Bush League Chic : NONFICTION : THE HEART OF THE GAME: The Education of a Minor League Ballplayer, <i> By Paul Hemphill (Simon & Schuster: $23; 284 pp.)</i>

By David Seideman

March 31, 1996 12 AM PT

<i> David Seideman is an associate editor at Audubon magazine. He has written on baseball for Time, the New Republic and Tough Stuff</i>

Of all the archetypes ever to define the American spirit, few have retained the hold on the public’s imagination of the baseball phenom from nowhere, reared by a father with a heart of cowhide. Almost overnight, 17-year-old pitcher Bob Feller went from daily throwing sessions with his father behind a barn in an Iowa cow pasture to striking out big-league hitters. Learning to switch-hit under his father’s tutelage in Commerce, Okla., a forlorn lead and zinc mining town, Mickey Mantle had an early nickname, “The Commerce Comet,” that matched his meteoric rise.

All that Marty Malloy, the subject of Paul Hemphill’s sympathetic portrait, is missing is a cardboard suitcase and straw between his teeth. Malloy is a mid-level minor leaguer who played the 1994 season with the Durham (N.C.) Bulls, an affiliate of the Atlanta Braves. He seemed, writes Hemphill, “to represent an America that was hardly there anymore: small-town America, with its trust in hard work, the flag and friendships that last a lifetime.”

“He had grown up in a forgotten corner of Florida in a county with only one traffic light,” Hemphill gushes. Here came Huck to play ball. The classic elements are in place, starting with the doting, if obsessive, father who was a popular high school coach to boot.

Hemphill chronicles the scrappy little 22-year-old second-baseman’s third year making a living as a ballplayer as he gets his uniform dirty working his way up the minor-league ladder. “The Heart of the Game” explores, as its subtitle suggests, “The Education of a Minor League Ballplayer.” Picking the brains of various coaches he meets along the way, Hemphill, a journalist and author, presents a lucid primer on baseball fundamentals that sportswriters, many of whom treat their subject as if it were quantum mechanics, would do well to emulate. Next time I watch an infielder turn a double play without being creamed by an oncoming runner, I’ll better appreciate the components, from taking the feed at the letters for an easier throw to dragging the toe across the bag in one fluid motion. Many fans may not realize, either, that one of the reasons left-handed pitchers enjoy a significant advantage is because batters seldom face them in batting practice; most batting-practice pitchers-cum-coaches are ex-infielders and catchers, who, of course, are right-handed.

The other education Hemphill describes is Malloy’s strenuous lifestyle as a minor leaguer. (The relentless grind suggests a classic line of Bobby Dues, an Atlanta Braves coach, on his preference for the major leagues over the minor leagues: “The grass is greener, the sun’s not as hot and the dirt not as dirty.”) Minor leaguers like Malloy must endure 15-hour bus rides. Pizza is their staff of life; all other restaurants in the small towns they play are closed by the time they leave the field.

Clearly, the fans have more fun than the players. Hemphill was wise to concentrate on Malloy’s team during the team’s final season at the quaint but shopworn ballpark, immortalized in the film “Bull Durham.” Hemphill’s fine eye for detail captures the antics of local college frat boys repeatedly stealing the tail of the mechanical bull sign above the outfield wall. Eager young women bid in charity auctions for chances to date players. The ashes of a pitcher’s deceased grandfather, an old Bulls pitcher himself, were raked into the mound. If ever there was a doubt that baseball fiction cannot improve upon the truth, a player named Wonderful Terrific Monds III shows up to eliminate it. (Upon the birth of his first son after eight girls, his grandfather shouted “Wonderful, terrific!”)

Hemphill so succeeds in evoking the unalloyed joy of the minor leagues that he almost eclipses Malloy. His neglect is understandable, given that Malloy lets his bat do the talking. “He had no interest in books, movies, politics or current affairs except as they related to baseball,” the author allows, “and about the only time he watched television was when sports was involved.”

“No more articulate than the others,” which says a lot, Malloy lets Hemphill articulate his aspirations.

Malloy’s main problem lies in his limitations as a ballplayer. Hemphill admits that he picked Malloy because he represents Everyman and reminded him of himself 40 years ago as a younger, less-talented player. Malloy, who ends up winning the “Team Spirit Award,” the equivalent of honorable mention, may do the little things that win games, such as advancing baserunners by poking ground balls the other way.

But the unforgiving columns of black and white statistics create the impression of a Pete “Charlie Hustle” Rose without the high batting average or gambling problem. Hemphill strains to tout his 15 bunt hits and 58 runs batted in, “extraordinarily high for the top of the order.” Still, Malloy hardly stands out as a can’t-miss prospect, let alone a future major league star. The majors boast Malloys who also run into brick walls while hitting harder, throwing farther and running faster. With more than 5,000 minor leaguers vying for 700 major league jobs, only baseball’s finest survive.

This Darwinian selection accounts for the big leagues’ superiority over the minors, no matter how much “Heart of the Game” succumbs to the genre of bush league chic by contrasting the amiable innocence of Marty Malloys in cozy parks to surly overpaid major league megalomaniacs in industrial stadiums. The attendance records the minor leagues have been setting in recent years prove Hemphill’s case--to a point.

“These were kids still learning to play a very difficult game,” Hemphill is moved to concede, after watching another miscue. “ ‘The Little Rascals’ came to mind.” Like the minors, dinner theater has its manifest charm, but it’s not Broadway.

Writing at the nadir of the 1994 major league baseball strike, Hemphill set out to offer succor to the “innocent fan, forced to cough up an average of $123 just to take his family of four to an Atlanta Braves game.” Since baseball has resumed, fans might be better off viewing minors as a complement rather than an alternative to the majors. In most stadiums they can enjoy upper-deck seats with panoramic, unobstructed views for about the price of movie tickets.

Instead of being forced to buy overpriced hot dogs and souvenirs, they can pack their own food and satisfy their children at local baseball card shows. During summer vacations, far-flung minor league parks may beckon. Meanwhile, it’s time to sit back and admire Tom Glavine’s masterful control or Fred McGriff’s titanic home runs, powerful reminders of why baseball’s best leave the Little Rascals behind.