By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
By Michael Roberts
By Melanie Asmar
The vast majority of American men have nothing more in common with major-league baseball players than an occasional hangnail and the right to a jury trial. Most of us couldn't hit a beach ball thrown by an eight-year-old, much less Randy Johnson's heater, and whenever we execute the hit-and-run, there's always a police car looming in the rear-view mirror.
Still, American males -- and some of our like-minded sisters -- have an insatiable desire to tell baseball players where to stand in the batter's box, how to raise their children and, not infrequently, what to do with their bats when they strike out in the clutch. That may account for public interest in the present controversy over at Coors Field: Given our expertise in shrub-trimming and channel-changing, we non-players have all kinds of incontrovertible theories about those game baseballs being stored in a humidifier at the stadium -- allegedly so they won't shrink or fall below the game's five-ounce minimum-weight standard and thus become more susceptible to long, long flights of fancy. Last week, the people who call radio sports talk shows (the halfway houses are full of them) were burning up the phone lines with scientific discourse. The Colorado Rockies' home-run production had fallen off because these waterlogged Rawlings were no longer rabbit balls. Rockies pitching had suddenly improved because opposing hitters couldn't hit those sodden lumps of clay out of the infield. One caller insisted the whole thing was a plot by Osama bin Laden, abetted by the Iraqis.
Asked this week about the flap, which arose only because the Rockies had kept their 90-degree, 40-percent-humidity chamber a secret since the beginning of the season, several Rockies players got that faraway look baseball players always get when they're asked some especially moronic question about their bathing habits or their prowess at checkers. First baseman Todd Helton, who could hit a water-soaked beanbag out of Coors Field, called the controversy "ridiculous," and fellow slugger Larry Walker shrugged like a man who knows when the emperor is wearing no clothes. He shook his head and grinned, a gesture as eloquent as his home-run swing.
The source of suspicion, and the probable cause of an "inquiry" by the baseball powers that be, was this: In the first sixteen home games of the season, the Rockies and their opponents played something resembling "normal" baseball in a park that usually produces football scores and breeds home runs like dandelions. In one series of six home games, the Rox laid back-to-back three-game sweeps on Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, and the club's new and improved pitching staff put up consecutive shutouts for the first time since Coors opened in 1995. Total scoring was down more than six runs per game.
Was this the result of a dead ball? Who knows? After looking around the so-called "environmental chamber" (think there was a spare Macanudo or two luxuriating in there next to all that cowhide?), baseball officials gave their stamp of approval to the Rockies' initiative. The commissioner's man, Sandy Alderson, went so far as to say that all major-league clubs would do well to ensure that their baseballs conform to spec, whether they play in bone-dry Phoenix or unbearably muggy Atlanta. Furthermore, San Francisco Giants owner Peter Magowan endorsed the mile-high humidor on the basis that it might make baseball at Coors Field more like...well, baseball.
As for theory, the current (thirteen-game) home stand that began last Monday has thus far produced no significant drop-off in home-run production at altitude. In the first three games with the Florida Marlins, the two clubs combined for nine dingers -- including a long-carrying opposite-field grand slam by Greg Norton that first appeared to have sacrifice fly written on it, and four homers by catcher Bobby Estalella, who evidently never took high school physics and thus didn't know how flagrantly he was violating the laws of the natural world. Last Thursday afternoon, the Rockies won 10-3 behind a pair of three-run homers, and even Saturday's 2-1 win by the Atlanta Braves featured a game-winning homer by Julio Franco.
Nonetheless, the talk-show callers and the bar-stool Einsteins continue to discuss the merits of damp balls versus dry, despite the fact that, aside from big-league baseball, one of the things we American men have virtually no personal knowledge of is physics. Oh, the occasional apple may fall on our heads, and we think we know why the lightbulb in the bathroom burned out, but bring up the fluid dynamics of airflow around spheres as determined by the Navier-Stokes Equation, and most of us would do well to immediately change the subject to something more familiar -- such as organic chemistry or Sanskrit poetry.
For the real story on the Rockies' humidor and its effects on the flight of the ball, we must turn once more to one Robert K. Adair, the Sterling Professor of Physics at Yale University and the author of The Physics of Baseball, a volume that should be held in the same esteem as The Baseball Encyclopedia and Moby Dick. Dr. Adair, you may recall, is the fellow who first explained to us poor, benighted fans why the fastball gets to the plate sooner in Denver than at sea level, why the curve breaks 25 percent less and why 300-foot line drives in the gap come to ground three-tenths of a second earlier. To wit: "The retarding force on a ball is proportional to the density of the air," and as far as ball spin is concerned, "if the resistive drag force varies only as the square of the velocity and if the Magnus force is only an imbalance in that resistance, which follows from the faster motion on one side of the ball through the air than the other, we should expect that the Magnus force would be proportional to spin frequency, proportional to the air velocity (or ball velocity) and proportional to the drag coefficient at the ball velocity."