The best sports writing, in terms of depth and lyricism, focuses on baseball and golf. Neither sport is known for its non-stop action, which is exactly why they are so suited to writing. They allow time to explore, to ponder, to sift through alternatives, but demand action at a precise time in a disciplined way. Writing is simply the verbal version of what these sports embody.
An aspect of baseball and golf that seem indelibly etched is that they are both deemed to be “steeped in history,” essential parts of our social fabric. The cynic might say it’s because they take so much time they are history, but that misses the point, as cynicism is wont to do. Baseball is Americana not because it is played, but because it is lionized in words that convey the immediacy of the day along with the context of time. That context is created by writers who have the time to let their thoughts wander from the diamond outward and back again, following a golden thread of their own inspiration.
Golf is less a part of Americana, but feels deeply British and Scottish in its own cultural context. Golf is even slower than baseball, for no one runs in golf, so much so that at The Masters, patrons (never “fans”) who run are removed from the grounds. Golf offers no other option but to think, like chess, but with unwieldy tools intended to strike a ball into a hole rather than using intricately carved pieces used to drill a hole in an opponent’s psyche.
People who think writing should be always be done at a fast and furious pace, surfing a surging wave of inspiration, are deluded. Such writing, which can be effective at breaking down barriers of self-criticism (a form of self-loathing writers are all-too-familiar with) and fear of the blank page, is not often memorable. Or even good. It is, at best, the capturing of ideas and momentum that can drive a writer to produce bigger and better work over time.
And therein lies the key point: over time. Many of these surges come about because the writer has been steeping ideas and options in the stewpot called brain. Such steeping often occurs without the writer being aware of it, a truly sub-conscious process that cannot be controlled except by allowing it to happen.
Other sports demand frequent, if not constant, attention, ruled by a clock that shrinks to a pressure point in time and space. Baseball and golf have no clock: they are played to a proper completion. Only action advances the game: the horsehide must be thrown, the balata must be struck. In writing about these sports, one can glance away, muse, seek inspiration, and link the nuances of Life to the Game At Hand, or, in historical context, simply to The Game.
Writing, truly quality writing, is a matter of eschewing the clock in favor of completion. But unlike baseball and golf, writing lacks an extensive and detailed rule book. One can, and should occasionally, use a clock to drive the action of writing. But one should, frequently, let Time be an ally rather than an enemy, using the minutes and hours of little activity to allow the truly creative process to take place. Like baseball and golf, time is not the measure of quality: successful execution is all that matters.
