right-handed batter facing brushback pitchers of that era such as Don Drysdale and Bob Gibson, you'd probably ask for a little divine protection, too.

Less sophisticated worshipers have historically been more demonstrative than their counterparts at older, more established churches, and their social superiors have always looked down on them for it.  A 17th century minister in colonial Massachusetts referred to the lower orders of society as a "hungry multitude" eager to change places with "their Superiours," namely, the rich and well-educated.

The same sort of snobbery is at work in reporters' refusal to give proper credit to baseball's testifying sluggers and strikeout artists.  When the head of an establishment sect gives an invocation before a game, no reporter camouflages the religious character of his words by calling them "opening remarks".

The innocent enthusiasm and willingness to bear public witness to one's faith that comes so easily to a ballplayer of humble origins is what gets religions started and keeps them going, however, not the tepid fervor of the major denominations in their dotage.

If a man's private faith leads him to public display, who are the sportswriters to censor him?  As Thomas Jefferson put it, "I inquire after no man's religion, and trouble none with mine."  The Knights of the Keyboard, as Ted Williams sarcastically referred to his tormentors in the press box, would do well to exercise a little Jeffersonian tolerance.

Copyright 2005, Con Chapman

ST. LOUIS.   Stung by criticism that touring pros have it easier than amateurs, the Professional Bowlers Association moved today to put the "keg" back into "keglers" by requiring its members to drink beer when they compete in PBA-sponsored events.

"Your average weeknight bowler has a full load on when he stares down the alley at the pins," said Scott Urquardt, the league's commissioner.  "We should expect nothing less of our members."

Under the new format, bowlers will be required to drink one 12-ounce beer for every fifty pounds of body weight before the tenth frame of each game.  If a match ends in a tie, the winner will be decided by a shoot-out style format in which bowlers attempt to carry a tray with their empties back to the bowling alley's bar without spilling them.

The PBA is headquartered in this city once famous as being "first in booze, first in shoes, and last in the American League" when the St. Louis Browns (now the Baltimore Orioles) were perennial cellar dwellers.  Urquardt says there is no tie-in to any brewer behind the PBA's new initiative, although he would welcome additional sponsorship money.

Former PBA greats applauded the move, saying it was time pro bowling moved into either the twentieth or the twenty-first century, whichever was currently in effect.  "Bowling and beer go back as far as the ancient Egyptians," said two-time Bowler of the Year Earl Schneidholz as he sipped from a bottle of Old Milwaukee at his Waukesha, Wisconsin billiard/bowling complex.  "Bowlers basically walk like Egyptians when they approach the foul line, so it makes sense."

Copyright 2005, Con Chapman

DALLAS.  Manny Ramirez has become the Greta Garbo of the winter meetings here, telling general managers of clubs who want to deal for him that, most of all, he wants to be alone.

"Manny's decision to leave the Red Sox came down to one guy in a Dunkin' Donuts in Boston," said his agent Greg Genske.  "He asked Manny to hand him a Sweet 'n Low, and when their eyes met, the guy recognized him and said 'Nice dinger today.'  As far as Manny was concerned, that was the last straw."

The term sheet that Genske is circulating to interested teams accordingly requires them to move to a remote location, preferably one where residents get by on a subsistence economy.

While acknowledging that the request was unusual, interested clubs have been willing to accommodate the man with the best at bat-to-RBI ratio in the majors over the past 45 years. 

The Texas Rangers have agreed to investigate a possible move to Guadalupe, Mexico, the Mets are looking at venues on Prince Edward Island, Canada, and the Los Angeles Angels have indicated they would consider playing on Tinian Island in the South Pacific, the site of the first atom bomb test.

"Manny's not some kind of diva," Genske told a gaggle of reporters who stopped him in a hotel lobby as he purchased dental floss, a Spanish-language version of "Mad Libs" and a bag of Andy Capp Pub Fries for his reclusive client, who was reported to be holed up at the Alamo, 270 miles south of Dallas in San Antonio. 

