I have two distinct memories of my life as an eighth-grade student at St. Nicholas Elementary School in Garrison, North Dakota, in the mid–1950s. The first was memorizing “Paul Revere’s Ride” and then reciting the entire poem without error at a school assembly. I had never read a poem before, much less memorized one, and I still recall the feeling of apprehension when I first committed to the effort, and the ultimate thrill when I finally achieved the goal.
The second memory involves getting to second base with a certain female classmate in a darkened cloak room just off an empty classroom. I had never advanced that far before, even though it was something I’d dreamed about for quite some time. Out of a sense of decorum, I won’t go into any more detail here. But I will say the experience was quite delightful and exceeded all my expectations.
In the sport of baseball, getting to first base is the first step players take as they round the bases on the way to their ultimate goal—scoring a run. In everyday life, the expression is used metaphorically to mean getting off to a good start—or to indicate no progress at all, as when people say “I didn’t even make it to first base.” In sexual slang, gradations in petting have long been described by this rounding the bases analogy, with the final step of sexual intercourse most commonly called scoring. Many readers will remember Meat Loaf ’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light, a 1977 rock & roll classic about a couple of teenagers making out inside a parked car, their amorous actions illuminated by the light of the dashboard. The song cleverly blends music and lyrics with the play-by-play voice of the legendary Phil Rizutto, who at the climax of the evening announces in his trademark way: “Holy cow, I think he’s gonna make it!”
When people use sports analogies and metaphors, they use concepts from the athletic arena to better understand or describe things in other aspects of life:
You can’t steal second base while keeping your foot on first.
This statement, literally true about baseball and metaphorically true about life, advances the notion that life involves risk, and overly cautious people won’t get very far.
Sports metaphors show up in all aspects of life, but they are especially prevalent in the business world. Every day, in conference rooms all around the world, people talk about hitting the bull’s-eye, going for the Gold, or putting on a full-court press. The boxing world alone has provided such expressions as being on the ropes, going down for the count, throwing in the towel, and delivering a knock-out blow. Managers in almost every industry believe it is their job to pump-up employees with such exhortations as be a good team player or keep your eye on the ball.
Who among us doesn’t know that we must learn the playbook and stick to the game plan? And then, if we can go with the flow and sprint to the finish, we might be able to win one for the Gipper (that is, as long as we don’t drop the ball or somebody doesn’t move the goalposts).
Politicians rival business people in their fondness for sports metaphors. An electoral contest is called a race, after all, and in all political races at least one candidate trots out the hackneyed notion that an election is a marathon and not a sprint. During an election year, nightly newscasts routinely talk about contests that are dead heats, and about candidates who are gaining ground, losing momentum, or choking under pressure. Football metaphors are especially common in politics. Theodore Roosevelt, our earliest sports-minded president, once said:
In life, as in a football game,
the principle to follow is: hit the line hard.
A half century later, John F. Kennedy, another sports-oriented president, said:
Politics is like football.
If you see daylight, go through the hole.
Basketball metaphors are also used with frequency by politicians, some quite famously. In his 2004 best-seller Plan of Attack, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Bob Woodward provided a behind-the-scenes glimpse into the events leading to the invasion of Iraq in 2003. The book is filled with many tidbits, but none was more interesting than his report of a briefing in the Oval Office on December 21, 2002. Flanking President Bush at that meeting were many high-ranking officials, including Vice President Dick Cheney, National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice, and CIA Director George Tenet. The purpose of the meeting was to review the evidence for the existence of weapons of mass destruction (WMD) in Iraq. After an initial presentation by CIA intelligence experts, Bush was not overwhelmed. He even made a comment that, on the basis of what had been presented so far, Joe Public would not be convinced. Then, referring specifically to the presence of WMDs, he turned to Tenet and asked, “George, how confident are you?” According to Woodward, the CIA director replied:
Don’t worry, it’s a slam-dunk!
Tenet, a Georgetown University graduate and a fan of the Georgetown Hoyas basketball team, was using a popular basketball metaphor for a sure thing. His meaning appeared unmistakable—WMDs were almost certainly present in Iraq. As all basketball fans know, however, a player will occasionally soar high above the rim on the way to a glorious slam-dunk—and then blow it. A spectacular miss is a huge embarrassment to ballplayers, and Tenet’s inapt—or maybe inept—metaphor ultimately became a huge embarrassment for the CIA and the Bush administration. In his 2007 memoir, Tenet downplayed the significance of the remark and even gave it a slightly different interpretation, but he never denied making the metaphorical comment that will forever be part of his legacy.
