By Steven V. Dubin
Baseball leaves plenty of time for conversation and catching up.
My Pinnacle Network, with three Eastern Massachusetts business-to-business groups that meet via Zoom each month, chose to slow down the networking process by holding a special “Slow Networking” event at a recent Worcester Red Sox Game. Added bonus, the Sox were playing the Toledo Mudhens. Klinger would approve.
The theory was to spend one inning with a new person. Participants were supplied with lot of questions to keep the conversation lively? Example: “As a businessperson, how do you view the scoreboard? Is it annual income? Number of employees? Adding another location?”
Ahhh. Baseball and human interaction.
In a world where everything seems to happen at the speed of a microwave countdown, minor league baseball remains a stubborn, wonderful holdout. It is the tortoise among hares, the handwritten letter among text messages, the front porch rocking chair in a universe of high-speed treadmills.
Baseball does not rush.
Unlike sports that resemble organized stampedes, baseball unfolds like a leisurely summer afternoon. There are pauses. There are conversations. There are moments when absolutely nothing appears to be happening – until suddenly, everything is.
The pitcher adjusts his cap. The batter taps the plate. The catcher flashes mysterious hand signals that look suspiciously like a secret code for ordering lunch. The crowd settles in. Anticipation builds.
Then, with one pitch, the entire story changes.
Fans have time to discuss strategy, statistics, weather forecasts, family history, and occasionally the game itself.
The slow pace is not a flaw. It is a feature.
The crack of a wooden bat. The perfectly manicured grass. The hopeful optimism that arrives every spring, convincing fans that this is finally their year. Baseball invites us to savor moments rather than race through them.
Even the numbers tell stories. A .300 batting average is celebrated because failure is expected. A player who succeeds three times out of 10 is considered exceptional. Imagine if airlines adopted that standard.
“Good news, folks. We landed safely three out of our last 10 flights!”
Fortunately, baseball’s standards apply only on the diamond.
There is also something wonderfully democratic about the sport. Superstars and role players share the field. A rookie can become a hero. A veteran can enjoy a comeback. A little bloop single can be just as valuable as a towering home run.
And let’s not forget the ballpark itself, a magical gathering place where generations connect. Grandparents explain scorecards. Parents share traditions. Kids chase foul balls with the determination of gold prospectors.
For three hours or so, the outside world fades away.
The slow rhythm encourages something increasingly rare: paying attention.
Baseball asks us to watch, wait, and wonder. What will happen next? Will the runner steal? Will the pitcher escape the jam? Will the hot dog vendor finally make it to our section before the inning ends?
These small uncertainties create the sport’s unique charm.
In many ways, baseball mirrors life. There are long stretches of routine interrupted by moments of excitement. Patience matters. Preparation matters. And sometimes, despite doing everything right, things simply don’t bounce your way.
Yet tomorrow brings another game.
Perhaps that’s why baseball endures. It reminds us that not everything worthwhile needs to happen quickly.
Sometimes the greatest pleasures arrive one pitch at a time.
I look forward to hearing from you! Please email me at SDubin@PRWorkZone.com.
About the Author: Steven V. Dubin is the founder of PR Works, a lightly used public relations firm based in Plymouth, which helps small to mid-sized nonprofit organizations and for-profit companies navigate the overwhelming options of advertising. Steve lives in Plymouth with his wife, Wendy. He is a contributing author to “Get Slightly Famous” and “Tricks of the Trade,” the complete guide to succeeding in the advice business. He recently authored “PR 101,” an E-book.
