Playing Small Ball: 5 Ways to Get on Base

A small-ball guide to getting dressed when summer has everyone else mailing it in.

Maybe it’s the dog days of summer, but how can you not be romantic about baseball?

As promised, here are five things that make wearing less and going out more a little easier, plus enough baseball terminology to finally put this bit to bed after this week.

Play ball.

1. Hard-Hit Ground Ball Up the Middle

Can anyone guess what the hard-hit ground ball up the middle is going to be? Anyone?

It’s your basics.

I know what you’re thinking: does this guy ever talk about anything besides his fucking undershirts?

And maybe one day I will. But based on the amount of dirty socks and bacon-collared T-shirts I’ve seen this summer, I don’t think it will be anytime soon.

The heat makes this easier. Everyone around you is doing the bare minimum.

This does not mean you need to wear your communion suit to get a water ice, but a shirt with buttons wouldn’t kill you.

Lean on your broken-in white oxford. Any brand, as long as it’s lived-in and not painted on. You want it to pick up some breeze.

For tees, go soft. I keep going back to the Supima cotton Gap one my mom got me for Christmas that has since vanished from their site. A harsh reminder: when you find a tee you like, cherish it and stock up.

For bottoms, if you have to wear pants, go broken-in: a chino, a fatigue, a light jean, or a linen pant with a drawstring. I love my orSlow Super Dads for when I have to, or feel inspired to, wear a little summer denim.

For shorts, I’m not going into the whole Baggies thing again. Just make sure they fall somewhere between everyone can see your balls and Eurotrash capris. If you need buttons, find something that doesn’t look like you just played 18, avoid tech fabrics, and you’ll be fine.

First and second, no outs.

2. Bunt

Here we have the lost art form of the bunt.

It’s not sexy, but when done right, your dad will point at the TV and say, “See, that’s what today’s game is missing: fundies. Nothing flashy.”

I am your dad.

This is the little shit: how many buttons do I leave open? Is the beater under it suitable for human consumption? Did you remember the belt, jewelry, watch, and sunglasses?

Are you wearing novelty sunglasses you got for shaking your ass down the shore, with some now-defunct hard seltzer brand on the side? Or are you wearing a frame that actually suits your face?

Not doing your hair? Grab your summer hat. Beat to shit, but somehow aged like wine.

On the dogs, don’t be afraid to toss on a loafer. You’re not obligated to. Bostons work most summer days. Keep your carbon-plated kicks for race day. No need to wear those to a cookout.

The last and most important thing is your socks.

Either clean white socks with some height, or no socks at all. If you’re feeling slutty and bold, you can scrunch them.

I don’t want to see a formerly white sock looking like it’s in witness protection. And no one wants to fuck the no-show sock guy.

And if you’re raw-dogging your cleats but afraid you’re going to end up at a shoes-off house, keep a pair of socks on you.

This is called planning.

Make daddy proud.

3. Bloop

Bloops gotta have funk.

A personal item. Something you chose on purpose. It probably shouldn’t work as well as it does, but somehow drops in.

I find that my best bloops are usually merch I pick up at random spots because it just looks cool. A shirt from Bar Harbor. A hat from a pizzeria. Something that already feels lived-in because it came from something you actually did.

Your Eras Tour merch is not a bloop. That’s intentional. A bloop needs to feel like it wandered into your life and somehow made the roster.

Most bloops are not forever items. I’ll intentionally hide funky camp collar shirts for a few summers so I don’t overexpose them and start feeling like my funky little shirt has gone mainstream.

I call this my personal archive. In layman’s terms, a storage unit.

Bloops are experienced before they are styled.

The duality of man, available in booster packs.

4. Line Drive

Sometimes you just square one up.

You toss it on when there’s a decent chance you’re going to get flicked up, or when you simply need to look good.

It does not have to be expensive, but it usually hurts going down.

But damn, does it hit.

A line drive is not your call to wear your American flag hot dog socks.

You are standing out through taste, not volume. You’re not trying to get people to look at you. They just do because it’s undeniable.

Most often, that means an upgrade to your usual shirt rotation.

One of my more recent purchases is this mfpen checked cotton-seersucker shirt—the perfect fabric for summer in a sea of people buying targeted-ad linen shirts.

A note on bottoms from a recovering fun-pants guy: it’s not the way.

I have a pair of Bode shorts I wear sparingly. They even made a Magic City voyage, but wearing them too often can turn your line drive into a dribbler.

5. Reached on an Error

Sometimes you just have to shrug your shoulders and say thank you.

Reaching on an error is the reward for putting in the work, running hard, and living in your clothes. It’s the wrinkle in your shirt, the patina on the brim of your hat, the shoes that have seen things and lived to tell the tale.

It’s your hair after a long day at the beach. No sea salt spray required. You cannot buy this shit.

Don’t crumple your shirt into a ball before wearing it or run over your shoes with a car. You’ll brick.

This does not mean wearing your pit-stained shirts or dirty booty pants.

Patina over posturing.

You are not going to reach on an error every time you get dressed.

But what a feeling when you do.

How could you not be romantic about getting dressed?

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Tell me about your favorite bloop.

Better yet, tag @farefilone in a picture of your slutty scrunched socks.

-SP