Just as everyday life is filled with sports metaphors, so the sports world is filled with metaphors from everyday life. Each year, at the beginning of the NCAA basketball tournament, sports analysts wonder who will be this year’s Cinderella team. On the football gridiron, every weekend from September to January there is at least one quarterback who throws A Hail Mary, a long pass thrown into the end zone at the end of regulation time. The underlying analogy is that such passes are desperate prayers, hoping to be answered by the football gods (this notion also shows up in the expression he threw up a prayer, which is used in both football and basketball).
In the eighteenth century, English writer Jonathan Swift noticed that popular games often had an aggressive, war-like quality. In a 1711 essay he wrote:
Most sorts of diversion in men, children, and other animals,
are an imitation of fighting.
In the essay, Swift planted a sport-as-fighting seed that would later blossom into a full-blown sport-as-war metaphor. And the most famous observation advancing this notion came in a 1945 essay “The Sporting Spirit,” by George Orwell:
Serious sport has nothing to do with fair play.
It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness,
disregard of all rules, and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence.
In other words, it is war minus the shooting.
This may be history’s finest observation on the subject, but it’s certainly not the only one. In a 1988 interview, Berkeley sociology professor and sports consultant Harry Edwards picked up on the theme when he said:
Football is about as close as you can get to war
and still remain civilized.
And in a 1960 Sports Illustrated article, Frank Gifford, the star running back for the New York Giants, was quoted as saying:
Pro football is like nuclear warfare.
There are no winners, only survivors.
At first, this looks like hyperbole—and technically, I guess it is. But in this case, we might forgive the exaggeration. Readers of a certain age remember Gifford as one of the great football players of his era. An All-American at USC before being selected by the Giants in 1952, he took the team to five NFL championship games and was league MVP in 1956. In 1960, he suffered one of the most brutal hits in NFL history when Chuck Bednarik of the Philadelphia Eagles blindsided him, knocking him out and causing a serious head injury. The play—legal at the time, but not allowed today—looked like a career-ender, as Gifford announced his retirement a short while later. Incredibly, though, he returned to the game in 1962—this time as a wide receiver—and performed so effectively that the very next year he was selected to the Pro Bowl, his seventh and final appearance.
When most Americans think of sports analogies, they tend to think of the major sports, like baseball, basketball, football, golf, tennis, and soccer. But almost every sport played by human beings has stimulated—or been described by—metaphorical observations. In a 1987 article on the sport of croquet, a writer for London’s Sunday Times observed:
The clunk of the ball against mallet is a lovely sound,
just like ice cubes in a gin and tonic.
And here’s a metaphorical sampler on some other not-so-common sports:
Yachting is like standing in a cold shower and tearing up hundred-dollar bills.
Squash is boxing with racquets.
It is like balancing an egg on a spoon while shooting the rapids.
Whoever called snooker “chess with balls” was rude, but right.
Fencing is like playing chess with a sword in your hand.
Playing polo is like trying to play golf during an earthquake.
Cricket is baseball on Valium.
Whether you prefer major sports or the more esoteric ones, here’s hoping you enjoy the rest of the metaphorical observations in the remainder of this chapter.
I never thought home runs were all that exciting.
I still think the triple is the most exciting thing in baseball.
To me, a triple is like a guy taking the ball on his one-yard line
and running ninety-nine yards for a touchdown.
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.
The hand can’t hit what the eye can’t see.
This was Ali’s legendary description of his boxing style, probably inspired by a remark from his cornerman, Drew “Bundini” Brown. From a technical point of view, Ali’s talent as a poet lagged far behind his pugilistic skills. Norman Mailer described it all in a memorable analogy: “For Ali to compose a few words of real poetry would be equal to an intellectual throwing a good punch.”
Your body is like a bar of soap.
The more you use it, the more it wears down.
In America, it is sport that is the opiate of the masses.
This line, from a 1967 New York Times article, alters Karl Marx’s famous metaphor about religion being the opiate of the people.
Playing for Yogi is like playing for your father;
playing for Billy is like playing for your father-in-law.
Here, the popular New York Yankees ballplayer colorfully contrasts two of the club’s best-known managers, Yogi Berra and Billy Martin.
A catcher and his body are like the outlaw and his horse.
He’s got to ride that nag till it drops.
Bodie was out trying to steal second.
His head was full of larceny, but his feet were honest.
This is a classic line in the history of sports journalism, written in 1920 by a master of the craft. Baer, who created the nickname “The Sultan of Swat” for Babe Ruth, was widely admired for his wit and ability to turn a phrase.
If fishing is a religion, fly-fishing is high church.
Fly-fishing fanatics approach their sport with religious fervor. Robert Traver (the pen name of Michigan Supreme Court Judge John D. Voelker) was the author of the 1958 novel Anatomy of a Murder and an avid fly-fisherman. He said: “Deep down I’ve always known fly fishing is to the rest of fishing what high seduction is to rape.” And more recently, American sportswriter Howell Raines wrote: “Fly-fishing is to fishing as ballet is to walking.”