Copyright 2005, Con Chapman

NEW YORK.  Leaders of civil rights groups met here today to break through what they claim is the last barrier standing between African-Americans and full participation in U.S. professional sports--the "ivory wall" that keeps black place-kick holders out of the National Football League.

While black athletes generally make up more than 50% of all NFL players in any given year, the league has never had a full-time place kick holder of African descent.  The last African-American to hold more than five extra point or field goal tries in a season was Otis "Fingers" Butler of the Dallas Texans, the precursor to the AFC's Kansas City Chiefs.

Jesse Jackson met with reporters outside the conference room where the meeting was held and led a claque of supporters in chanting "I am somebody!  Set me free!  I wanna hold the P-A-T!"

Senator Arlen Specter (R-Pa.), the last known defender of Eagles' wide receiver Terrell Owens, appeared at the conference and read a statement to reporters.  "I am here today seeking not only justice for place kick holders of color, but also relevance for myself," Specter said.  "Furthermore, if people think I was mean to Anita Hill, I'm really, really sorry."

Holding place kicks is generally considered one of the cushiest jobs in pro sports.  Holders must be paid the minimum salary under the NFL's collective bargaining agreement, but are rarely in a game for more than seven plays and almost never touch members of the opposing team.

"The rules discourage any contact with holders," said Jason Ignitz, a special-teams player with the Baltimore Ravens.  "You get more skin from the check-out girl at Piggly Wiggly when she hands you your change."

Gerald Bucholtz, a professor at the Center for the Study of Sports and Trivial Social Issues at the University of Illinois-Kankakee says the NFL's white owners are subconsciously fearful that a black place kick holder would continue a funky post-touchdown celebration, or even steal the ball.  "Most of these fat cats never played anything rougher than two-hand-touch-below-the-waist, and  didn't get to be running back unless they brought the balls their daddies gave them.  A black place-kick holder is a threat to their dreams of true manhood." 

Copyright 2005, Con Chapman

SAN FRANCISCO.  When Barry Bonds returns to the Giants next season, he promises that fans will see a player who's friendlier and more accessible.

"Barry's changed," said agent Jeff Borris.  "He's thinking about his legacy.  He doesn't want to be remembered as the guy who ballooned his head up to the size of pumpkin just so he could improve his slugging percentage."

Bonds spent time visiting children's hospitals while he was on the disabled list this past season, and he claims the experience made him a better man.

"Those kids, it meant a lot to them to talk to somebody as great as me," Bonds said with a lump in his throat as his eyes misted up.  "They know how much I'd charge to do an autograph show, and they appreciate it."

So can we expect the Giants' slugger to promise home runs to bed-ridden children, as Lou Gehrig did in "Pride of the Yankees"?

"It depends," says Bonds.  "Lotta clubs won't pitch to me with men on base.  How am I gonna come through when that happens?"

Bonds is thinking of a novel approach--a sliding scale depending on the nature and severity of a child's ailment.

"Most kids, best I can promise them is they'll get an intentional walk.  That oughta take care of minor stuff like broken bones.  For an appendicitis, maybe I'd give 'em a sacrifice fly."

And for the more serious cases?  "I don't know, when Barry hits a dinger it's a very special thing," his agent points out.  "We're reserving those for corporate sponsorships, like 'This Barry Bonds home run was brought to you by Gold Bond Powder, your best defense against jock itch.'  Something like that."

Borris says children ought to be happy with singles for hospital visits of one week (five days if over a weekend) and extra base hits for illnesses involving a longer in-patient stay unless insurance pays for a private room.  Anything else, the agent says, is a la carte.

"I've got to think of my family first," Bonds said, deferring to Borris's judgment on a financial issue.  "I ain't no Dusty Baker, putting his kid on the field where any damn nut sliding into home can take him out."

Copyright 2005, Con Chapman