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Archive for March, 2010

Is It Coaching or Interpretation? Are they two ways of saying the same thing?

30 Mar

By Brian Hughes

Photo by Karen Hughes

Photo by Karen Hughes

In the spring of 2008, I volunteered to coach my son’s baseball team. He was five at the time and the team would be full of five- and six-year-old boys and a single girl. I decided to coach not because I had a lot of experience, though I had some, but because the league was desperate for help. There was a real need and since I know a pretty good deal about how to play the game and wanted to make sure my son enjoyed himself his first year out, I jumped in, not knowing just how deep the water was. But sometimes you just have to take the plunge and struggle your way back to the surface. Even if it means you come up gasping for air.

So, like any good interpreter, I started with research. I scouted out some good online resources, watched some online videos, read about drills, and even scoured through some of my old boxes to find some instructional aids and books from clinics I attended as a boy. Baseball hasn’t changed that much and these seemingly outdated resources I found to still be relevant, though the typewriter ink had faded a bit. All of this was great, but it still didn’t give me the tools I was seeking to feel confident going out to our first practice.

What I discovered that first day was that these kids knew virtually nothing about playing baseball. Granted, they could hit a little and throw a little and run, though sometimes in the wrong direction around the base paths. Also, I was making things way too complicated. My approach was well over their short stature; I needed to come down to their level, literally (I’m 6′ 5″ tall so this was not easy) and figuratively—an interpretive approach I recognized as such much later on. In my opinion, one of the hardest things for an interpreter to do, especially in dealing with natural resources, is to come down and meet visitors where they are. We want so badly for visitors to instantly understand why our resources have value and we want them to feel as passionately as we do about protecting them, but if we fail to come down to their level first, we will never be able to raise them up or garner their support for our cause. They will walk away disappointed in our arrogance and lack of understanding of their life experiences that have brought them to this point in time. It leaves us frustrated and discouraged.

Even the basics aren’t so basic at first. Photo by Karen Hughes.

Even the basics aren’t so basic at first. Photo by Karen Hughes.

So we started with the basics, the fundamentals. I remember my dad coaching me, and I could hear his words in my head: learn to play the right way from the beginning, start with good habits and they’ll be tough to break later on. So I set out to make these kids as fundamentally sound as possible. I threw out all the research I had done as it was too advanced and started at square one. I had a clean slate with pretty much every kid. Just learning to hold a baseball the right way was enough of a challenge; throwing and catching was out of the question. It was all about protection: just don’t lose any teeth over it was my motto. Then we worked on what the names of the positions are and where they are located, as well as the order of the bases and how to run them properly. Then we moved into basic hitting, how to hold a bat and swing it.

But I was still trying to do too much at once in our practices. I had simplified things, but I was now trying to cover a whole bunch of different skills all at the same time. The attention span and retention of a typical five or six year old is pretty small already. Throw them out onto a big baseball field with things like bats and balls and you pretty much cut it in half or less. I was rushing, trying to get them ready for our first game, wanting them to have all the skills they needed right now. And it wasn’t working for them or me.

Then I remembered Sam Ham’s book Environmental Interpretation and the magical number of seven plus or minus two. (Ham writes, “Talks…that try to present five or fewer main ideas will be more interesting and more understandable than those which try to communicate more.”) I of course kicked myself for not realizing it earlier, that if this interpretive approach works in the wild for me with this age group, then it should work on the ball field, which was beginning to feel wilder than the canyons I work in. Additionally, it finally started to sink into my head that time was actually something I had. I had an entire season to go. You see, at this level of play our league doesn’t keep score or record outs and we start hitting off a tee, so I had some time to build up the skill set. So, with a newfound focus, I started to structure my practices around four or fewer main concepts each time. And each subsequent series would build on the skills developed prior.

Suddenly, I was seeing progress. They were learning, they were improving, and more than that they were having fun—partly because they could see themselves getting better, but also I think because I was having fun too. And that’s when the 10-ton baseball bat finally hit me over the head. If I approach each practice and my interactions with the team just like I do my interpretive programs, things will work out. Interpretive methods and techniques are things I’m already familiar with and that I know work.

So, I set out to make sure that each practice and game had a purpose. I came up with my own mission for our team, though I never actually told anyone directly. This way, I had something to hold myself and the team accountable to. The mission of the 2008 Shetland Cubs was to promote a fun and positive environment where baseball skills and life skills could be learned, and doing our best would always be good enough. And I set goals as well. This, above all else, aided me in my ability to find a foundation in my coaching approach and philosophy. It, like all mission statements, provides the basis upon which all other pieces of the pyramid are built. (I have a special place in my heart for Coach Wooden’s Pyramid of Success: Building Blocks for a Better Life by John Wooden, and it was a great reference tool in this journey.)