Boxing’s just show business with blood.
For those of us who are baseball fans and agnostics,
the Hall of Fame is as close to a religious experience as we may ever get.
It’s like a woman concentrating on intricate sewing.
If she pricked her finger she’d hardly notice it and just carry on.
This was Bugner’s description of how a good boxer absorbs blows from an opponent. Bugner was a British boxer who won the British and European heavyweight title in 1971. He went on to fight Muhammad Ali in 1973 and Joe Frazier in 1974, going the distance in both fights, but in each case losing on points. He had a defensive boxing style that most fans considered dull (one writer said he had “the physique of a Greek statue, but fewer moves”).
My back swing off the first tee had put him in mind
of an elderly woman of dubious morals trying to
struggle out of a dress too tight around the shoulders.
I call tennis the McDonald’s of sport—you go in,
they make a quick buck out of you, and you’re out.
To be an American and unable to play baseball
is comparable to being a Polynesian and unable to swim.
New Yorkers love it when you spill your guts out there.
Spill your guts at Wimbledon and they make you stop and clean it up.
Sports is the toy department of life.
On his favorite sport, Cosell wrote that “Boxing is drama on its grandest scale.”
Golf is like a love affair.
If you don’t take it seriously, it’s no fun;
if you do take it seriously, it breaks your heart.
A tie is like kissing your sister.
In 1966, Coach Daugherty’s Michigan State University Spartans, with nine wins and no losses (and second in the national rankings) played unbeaten Notre Dame, ranked number one. Dubbed “the Game of the Century,” it ended in a 10–10 tie, and both teams shared the national championship at season’s end. Tie games have always been unsatisfying, but nobody had ever described that feeling better, making Daugherty’s quip an instant classic. In 1986, George Brett of the Kansas City Royals updated the thought: “If a tie is like kissing your sister, losing is like kissing your grandmother with her teeth out.”
Golf and sex are the only things you can enjoy without being good at them.
Skating was the vessel into which I could pour my heart and soul.
The triple is the most exciting play of the game.
A triple is like meeting a woman who excites you,
spending the evening talking and getting more excited, then taking her home.
It drags on and on. You’re never sure how it’s going to turn out.
Kill the body and the head will die.
Golf balls are attracted to water as unerringly
as the eye of a middle-aged man to a female bosom.
A muscle is like a car.
If you want it to run well early in the morning, you have to warm it up.
The most beautiful fighting machine I have ever seen.
All fighters are prostitutes and all promoters are pimps.
College football is a sport that bears the same relation to education
that bullfighting does to agriculture.
Like a Volvo, Borg is rugged, has a good after-sales service, and is very dull.
James wrote this in 1980, at the end of a decade in which Borg dominated the tennis world. Borg’s tennis demeanor contrasted starkly with the passionate play of Americans like Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe, leading James to liken the Swedish Borg to the vehicles manufactured in his native country.
Competitive golf is played mainly on a five-and-a-half-inch course:
the space between your ears.
Football players, like prostitutes, are in the business
of ruining their bodies for the pleasure of strangers.
A boxing match is like a cowboy movie.
There’s got to be good guys and there’s got to be bad guys.
And that’s what people pay for—to see the bad guys get beat.
Throwing people out of a game is like learning to ride a bicycle—
once you get the hang of it, it can be a lot of fun.
Many baseball fans look upon an umpire as a sort of necessary evil
to the luxury of baseball, like the odor that follows an automobile.
Baseball is a game, yes. It is also a business.
But what it most truly is, is disguised combat.
For all its gentility, its almost leisurely pace, baseball is violence under wraps.
A pool player in a tuxedo is like whipped cream on a hot dog.
Bobby admits he has “a temper problem”—
which is like Jeffrey Dahmer saying that he suffers from an eating disorder.
Dahmer, of course, was the American serial killer who became infamous in the early 1990s for the gruesome way he dismembered and cannibalized his victims. This observation from Morrow appeared in a 2000 Time magazine article. Knight, at the time the head basketball coach at Indiana University, was notorious for his courtside eruptions. After formally investigating Knight’s “pattern of inappropriate behavior,” the school suspended the volatile coach for three games and fined him $30,000. It was the first step on the way out for Knight, who went on to become the head basketball coach at Texas Tech.
Most riders beat horses as if they were guards in slave-labor camps.
Shoe treated them as if he were asking them to dance.
Boxing is a celebration of the lost religion of masculinity,
all the more trenchant for its being lost.
This is from Oates’s 1987 book On Boxing. As a child she was introduced by her father to “the sweet science” (an increasingly controversial metaphor). A lifelong fan, she also wrote that “Boxing has become America’s tragic theater.”
