Occupational hazard: From time to time, I start to doubt both my courage and my convictions. I begin to wonder if I no longer get it, if I ever did. Or maybe it’s that spitting into hurricanes for a living inspires occasional self-pity.

But then someone slaps me straight, asks if I saw what he or she saw, felt about it the way they did.

This latest round of self-doubt began in mid-May after Mets rookie Noah Syndergaard accidentally beaned Milwaukee’s Carlos Gomez with a 97-mph speed-of-fright pitch. As Gomez went down and stayed there, Syndergaard had to adhere to the Code of Remorseless Tough Guy Sports Conduct: He had to stay on the mound, as if it were none of his business.

Though Syndergaard appeared upset — after the game he expressed his deep regrets and full concern — he was not allowed to demonstrate such in public after that pitch.

That brought an email from Joel Cohen, the author of many sports biographies for kids: “The Mets’ pitcher was visibly distressed, but through some insensitive unwritten law, Syndergaard could not take a step toward the injured batter to express his concern and remorse.”

And if he saw that, and I saw that, and we both felt the same about it, there had to be others, right? So why weren’t we heard? And why didn’t I write it?

Is it the fear of being scorned as so out of touch with here-and-now sports as to be dismissed as a fringe lunatic who doesn’t get the Codes of Cool, no matter how cold?

Pat Riley came to mind. His NBA players would risk his wrath if they dared help an opponent to his feet, as if such a sporting act conveyed weakness. That’s right, even the accidental is best perceived as malicious and remorseless.

And yet, two boxers, having openly vowed to knock the other out before clearly trying to do just that, are civil enough within sports’ most uncivil conditions to tap gloves in apologetic acknowledgment of an unintended foul.

Sunday, Mets starter Steven Matz debuted with strong pitching and, with three hits and four RBIs, a rebuttal to the DH.

Relieved with two out in the eighth, Matz left to a sustained standing ovation. With his head down, his every step toward and into the dugout was followed by SNY. The Code of Modern Cool didn’t permit him a mere touch of the brim of his cap nor even a quick wave or nod of his head, nothing to show he saw or heard the applause, let alone appreciated it.

Matz had to appear so conditioned — afflicted — by modern cool as to appear block-of-ice-cold. Even if he had to fight the urge to look up at the crowd to savor this one-time-only moment — and to give a thankful wave — the Code of Cool forbade it.

Pity, I thought — alone, I suspected, with that thought.

But then, an email from reader Fred Spadaccino: “It wasn’t long ago when a pitcher who’d performed really well was taken out to rousing cheers would doff his hat or raise a hand in appreciation. Saw Matz walk off the mound, a few moments ago. Nothing. Oh, well, just me being me.”

article source