Next, I made sure practices and games were organized. I am by my own personal nature a very organized person. I’m one of those “everything has its place” kind of guys. It drives my wife crazy. So this wasn’t difficult, but it needed to be done. I began writing out my practice plans, including time that would be spent on each drill or station. I would show up early to set up and stay late to take down. And every practice and game began and ended the same way. Not only did this help me stay on track, but it provided a set of expectations and boundaries that the kids knew they needed to meet and stay within. It also helped my coaches understand where they were needed without asking and just overall kept the team focused. I know the parents appreciated the strict time management.

Coaching, or interpreting, a sport that I love dearly made keeping it enjoyable pretty easy to do. I lost track early on of how many times I told the kids that if they weren’t having fun they should find something else to do with their time. Baseball can be extremely challenging, I’m the first to admit, but it is just so much fun and when you enjoy yourself you have a tendency to play better. This is why the “fun” aspect was written into my mission. I wanted it to be more important than the performance on the field. These little ones were new to baseball, and some were new to organized sports. If they didn’t have fun, it would most likely be their first and last year playing, and I didn’t want them to say at the end of the season, just like I don’t want anyone at the end of one of my hikes to say, “I didn’t have fun out there.”

From a thematic standpoint, I came up with the following for our season: Baseball is a recreational sport that physically benefits the mind and body while instilling positive life skills in the player. After being with the kids for about a month I realized that the life skills part of my theme was going to be the most important and require the most emphasis. Many of the kids didn’t have their dads around or were coming from destructive family situations. I made a concentrated effort to help them realize that while baseball is fun, it is not and should not be the most important aspect of their life. Learning to be part of a team, being respectful and supportive of each other, their parents, coaches, teachers, and the like, and getting along with each other, even if they didn’t like each other, very much were skills they were going to begin to master along the way.

I held them accountable for their actions on the field, in the dugout and off the field too. And I made sure that my behavior modeled what I expected from them, using positive reinforcement, working hard, and having fun. I would also talk, and more importantly, I would listen to them talk about school and other things they liked to do, to help them realize that their whole person was important, that they, individually, were important. Getting to know my audience took on a whole new meaning for me. I have witnessed in my own life as a player and in my observations of other coaches that this element is far too often missed in its entirety. Coaches get too wrapped up in the sport, in the game, and in winning at all costs, and this mentality unfortunately gets passed on to the players who then take this attitude into all other aspects of their lives. As coaches and interpreters we have a much bigger impact than we could ever realize.

Learning to be part of a team is more important than any skill related to the game. Photo by Karen Hughes.

Learning to be part of a team is more important than any skill related to the game. Photo by Karen Hughes.

As for making baseball relevant to these true rookies, I failed miserably for quite a while. I really struggled to find ways to make connections for them in performing the movements and skills they needed. You would think having a five year old of my own and understanding baseball on a pretty intimate level, that this would be a cinch for me. I knew how to play myself, but I couldn’t quite pass it on in words that made sense to them. Teaching a kid who has never picked up a baseball in his life to throw the little white sphere is not as easy as you or I would think. I couldn’t just tell them what to do; I had to find something, some way of showing them how the game was played and provide a way for them to remember it.

It was my own son who actually gave me the idea that started me down the relevance path. We were working on fielding ground balls one day at home and he asked, “So I make my hands like an alligator’s mouth?” Exactly! So I started coming up with other animal movements and body attributes to teach the skills they needed. It worked.

After the season was over, I had the privilege of attending a parent/camper clinic put on by a local baseball school. The parent portion of the clinic was teaching us how to teach our kids. They did the same thing, using animals to relate, though some of their examples were definitely not as much of a stretch as my own. The clinic reinforced for me the understanding that coaching and interpretation aren’t really any different after all; coaching is just a term for interpreting on a sports field.

I never consciously thought of the “You” part of Wren Smith’s POETRY acronym during the season (Interpretation is Purposeful, Organized, Enjoyable, Thematic, Relevant, and You make the difference), but it applies. We are more natural when we don’t consciously consider ourselves part of the equation. Yes, there were things I was trying to accomplish and things I said and things I did, but it was always about the team, the group. And my only hope was that I was having a positive influence on the team, that they were benefiting from my own life experiences playing the greatest game ever invented.