I’m like the Pythagorean theorem.
Not too many people know the answer to my game.
What other people may find in poetry, I find in the flight of a good drive.
Golf is a puzzle without an answer.
The basketball is a tool that the Black man has now,
same as maybe once he had a plow.
Luck is the residue of design.
Rickey is best known for signing Jackie Robinson to a contract with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1945, but he also contributed some famous quotations—like this classic metaphor on luck and the immortal “Baseball is a game of inches.”
Baseball is like a poker game.
Nobody wants to quit when he’s losing;
nobody wants you to quit when you’re ahead.
What they call a baseball “glove”
bears as much resemblance to a human hand
as snowshoes bear to a man’s feet.
It’s not a glove; it’s a leather basket.
I threw the kitchen sink at him, but he went to the bathroom and got his tub.
This was Roddick’s assessment after losing to Federer in the Wimbledon Finals in 2004.
Athletic proficiency is a mighty good servant,
and like so many other good servants, a mighty bad master.
Roosevelt wrote this in a 1903 letter to his son Ted. The thought was preceded by these words: “I am delighted to have you play football. I believe in rough, manly sports. But I do not believe in them if they degenerate into the sole end of any one’s existence. I don’t want you to sacrifice standing well in your studies to any over-athleticism; and I need not tell you that character counts for a great deal more than either intellect or body in winning success in life.”
Hating the New York Yankees is as American as apple pie,
unwed mothers, and cheating on your income tax.
Making love is like hitting a baseball;
you just gotta relax and concentrate.
These words were delivered by Sarandon in the opening narration of the 1988 film Bull Durham (screenplay by Ron Shelton). Sarandon plays Annie Savoy, a sexy baseball fan who each year selects a minor league player as a lover and then puts the athlete through her own version of a player development project.
Football is to baseball as blackjack is to bridge.
One is the quick jolt; the other the deliberate, slow-paced game of skill.
Statistics are used by baseball fans
in much the same way that a drunk leans against a street lamp;
it’s there more for support than enlightenment.
This analogy was inspired by a famous remark from the nineteenth-century Scottish writer Andrew Lang, who said of a contemporary: “He uses statistics as a drunken man uses lamp-posts—for support rather than illumination.” On the same subject, an anonymous wag once said, “Baseball is an island of activity amidst a sea of statistics.” And CBS newsman Harry Reasoner agreed, once observing: “Statistics are to baseball what a flaky crust is to Mom’s apple pie.”
Bridge is a sport of the mind.
Trying to sneak a fastball past Henry Aaron
was like trying to sneak the sun past a rooster.
It was like watching an autopsy performed on a live person.
This was Stallone’s graphic assessment of the 1980 Larry Holmes–Muhammad Ali heavyweight championship fight, when the aging Ali, at age thirty-eight, was no match for his youthful opponent. It was a vicious beating—stopped after ten rounds—and some analysts wondered how Ali had even survived the fight.
Angling may be said to be so like the mathematics
that it can never be fully learnt.
This comes from The Compleat Angler, a 1653 treatise on fishing that was interspersed with maxims, verse, and reflections on life. Walton had only a few years of schooling, but after apprenticing with a London ironmonger, he acquired a small shop of his own and began to prosper. With more leisure, he read widely and began to associate with men of learning, including John Donne, who became his friend and fishing companion. His famous book also contained this analogy: “As no man is born an artist, so no man is born an angler.”
My golf swing is like ironing a shirt. You get one side smoothed out,
turn it over and there is a big wrinkle on the other side.
You iron that side, turn it over and there’s another wrinkle.
Baseball is like church. Many attend, but few understand.
Ernie Harwell, a veteran sportscaster, offered a related observation: “Opening day…is to baseball what Easter is to church. The faithful come out, but a lot of once-a-year attendees are there too.” And in a 2004 column, respected baseball scholar John Thorn continued the church analogy when he wrote: “At a ballgame, as in a place of worship, no one is alone in the crowd.”
Super Bowl Sunday is to the compulsive gambler
what New Year’s Eve is to the alcoholic.
When he said this in 1994, Wexler was executive director of New Jersey’s Council on Compulsive Gambling.
It has been said that baseball is to the United States
what revolutions are to Latin America,
a safety valve for letting off steam.
Football combines the two worst features of modern American life.
It’s violence punctuated by committee meetings.
Will has offered several variations of this remark over the years, but the first came in his Newsweek column in 1976. It’s possible that he was inspired by a somewhat similar comment Winston Churchill made when he attended his first American football game: “Actually, it is somewhat like rugby. But why do they have to have all those committee meetings?”
Stealing bases is like jumping out of a car
that’s going twenty miles per hour.
Running is the greatest metaphor for life,
because you get out of it what you put into it.