In a Pig’s Eye

It’s nowhere near the most important thing I have ever learned from Mark Kleiman, but his blog post on filbuster reform contained a title phrase I didn’t know: “Go the whole hog”. This was not the usage in the West Virginia of my childhood (where no small number of people raised hogs). Rather, we omitted the “the” and just said “Go whole hog”. But I checked on Google and Mark’s phrasing is a common usage, with which many people have been going hog wild for some time.

As words will sometimes do, “hog” triggered a happy memory. My Babe Ruth league baseball team won our county level competition and travelled to compete against the champs of McDowell County, whom we played at their county fair. I was not a consistent enough hitter to bat third in my team’s lineup, nor powerful enough to hit cleanup, but I was perfect for the number 5 slot in the order because I had a knack for hitting hard line drives where the other team’s players weren’t, allowing me to drive in some runs if and when the true sluggers ahead of me in the lineup left anyone on base.

As in a storybook, I was up to bat in a crucial ninth inning situation. We were losing 6-4, but had “runners on the corners” (first and third base). The crowd, most of whom were probably at the fair primarily to participate in pie baking contests, ring toss booths and the like, nonetheless became engaged in our game, which heightened the excitement.

I started badly, fouling off the first pitch and completely whiffing the second. The hometown crowd was cheering the pitcher on to throw the third strike that would end the game. But somehow I kept my composure and hit his next pitch right on the button into the left centerfield power alley.

The field we were playing on was part of the county fairgrounds and wasn’t really intended for baseball. As a result, there was no outfield fence. With nothing to stop it, my line drive bounced a few times in the outfield out of reach of the racing defenders, caromed off a drain pipe and rolled down into the tents where the livestock competitions were being held. There the ball came to rest in the pen of a champion hog, who immediately ate it.

I was rounding second base as this happened. The outfielders started to yell that it wasn’t fair because they could not get the baseball. The opposing manager charged out onto the field screaming that I had hit the equivalent of a ground rule double and should have to stop on second base with the player on first base only advancing to third, thus maintaining a 6-5 McDowell County lead.

The umpire look flustered for a minute but then made the call that turned me into a hero who had carried his team to a dramatic victory:

Inside the pork home run.

Author: Keith Humphreys

Keith Humphreys is the Esther Ting Memorial Professor of Psychiatry at Stanford University and an Honorary Professor of Psychiatry at Kings College London. His research, teaching and writing have focused on addictive disorders, self-help organizations (e.g., breast cancer support groups, Alcoholics Anonymous), evaluation research methods, and public policy related to health care, mental illness, veterans, drugs, crime and correctional systems. Professor Humphreys' over 300 scholarly articles, monographs and books have been cited over thirteen thousand times by scientific colleagues. He is a regular contributor to Washington Post and has also written for the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Monthly, San Francisco Chronicle, The Guardian (UK), The Telegraph (UK), Times Higher Education (UK), Crossbow (UK) and other media outlets.

15 thoughts on “In a Pig’s Eye”

    1. I’m afraid that’s snout of the question. Keith has been (spare) ribbing good puns long before I came along and started bacon a fuss.

    1. … Dammit, I belatedly realize the joke would be a thousand times better as “shaggy hog story”

  1. How far had you advanced by the time the pig ate the ball? It sounds unlikely that, had the hog pen been empty, the fielders could have picked up the ball and made a play.

    1. Hogwash CJColucci.
      I was there that day and the left fielder had an arm like a gun with a 12-gauge boar.

  2. turned me into a hero who had carried his team to a dramatic victory:

    There you go, hogging the glory.

    1. Can you really blame me for savoring the memory of a day of swine and roses?

  3. Lard, what a boaring story. Shoat’ve kept it to yourself. So unfarrow you to make us read that far.

    Sow’s your game more recently?

  4. I never sausage a bunch of terrible pig jokes. I’m not loin when I say I don’t know ham I going get over reading them. I don’t really know how any bacon recover. It is a sore tribulation. To be frank, further puns seem superfluous. People inclined to persist trotter ask themselves “why are we doing this andouille really want to continue?” Because, you know, it’s all a mistake at this point.

      1. Sorry, I really oughtn’t to carpaccio.

        (carp at you … I’m running out of plausible ones …)

Comments are closed.