I’m pretty humble when it comes to my personal imprint on the world around me; I think there are much bigger and more powerful forces at work than me, especially when I was only spending four hours a week with the kids. But I must say I was filled with pride during our last game, seeing the kids turn a double play in the infield, watching the lone girl on our team hit a machine-pitched ball for the first time, and knowing that I had something to do with that. It wasn’t until that last game was over that I realized just how much I had touched these families and the kids these parents had entrusted to my guidance. Apparently my passion for baseball and my ability to relate to the boys and girl—and their ability to respond—was recognized. All the parents asked me if I was going to coach next season, and if so, how could they make sure their kids were on my team again. That was all the validation I needed to know that my interpretive approach was a good one.

No matter what it is you do outside of your job as a professional interpreter, the principles and techniques we have learned and use daily in our work are reliable and relevant. After all, interpretation is defined as a communication process that makes emotional and intellectual connections. Isn’t that what we should always try to do, even just talking with family members and friends, or running around on a baseball field with five and six year olds? Don’t forget, like I did, that our abilities as interpreters do not need to stay confined to our parks or museums, they are with us always and should be used always. They should not be reserved for the moments of relating the importance of an oak tree to the survival of an entire ecosystem’s inhabitants. Make connections wherever you find yourself, with whomever you find yourself, with whatever skills, talents, and love you have. Who knows? You may be influencing the next Lou Gehrig, Don Mattingly, or Derek Jeter.

Brian C. Hughes, CIG, is a field naturalist at the Irvine Ranch Conservancy in Irvine, California. Reach him at bhughes@irconservancy.org.

 
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Posted in Feature Stories, Interpreting Sports

 

Change

24 Mar

leftridgeBy Alan Leftridge

I live along the bank of a small mountain river in western Montana. The Swan River is about 100 miles long, and like every river, it is wider at its mouth than at its headwaters. My home is nearer the headwaters, where the river’s width varies from 20 feet to 80 feet, depending on the seasonal run-off from the snow-encrusted mountains on both sides. Except for times of flooding, I can cross the river without getting my knees wet. The Swan runs clear, and I can see the rocky bottom from my house, which is 80 feet above it on a river bench. I enjoy sitting next to the river, watching its ever-changing reflective display.

As you might imagine, in some of those moments spent by the river, my thoughts meander. Last week my thoughts turned to national events. Thinking about the economy, I recalled my father’s stories about his hardships during the Great Depression. He impressed upon me that I could never comprehend the difficulties through which he lived. If he were alive, he would acknowledge that today’s economy is the worst in 70 years. This decline into a deep recession has led to incidents most of us have never experienced, individually or professionally. Today’s economic realities and technological innovations force interpretive organizations to change spending strategies, forcing programs to transform to meet the available resources. The financial pressures require us to think of fresh and innovative ways to deliver programs that meet the needs of our visitors and enhance the goals of our organizations while continuing to embrace the philosophical elements that define our profession. The most central idea is that interpretation is a meaningful relationship between an idea and an individual.

Yet, from our birth we resist change. We routinely assess change with the likelihood that it will threaten the things we value. I contemplate change as I watch the river, summoning thoughts of Taoist philosophy. Lao Tzu wrote in the Tao Te Ching, “The highest goodness is like water. Water easily benefits all things without struggle.” And again, “The softest thing in the world will overcome the hardest.” Since Lao Tzu’s time, a metaphor of the Taoist tradition is to “flow as water,” seeking the path of least resistance, thereby reaching a goal without struggle and using the forces of nature to assist and guide.

Writers have capitalized on Taoist thought with a plethora of articles and books, applying the practice to a broad range of modern-day situations. Books like The Tao of Physics, The Tao of Pooh, and even The Tao of Willie [Nelson] have found wide acclaim. I remember reading an article called “The Tao of Driving.” The author recommended that I try the Taoist frame of mind as I am driving on interstate highways and reacting to traffic problems. When encountering a slower moving vehicle, the author said I was to treat it as if I were a canoeist reacting to a boulder in a river: find the easiest, safest, and even the most enjoyable way to navigate around the obstacle. I have taken his suggestion and applied the concept to many situations. It has always made them tolerable. I like the Taoist worldview.

