Baseball’s Facial Hair Hell

It only took me one game into the post-season to see that the Philadelphia Phillies, pride of the National League East, are truly something special. And by something special I mean, their goatees are ridiculous, and troubling.

What is it about baseball that encourages fat athletes and redneck stylings? This our “national pastime,” is it not? Are we to be represented, then, by brands of facial hair that a decent person can’t even name?

Let’s take Phillies’ right-hander Brad Lidge, a 6’5″ hurler from Sacramento. His “fat” style goatee is repugnant.

That poor little girl is going to grow up with the sickened memory of Daddy’s “Lidge” rubbing all over her face, much like a damp Brillo pad. Cut it, Brad! Seriously, if he was a golfer, or even a waiter at Applebee’s, this look would never go over. But because he’s a baseball player, not only is he allowed to think like a redneck (and spit openly in public, adjust his jockstrap on national TV, vote Republican, etc), he probably gets to marry a supermodel. It’s not right and it’s not fair.

Moving on, let’s take a look at the Phillies’ right fielder, Jayson Werth. Not only does he have a strange “party” spelling of his first name, he’s got a rugged piece of carpet running down his chin that looks like someone spilled a can of moustache on him in a drunken meth haze. Jayson! Yo, Jayse! Nice WERTH!

Below: what happens when a Werth has to go out in public.

“Baby, what should I wear?”

“Oh, you know, sweetie: your blue velour indoor raincoat with two-inch lapels, that black mock turtleneck, and your decoder ring!”- giggle – “Love your Werth! It’s so straight.”

But the buck doesn’t stop there. Let’s talk Brett Myers, the 240-lb righty, pride of Jacksonville, Florida. Not only does he see Brad Lidge, he goes him one further, on the stringy, pubic-goatee tip:

This guy basically has an underarm growing out of his chin.

Guys, it’s time to come around to the fact that sports are underwritten by, and thus indebted to, their viewing audiences. More and more, we are coming to experience sports as spectacle and as entertainment. Baseball, in particular, is already remarkably boring. The games are excruciatingly long, spiced by awful commercials and the insipid, endless chatter about infield flies, suicide squeezes, and brokeback curveballs. The very least its humble practitioners can do is cut ‘er down. Shave ‘er close. Git that Werth back.