Scott Rolen, or, Against Identity Politics

Since my affinity for professional athletes is purely egocentric, I had expected to find myself drawn this October to the exploits of David Eckstein, the Cardinals’ plucky, diminutive shortstop. But Eckstein seems to revel in the novelty of his shortness, even going so far as to permit the Austin Powers theme song to play over the Busch Stadium loudspeakers before his at-bats (alluding, one assumes, to the character Mini-Me). For some, this may be called ‘having a sense of humor,’ but to me it is tacky, even complicit. Dennis Wise and Theo Fleury remain far better models of short sportsmen, for the simple reason that their example encourages me to regard my five feet and seven inches as a weapon, not a joke.

But right there, in the Cardinals infield, is an able substitute for my affections: Scott Rolen. Bitter, inscrutable, and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Mark Loretta, his unsmiling success in the past three games has kept me interested in the World Series, very much against the odds. Like Philip Marlowe (or Mark Loretta) in southern California, Rolen makes the intolerable landscape of a Red Sox-less playoffs seem acceptable, even meaningful.