From what I believe I know about Taoism, change is an expected rule. I understand that as I compare the changes in the river from year to year. The Swan has become straighter and is cutting more deeply over the last decade. If I am to apply the metaphor of “flowing like water” to other events, then I must regard that the best way to respond to change is to navigate around the obstacles, for the river will continue its course. On the other hand, if I take the metaphor for change by “being” the water, then I may exert control over the direction the river takes. Listening to the sounds of the Swan, I can hear shoe-size rocks tumbling downstream as the water pushes and gravity pulls them along. The process is ongoing and, in time, some rocks pile along a swirl, causing the river to divert rather than to flow as it had before. The water arranges the rocks and defines the way.

We, too, can define our way by accepting that change is eminent and thereby directing its flow. Regardless of the course we command, we need to be mindful of the message that John Muir and Enos Mills extended to us, a message that is a fundamental directive of our profession: interpretation works best on a person-to-person level. New interpretive programs must remain close to reproducing one-on-one dialogue with our visitors. Just as a practicing Taoist would declare that a dialogue occurs between the river and the participant sitting on the bank.

Alan Leftridge is a contract interpretive trainer, visitor services trainer, and interpretive writer based out of the Swan Valley of Montana. Contact him at www.leftridge.com.

 
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Posted in The Interpreter

 

The Legend of the Ball Court

18 Mar

By Eric Dawson

The ball court in Tikal, Guatemala. Photo by Chris Mayer.

The ball court in Tikal, Guatemala. Photo by Chris Mayer.

Walking among the ruined cities of Copán, Uxmal, Monte Alban, or Chichen Itza—fun names to pronounce all—it’s tough for the 21st-century visitor to imagine how most of the ancient structures were once used. With their crumbling stairs, cracked cornices, and roofless columns, they all tend to fall into the “old building” category for the uninitiated. But then the visitor reaches a smooth, walled-in grass patio, centrally located in each of these Mesoamerican cities, and he recognizes in a flash where he is: without a doubt, he’s standing in the middle of an ancient ball court.

Of course, to refer to the space as a mere “ball court” doesn’t quite do it justice; indeed, the Mayan word for the court itself meant “crevice”—which is exactly how the arena is shaped. For the Mayans, however, this “crevice” referred to more than a shape, for it was an opening that provided access to the Other World, the same world where the gods and ancestors lived.

While some football fans might think of their Monday-night ritual as sacred, the Mayans and later the Aztecs saw this ballgame as an actual reflection and reenactment of cosmic forces.

The original legend of the ball court can be found in the Popul Vuh, the Mayan creation myth. The Popul Vuh describes how twin brothers, the gods of maize, were playing on the first ball court—which, unfortunately, happened to be located directly above Xibalba, the underworld kingdom also known as The Place of Fear and Awe. Irritated by the noisy playing above their heads, the gods of the underworld “invited” the twins to a series of trials, which, sadly enough, the boys lost. The gods of Xibalba promptly executed the twins and hung their heads on the ball court for all to see. When an underworld daughter approached one of their hanging skulls, however, it spat into her hand, and (as one comes to expect with such myths) she soon found herself pregnant. Since underworld dads weren’t known for their compassion, the father of this particular princess ordered her execution. Her executioner—who, as if straight from an A.A. Milne tale, happened to be an owl—took pity and helped her escape. She soon gave birth to twins, who grew up quickly and found their father’s ballgame equipment.

Before anyone could say “Xibalba,” the second set of twins descended to the underworld where they played against the lords in a series of scoreless games and even managed to trick the lords a few times, too. Eventually, the boys were murdered—burned up in a great oven, actually—and that was that.

Or almost.

Because their ashes had been thrown into a nearby river, the ashes became two fish, and the fish then transformed into the two boys once more. After thus reincarnating themselves, they tricked the lords of the underworld to allow themselves to be killed—only the wily boys never bothered to revive them.

The myth, of course, is much more complicated, but that’s the gist. Imagine a modern sport that directly reflects the Genesis tale. Perhaps football would have scores of seven points, like the seven days it took to make the world. And another score might involve the holy number three (but I digress).

What, then, do we know about this ancient game? Not much, as it turns out. As the Spanish chroniclers didn’t write a lot about the rules of the actual competition, we know what we know mostly from engravings and myth. We’re pretty sure that players would strike the ball with their hips or forearms, and that they would wear protective yokes—along with heavy leather skirts and padding on their forearms. They would also wear a single kneepad— suggesting, perhaps, that they would sink to one knee at certain moments in the game. The ball was made of hard rubber and about the size of a basketball. Between games, these balls were hung by rope to maintain their perfectly round shape considered so important to the cosmic symbolism.

