Like Ballet Or Theatre, Cristopher Sanchez's Baseball Artistry Enchants

PHILADELPHIA, PA — Cristopher Sanchez's windup has an inevitability about it, as though it can only end way, like a dancer leading in to an arabesque. His stance is straight and uncomplicated. He raises his glove to the middle of his chest. He brings his leading knee up just above his waist. He does not stride forward off the mound's rubber so much as let gravity take him. He releases every pitch, no matter how variform the speed or spin, from the same three quarter arm slot, right around 10:30 on the clock.

It finishes, more than just about any other pitcher in the world, with the sound of hot air from a waving bat and the clean pop of the ball hitting the catcher's mitt, Sanchez suspended on a front leg with the back leg kicked up, a moment that lingers long out of time.

And like a ballet, like an orchestra, like those other arts more kindred to baseball than all its baubles may have us realize, the theatregoers stand palled by achievement.

When San Diego's Jackson Merrill ripped a line drive into left field Wednesday night, scoring the runner from second, the Philadelphia crowd erupted into cheers so raucous it delayed the game on the field.

That hit in the top of the seventh, of course, marked the end of the 29-year-old Dominican's historic run of 50 and 2/3rds consecutive innings without giving up a run. It's the longest any pitcher has gone without surrendering a run in 38 years. And it's the fifth longest streak in the 133 years of MLB history in which the mound has been at its current distance from the plate.

A rare sort of achievement required, indeed, for the most unforgiving sports environment in the United States to cheer when the home team gives up a run.

“I’ll be forever grateful to these fans and the city, the best fans in the world, the best fans of all 30 teams in MLB," Sanchez told a group of reporters after the game through his translator. "Whether I’m here or not, they’ll forever be the best fans in baseball."

But the cheers, clearly, were not merely for Sanchez's historical and statistical achievement.

Nowhere is the thing that so fundamentally distinguishes baseball from other sports more apparent than a pitcher at the peak of his powers. Chess doesn't quite cover the metaphor; if every pitch is a move on the board, the move itself shifts suddenly and unpredictably, as if a rook were given a knight's powers.

Sanchez's most devastating ability, most analysts agree, is something called pitch tunneling: he releases his sinker and his changeup from the same position, with the same windup, in a way that makes them look identical most of the way to the plate. Both pitches drop and tail off to the right as they approach. But the changeup drops an extra foot and comes in around 85 or 87 miles per hour, while the sinker hits the glove at 95 or 96.

Hence the consistent flailing of professional hitters, who are trained to look for exactly that sort of thing. Hence the hapless, incredulous grin and shake of the head as they start a long walk back to the dugout.

Many fans see that, just as theatregoers can point out the mechanics of a ballerina's turn. But even for the many casual spectators who may not, there is still the sense of quiet craft, the incantatory repetition of wind ups and strikeouts and zeroes on the scoreboard outing after outing, like a koan that hallucinates foe and fan alike.

After Sanchez finally allowed the run Wednesday night he was not happy. He tilted his cap up, a hallmark gesture, and wiped a glistening forehead. He looked up at the rafters. As the cheers continued, as the umpire moved out in front of home plate and it was clear the game was on hold, he smiled.

Moments later, however, even after escaping the inning, he still punched his glove in frustration as he walked off the field. His dance allows for no slips.