Along the Way: Hey, batter! No more empty gestures, please

Once upon a time, when a batter hit a home run, all he had to do was trot to first base, make three left turns and touch home plate.

But in modern baseball, at least at the major league level, there seems to be one additional requirement.

As he finishes circling the bases, our slugger must now look up and point heavenward, presumably to thank God for the mistake the pitcher just made.

Of all the uses for the magical trapdoor, I have always thought I’d like to own and operate to send away people who do stupid things.

This hollow, vain, bogus salaam — a pointless point — ranks right up there at the top.

Nobody in Heaven cares who hits home runs. Or scores touchdowns. Or stuffs a basketball through an orange hoop.

Does anybody Up there really care who wins ball game? Or hits home runs?

If you ask me, these excessive, overdone displays of “reverence” on the playing field are not only unnecessary and uncalled-for; they’re embarrassing.

Sports heroes should be grateful for the skills they have, and for the power sustaining and guiding their baseball bats or hockey sticks, boxing gloves or 750-horsepower racing engines.

But in the name of respect and good taste, guys, let’s do it in quiet solitude.

Most of these big-league clowns don’t blow kisses at the sky or make celestial finger-points out of religious belief. They do it for the same reason they spit in the batter’s box and scratch their rear-ends — it’s become second nature, a habit (and a dumb one at that).

Nothing illustrates this better than a football story from years past. Some long-forgotten NFL wide receiver caught a pass for a touchdown and immediately knelt in the end zone and crossed himself.

A teammate — his best friend, in fact — ran up to him and said something on the order of, “Hey, dummy, what are you doing — you’re not Catholic.”

And Mr. Touchdown said, “I know, but I’ve seen ‘em do this on TV and it looks cool.”

There’s no religious value in home-run hitters going through misplaced ecclesiastical gyrations at the plate. It just looks cool.

I can’t remember where I heard it, probably from my friend Joe Garagiola, but in the 1957 World Series between the Yankees and Braves, one of the Milwaukee players came to bat and before the first pitch, he crossed himself.

At which point, Yogi Berra, the Yankee catcher, jumped out of his crouch, stood on home plate and crossed HIMSELF. “Now what’re ya gonna do?” Yogi asked.

God doesn’t care who wins or loses, or who hits home runs. In private, to thank Him for the ability and opportunity to do these things is commendable.

But in front of 50,000 fans and a national television audience, to go through these histrionics, as if to thank someone watching from the clouds, is a sham.

Why doesn’t our superstar just hug himself and hold his own hand? Pull out a small makeup mirror from his back pocket and smile at himself?

Better yet, slugger, be a pro and act like you’ve done this before.

Former Tucson Citizen columnist Corky Simpson writes Fridays for the Green Valley News. Comment on this column at www.gvnews.com.