Some of the court walls are directly vertical, but most slant at angles away from the field. Players tried to put the ball through rings located around three meters above the playing surface, clearly not made for easy access. Most scholars guess that, as with the twins’ competition in the underworld, the games often did go scoreless—so hard was it to sink a single basket.

While the seating capacity wouldn’t quite match a modern professional stadium, there were still plenty of seats for the nobility. And rather than a JumboTron, decorative panels ran along the ball court walls. Additionally, temples usually rose along one or both ends of the courts—all replete with mythological symbolism and numerical references. In Chichen Itza, for example, the south temple has seven doors, and the north has three—all numbers with divine meaning even then.

Though some interpreters at these sites tell people that the winners were often sacrificed, we don’t know this to be true; while sacrifices certainly occurred, they more than likely involved a few from the losing side. In Chichen Itza, one of the panels depicts a decapitated player with seven ribbons of blood pouring forth from his freshly liberated neck; of these seven streams, six have turned into snakes and one a tree. Though the significance is a bit obscure, the imagery seems related to fertility and the cycles of life and death.

Certainly, modern sports share an element with the ancient warrior-states, with soldiers returning home from battle either victorious or vanquished. But maybe there’s something more going on, even today. Maybe these arenas, these multi-million dollar crevices, allow access to some other emotional realm, some otherwise untapped primal world that we keep buried during the daily rush of our lives. Let’s just pray we don’t disturb the lords of Xibalba by cheering too loudly.

The Mayan Ballgame Was a Blood Sport. But Whose Blood?
By Christopher Mayer, Ph.D., Director, NAI Spanish Section, and Instructor of Interpretation and Media Design, University del Valle (Guatemala)

The ball court in Copán, Honduras. Photo by Chris Mayer.

The ball court in Copán, Honduras. Photo by Chris Mayer.

During visits that I have made to Mayan archeological sites, tour guides have told me that the Mayan ballgame was more than a sport; it was a ritual played to assure the continued cycle of sunrise and sunset. They further explained that it was a game played for the highest stakes—blood and human sacrifice. Veteran guides have told me that the leader of the winning team was sacrificed, since theirs was the very best blood that can be offered to appease the gods. I don’t buy that.

What I think I know about human nature doesn’t support this. I played American football for seven years with a certain savage gusto. I would play with all my heart if I knew I could offer the gods the blood of a worthy opponent, but I wonder if I would give it all if it meant at the end of the game I would surely die?

From a tribal standpoint, this doesn’t make sense either. If my team’s best player died after every win, soon my team would be so depleted of talent it couldn’t win. How could it be pleasing to the gods if my team never won?

Some argue that the players gladly sacrificed themselves, like the suicide bombers of modern times who strap on bombs and detonate them believing it holy. They die willingly with the promise of a beautiful afterlife replete with virgin handmaidens to attend to them. But you don’t see the leaders of terrorist organizations volunteering to die; they talk someone else into it.

Despite what the guides have told me, I think I’ll make up my own mind. The gods had to be content with the blood of the vanquished.

Eric Dawson is a high school teacher in Denver, Colorado, and author of How to Be Irresistible to Colleges: The Essential Guide to Being Accepted. Reach him at edawson@kentdenver.org.

 
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Posted in Feature Stories, Interpreting Sports

 

Training Multi-Generational Audiences: From Boomers to Gen Y

12 Mar

kris-whippleBy Kris Whipple

Do you know your “Traditionalist” from your “Boomer”? How does “Gen X” differ from “Gen Y”? As a trainer, does it really matter? If you’ve ever been challenged by a veteran staff or volunteer who is the “strong, silent type,” or a new hire who prefers texting to training, it may be time to enhance your multi-generational IQ. Because for the first time in history, four distinct generations are working and volunteering side by side, creating new opportunities and challenges for trainers.

What creates these generational differences in the first place? According to organizational development scholar Dr. Morris Massey, significant events have shaped the value systems (and therefore the attitudes and behaviors) of each generation. And while it’s important never to stereotype any generation or individual (after all, age is only one of many variables that make each of us unique), understanding these values can help us gain a better appreciation and understanding of our training audience.

