On the Virtues
Why baseball taught me more than religion or the law
According to classical philosophy, the four cardinal virtues, derived from Book IV of Plato’s Republic, but certainly of earlier origin, are:
Prudence
Justice
Courage
Temperance
There’s a big long wikipedia article about these because they were once extremely well-known and widely influential, including in Christian theology. Christians would add three more “theological” virtues to the classical cardinal virtues: Faith, Hope, and Charity. These seven virtues, together, form the opposing force against the seemingly better-known “seven deadly sins.”
In my experience, moral wisdom goes through a graph like the dunning-kruger one, where understanding is at first high, then crashes, before eventually recovering. To make my point: when I was a child, my excellent dad always told me, “If you’re struggling with a decision, just ask yourself, ‘is it the right thing to do?’ — and then act accordingly.” When I was 12, this seemed like Solomon’s wisdom. By the time I was 20, I had become a deconstructionist: “What is the right thing to do, though?” Now, at age 47, I can’t think of any better moral instruction to give my son than what my dad gave me—it seems like the wisdom of Solomon again.
Yesterday, I posted a note which was an image of a couple of pages from Tacitus in the Annals where he discusses the origin of Law, and by extension, human nature. Here’s the key portion, where he discusses Roman efforts to boost marriage and child-bearing rates in the first century—a topic that, notably, has become fodder for discussion in our own century.
Most of the time, especially in a theological context, discussion of the law revolves around attempting to ban or effectively limit undesirable (sinful) behavior. So we might talk about banning abortion or certain illicit sexual behaviors or theft—or less “moral” concerns like speeding on the highway. The idea is that our governors can use “compulsions or penalties” to corral all of these deviations from ideal behavior.
But there is so much more to morality than “avoiding sin.” So much, in fact, that I sometimes try to emphasize that our concern-o-meter is broken: we (especially right-wing/conservative people) are entirely focused on the avoidance of sin, as if sainthood might be made of sitting around sipping tea. We are paranoid about the Seven Deadly Sins and oblivious to the importance of the Four or Seven Virtues.
Growing up, I never heard a sermon in my Methodist church about courage, for instance. And I think part of the reason is: we (correctly) think of courage as being something that cannot be legislated, and therefore we (wrongly) conclude that nothing much can be done about the overwhelming dearth of courage.
I also saw yesterday an article about a clear inverse association between testosterone numbers and pro-social behavior. The abstract really rang a bell for me. My life has sometimes seemed to be one long struggle between the "basic” formal requirement that I “fit in” and a seemingly more pressing impulse to tell the truth, even if it is unpopular. And it has seemed to me that it was not a lack of prudence, but something good and healthy in me demanding I act, which tried to compel me to say or do unpopular things. It is not contrarianism, but a disregard for social acceptance, that moves me.
It is the man in me that pushes me to speak the truth. Plutarch noted that “courage is the true origin of victory.” But there are no laws enforcing courage.
Where and when (how?) does a boy learn courage?
You might incline to say that formal instruction might help in inculcating virtue, but I’m not convinced of that. The problem here is that institutions, by their nature, rely on the cooperative nature. Hierarchies only remain intact when those under authority do not rebel. So an institution might say “Be courageous,” but it will never frame courageousness as potentially allowing rebellion against its own authority. But speaking popular truths, or institutionally approved truths, does not require courage.
I played baseball for a lifetime in childhood. There were, of course, the written rules of the game. But more interestingly, there were unwritten rules, a kind of honor code, that a boy playing the game learned gradually. At first it seemed rather arbitrary and superficial:
Every player should enjoy sunflower seeds
Spitting is virtuous
Don’t mess with another guy’s glove
When in doubt, slide
No crying
Don’t fuck up the same way twice
These kinds of things I had learned by the time I was 10-years old, but of course, they don’t translate very well to moral discourse. These might be more akin to culture than to morality.
But later (I played into college years), I understood that baseball players were something like a band of brothers, and that mutual/reciprocal duties were implied. Some of these duties were discussed, some were implicit (courage, it happens, is implicit when you have to stand in there against a guy throwing 88-mph heaters). So I gleaned other truths, closer to moral truths—some of these even applied off the playing field:
Keep it light, funny, positive.
Make eye contact.
Always flirt with girls.
Really try to not get them pregnant (and interestingly: if you do get the pregnant, be prepared to marry them).
Respect your coach always.
If you argue with an umpire, you better be absolutely certain that you’re right. And even then: just a word or two.
No bullshitting unless everyone knows it’s bullshitting.
Bench guys count just as much as starters.
A kind of code of honor emerged gradually. It actually was a culture, I guess—with norms or “mores” built into it. This is why, well into adulthood, I often recognize fellow baseball players—probably the way ex-military are able to recognize one another.
In a slightly different translation, Tacitus is clear:
And yet, marriages and the rearing of children did not become more frequent, so powerful were the attractions of a childless state. Meanwhile there was an increase in the number of persons imperilled, for every household was undermined by the insinuations of informers; and now the country suffered from its laws, as it had hitherto suffered from its vices.
You can, of course, write Tacitus off — convince yourself he has no wisdom. But his idea is very clearly stated here, and I am underlining it because I think there is wisdom here: Law itself can become a worse problem than the vices that may flourish in Law’s absence. Law domesticates. Law tames. Law (I conclude) is not a good fit for a testosterone-rich male-centric culture.
I suppose part of the reason for this is that male hierarchies, at least in youth, emerge naturally—no mediation is required. Everyone knows who the top dogs are, and because of that, everyone knows his place. The alpha-jock/incel-nerd alliance was not uncommon at all. I played shortstop in high school, and my second baseman was sort of a nerdy guy. We never hung out at school, but there was extraordinary mutual trust and respect between us—so much that when I saw him at our 10-year high school anniversary dinner, I almost leapt into his arms.
But institutions warp these naturally-emergent orders and replace them with mediated, accreditation-based, titles and roles. Nothing can be faked in baseball. You can’t get a degree in hitting clean-up and demand to hit fourth. The fact will remain: if you don’t hit homers, you’re not hitting fourth.
All of these even applies, ultimately, to the coach. I had a great high-school coach. He had pitched in the minors, and he knew all of these unwritten codes inside and out. I love him. I’ll never forget the first time he threw me curveballs in batting practice—just wrecked me. It seemed like magic. His credibility was unquestionable.
My brother had a different coach—a bad one. Eventually, my brother decided not to play baseball his senior year, because he didn’t trust or respect the coach.
I’m reminded of Socrates, you know? Like, yes, the coach is still the coach due to his title. But a man of courage and honor can simply walk away, refuse to acknowledge the coach’s institutional authority, if he’s willing to face the consequences. Yes, the councilmen of Athens had the authority to kill or exile Socrates—but Socrates knew he was in the right. And he had courage to act and speak in accordance with his conscience.
Courage is the true origin of victory. What if this is our problem? If it is, no law can address it. It is absurd to imagine laws banning the absence of courage. Courage must be seeded in youth, and cultivated among peers. It must be regarded more highly than social cooperation and respect for authority. It must be organic. It must feel woven into the body itself. You must feel that your heart will burst if you do not speak truth.
Much the same for loyalty, prudence, fortitude, temperance, etc.