For instance, employees and retirees born between 1922 and 1945 (sometimes called “Traditionalists” and “The Greatest Generation”) are likely to have been heavily influenced by the Great Depression and World War II. Shaped by these events and the more conventional style of schooling they received while growing up, they generally value hard work, trust, loyalty, and respect for authority and rules. While they may be more reserved about sharing their thoughts than younger trainees, they are usually highly dedicated and motivated, believe in paying their dues, and expect the same from others around them. Accustomed to a more traditional work environment, they typically understand and appreciate the importance of professional attire, being on time, and other positive work-related behaviors. They are typically more comfortable with formal organizational structures and communication styles than younger trainees.

Contrary to the hardships faced by their Traditionalist parents, Baby Boomers (born between 1946 and 1964) were influenced by the optimism of post-World War II America and parents who tried to provide them with the best of everything. The result? A generation focused on achievement that views hard work and peer competition as necessary for success. (Remember, it was the Boomers who started the workaholic trend.) Raised with the pop psychology and self-help books of the 1960s, Boomers value personal growth (which includes training) and individuality over authority and rules. As a trainer you can help meet the needs of this generation through team-based training and communication that is open, direct, and detailed.

Influenced by the double-digit inflation and the stress faced by their Boomer parents during times of on-and-off unemployment, Generation Xers (those born between 1965 and 1977) value entrepreneurial spirit, independence, flexibility, and creativity and are often more focused on their own development than the success of their organization. While Traditionalists and Boomers may view this as disloyal, Gen Xers simply see it as practical since experience has shown them that investing in organizations isn’t always reliable. Instead, Gen Xers believe it’s important to build a repertoire of skills and experiences that they can take with them if they need to move on. They often have clear, self-imposed goals and prefer managing their own time and solving their own problems rather than having them managed by a supervisor. For this reason, they value access to information, including continuous feedback. Seeing the sacrifices made by their Boomer parents for the sake of their careers, Gen X is the generation that introduced the idea of balance to the workplace. This means that while Traditionalists are working hard because it’s “the right thing to do” and Boomers are working hard to move up the ladder, Xers are motivated to work hard and seek faster, more efficient ways of doing business so that they can better balance work, outside responsibilities, and fun. As a trainer you can meet their communication needs for constant and efficient feedback by frequent use of e-mail and using an informal communication style.

Heavily influenced by the high-tech revolution, Gen Y or Millenials (those born between 1977 and 2000) have never known a world without video games, cell phones, and ATMs. They were raised by “helicopter parents” (who hover over their kids) on a structured diet of soccer, play dates, and school activities designed to enhance their self-esteem and future success. These experiences, according to Massey, have helped create a generation that values positive reinforcement and attitudes, autonomy, money (both making and spending it), and technology. The secret to motivating this group? Systematic and frequent feedback, unique training opportunities via creative media, engaging experiences, and a fun, team-oriented learning environment.

Training today’s generationally diverse workforce starts with understanding the values that drive attitudes and behaviors. By appreciating the unique strengths and skills of each generation and applying training strategies that meet their needs, it’s possible to effectively train multiple generations, from Boomers to Gen Y.

For More Information
Massey, Morris. “Tips to Improve Interaction Among the Generations: Traditionalists, Boomers, Xers, and Nexters.” Retrieved February 17, 2010, from http://honolulu.hawaii.edu/intranet/committees/FacDevCom/guidebk/teachtip/intergencomm.htm.

Kris Whipple, CIG, CIT, CIP, is an interpretive consultant/trainer in Naples, Florida. She can be contacted at kris.w@earthlink.net.

 
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Posted in In Training

 

Baseball: Why It Connects to Our American Story

06 Mar

By Chuck Arning

Baseball is the very symbol, the outward and visible expression of the drive and push and rush and struggle of the raging, tearing, booming 19th century.

—Mark Twain, Speech in New York City, April 1889

During the spring of 1907, Big Bill Haywood, secretary-treasurer for the Western Federation of Miners (WFM) and a leader of the International Workers of the World (IWW), went on trial in Boise, Idaho, for planning the assassination of former Idaho Governor Frank Steunenberg, a strong supporter of mine owners. The long and contentious trial brought world-wide recognition to the Snake River Valley. Newspaper reporters streamed into town. The famous Clarence Darrow was the leading defense attorney. The trial was international news—labor against mine owners and big business. Tales of scandal and murder in the American West caught everyone’s attention.

At the time, Idaho’s new Sunday Closing Laws had forced the closing of all forms of entertainment for working men and women, with one lone exception during the late spring and summer—the game of baseball.

Every Sunday and on holidays as well, stands at baseball fields in towns throughout the Snake River Valley were packed with spectators watching their town’s “nine” exert their will over the opposition. When a raw-boned 19-year-old kid from California named Walter Johnson pitched for the Weiser City nine against the Caldwell County seaters, the entire community of Weiser took a train to Caldwell to see the game. To quote one of the reporters covering the Haywood trial, Jim Nolan of the Denver Post, “A baseball game at Caldwell, 20 miles away, almost denuded the town of its male inhabitants….”

The proximity of the mill to the ball field demonstrates the classic relationship between baseball and industrial life. The crowd of “fanatics,” the original term for baseball fans, was an important part of the game, showcasing the energy each mill team could muster to root their players on to victory. Courtesy of Worcester Historical Museum, Worcester, MA

The proximity of the mill to the ball field demonstrates the classic relationship between baseball and industrial life. The crowd of “fanatics,” the original term for baseball fans, was an important part of the game, showcasing the energy each mill team could muster to root their players on to victory. Courtesy of Worcester Historical Museum, Worcester, MA

On the other side of this sprawling, contentious, complex nation, situated among the mills of the Blackstone Valley in Rhode Island along the banks of the Blackstone River, was the Berkeley Oval. It was a picture of contrasts; in the midst of this industrial landscape of massive brick, five- and six-story mills was a baseball diamond, the very image of a pastoral, agricultural setting. Historians looking at the mill villages of the Blackstone Valley were surprised to find baseball fields as integral a part of the mill village landscape as the church, the company store, and mill housing.

The story goes that when the Berkeley Mill team took on the Ashton Mill nine, both mills of the Lonesdale Company, delivery men would not deliver goods or produce to the mill villages of Berkeley or Ashton for the simple reason that no one would be home to receive them. They would all be at the Berkeley Oval cheering their village favorites on to victory. Why baseball you ask? The answer, quite simply, was that baseball was America.

While there were flourishing baseball contests prior to the American Civil War, it was the initiation of thousands of soldiers during the endless drudgery of camp life that brought baseball to the forefront of American life. Jacques Barzun, an observer of American life, once said that if you wanted to understand America, you first needed to understand the game of baseball.

From the mill villages in the east to the mining camps of the west, baseball was a part of each community. A town that supported a team that played with competitive drive was a town that was regarded as an up-and-coming place—a place where future investment would be rewarded, a place where community character was seen as strong and hardworking. Through baseball a town could develop its own identity. In the competitive world of America in the 19th century, that was everything.

For a moment, stop and consider the element of work. What was the daily life of a worker like in the late 19th century? The lyrics for one of the most popular labor songs of the late 1800s, “Eight Hours,” provides us with a sense of the worker’s state of mind:

Walter Schuster, owner of several mills and friend of Hall of Fame baseball team owner Connie Mack, added former pro players and up-and-coming stars. Courtesy Worcester Historical Museum & the Douglas Historical Society

Walter Schuster, owner of several mills and friend of Hall of Fame baseball team owner Connie Mack, added former pro players and up-and-coming stars. Courtesy Worcester Historical Museum & the Douglas Historical Society

We mean to make things over;
We’re tired of toil for naught;
We may have enough to live on,
But never an hour for thought.

We need to feel the sunshine;
We need to smell the flowers;
We are sure that God willed it;
We mean to have eight hours!

Eight hours for work;
Eight hours for rest;
Eight hours for what we will!

The common element was work—how hard it was, how dangerous it was, how long it was; one’s life was defined by work. The metal trade workers in Worcester, Massachusetts, were agitating for a 40-hour work week—eight hours a day for work. But just a few miles down the Blackstone River, an eight-hour day was but a wisp of a dream for the factory worker. Beginning in January 1895, annual reports were made to Rhode Island’s general assembly by the factory inspector in his “Hours of Labor” report:

The Factory Inspector is required by the Act to report the number of hours performed by the help in the establishment inspected. No authority is confirmed upon the Inspector to enforce the law limiting the employment of women and minors to 60 hours per week. I have found the 60 hour law conformed to in nearly all establishments inspected. Exceptional occasions arise where exigencies of business seem to necessitate its temporary violation.

Workers in one part of the Blackstone Valley were pushing for a 40-hour week while those in the other part of the valley were saddled with a 60-hour (or more) work week.

Yes, work was long, but what about the danger of work? In 1894, the Rhode Island General Assembly passed a law mandating inspections and yearly reports from the factory inspector regarding mill conditions with a focus on under-age mill workers. These reports contained narratives of the various mill injuries. Indeed, mill work was dangerous. It was common knowledge that working conditions throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries were appalling.

While rivers, waving fields of grain, and majestic mountains separated the coastal watersheds of the Blackstone Valley of Massachusetts and Rhode Island from the distant Snake River Valley in Idaho, the construct of the mill village was the same. And the owners, whether they spun cotton, built machines, or dug deep in the earth for precious metals, seized upon one common thread that would keep their communities happy and their workers in line. That common thread, baseball, helped develop a keen sense of place and connect workers and communities in such a manner that pride in one’s town became sacred. As various immigrant groups found their way to the mills of the Blackstone Valley, mill owners saw baseball as the key to “civilizing” their newly diverse workforce.

Loyalty, teamwork, pride in one’s skill, and pride in community—all of these were important factors in building an efficient and productive work force on the mill floor. Mill workers working together made for an efficient mill. And where could you practice such teamwork? The baseball oval was the answer. Whether workers were Armenian, Polish, French-Canadian, Irish, or Italian, teamwork was the essential ingredient to success when you were practicing on the ball field, turning double plays, and playing hit and run. Whether it was the Rubber League, the Triangle Industrial League, or the Blackstone Valley League, baseball proved to be an effective way for the mill owner to reduce labor turnover, control his work force, and create a greater sense of community, all the while inculcating basic American values in their workers.

Company newspapers like The Heald Herald were a key part of management’s strategy to build team work and company loyalty among its worker population.

Company newspapers like The Heald Herald were a key part of management’s strategy to build team work and company loyalty among its worker population.

The superintendent of the Central Falls (Rhode Island) General Fabric Company was quoted as saying, “Everything being done here is with the idea of encouraging our people to stay with us. These sports are the best thing we have to bring employees together. They create a spirit of neighborliness and good friendship throughout the plant.”

Another mill owner captured the progressive paternalistic view common to the owner class when he said:

Let the worker get outdoors as a participant or spectator and when the whistle blows he will return refreshed both mentally and physically, adding to the life of the worker and to his period of productivity. Both the worker and the company benefit.

And there were definite reasons for the need to keep workers in the mill, focusing on the job at hand, being productive and reasonably content. As noted earlier, work was hard, long, and dangerous, and the push for worker rights was growing stronger and louder with the advent of various labor organizations.

Consider the contrast in the pace of work versus the pace of the game of baseball. Whether building a railroad, digging for ore, or running a textile machinery, productivity was based on speed. You worked to the speed of the machine. But baseball was different. Each inning consisted of six outs, three per side; however long it took to get those outs was the length of an inning. There was no time limit.

What about working conditions? In the mill, it was a raging din at all times. It was hot, dank, smelly, and incredibly dirty—cold in the winter, impossibly hot in the summer. The flow of work was constant. Out on the baseball oval, it was different. A soft summer breeze blowing in from left field on a late afternoon refreshed your skin. You could hear your teammates giving you encouragement or your sweetheart cheering you on from the stands. The smells were of fresh-cut grass or the blooming flowers of the season. Then there was the smell of leather and the feel of that leather as you pounded it into submission.

Between pitches there was time to soak in this relaxing, yet charged atmosphere, for there was a lot on the line. Winners were rewarded, losers were forgotten. Being on the team of the winning company or the winning town carried weight. It meant you had earned recognition and had a future as a town, company, or as an individual.

The next time you agonize over developing an interpretive talk, think about baseball, think about sports and how you can build a story at your site around that classic American competitive drive. For to understand America, you better understand baseball.

For More Information
Lukas, J. Anthony. Big Trouble: A Murder in a Small Western Town Sets Off a Struggle for the Soul of America. New York: Simon & Schuster. 1997.

Rosenzweig, Roy. Eight Hours for What We Will: Workers and Leisure in an Industrial City, 1870–1920. New York: Cambridge University Press. 1983.

Hudson, J. Ellery. 16th Annual Report of Factory Inspections Made to the General Assembly (RI). State of Rhode Island. 1910.

Rockwell, Elisha H., and Palmer, Fanny Purdy. 2nd Annual Report of Factory Inspections Made to the General Assembly. State of Rhode Island. 1896.

Reynolds, Doug. 1991. Hardball Paternalism, Hardball Politics: Blackstone Valley Baseball. Labor’s Heritage: Quarterly of the George Meany Memorial Archives (3)2. p. 32.

 
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