At the end of June of this year, the Chicago Cubs and St. Louis Cardinals will play a two-game series at London Stadium. This is the second iteration of the MLB in London Series, which began in 2019 and is Major League Baseball’s attempt to expand its reach into Europe. It is also another contribution to the enduring trend of places hosting events atypical to the venue (London Stadium is the home ground to the soccer club West Ham United). These cross-pollinated experiences have an undeniable draw, and whether it is known to the crowds in attendance or not, there is a spiritual mystique behind their success.
Look, the out-of-place event or repurposed space isn’t new. It dates back centuries. But in 2007 the National Football League made a business decision to capitalize on the European market and has since widened its fanbase abroad with its annual “International Series.” In 2008, the National Hockey League began its still-thriving domestic Winter Classic Series, in which two hockey teams compete on an outdoor rink. The MLB is late to European evangelism, having only previously hosted games in places like Japan, Mexico, and Puerto Rico, where baseball’s popularity is already strong (though to the MLB’s credit, they’ve nailed the domestic Field of Dreams series, and they’ll likely see the same result in London as they have—and Ray Kinsella did—on the Iowa farm). The fact is, despite these efforts appearing to be strictly business, there is something magical about juxtaposing two things sacred in their respective worlds and inviting people to watch.
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Last summer I was in a church, but not at church, absorbing live music and beer in Baltimore’s Canton neighborhood when the headlining musicians called a local college student to join them on stage. The concert was part of an Episcopal Church–curated series with a simple mission: host nonreligious performances in religious spaces. The effort, like MLB’s, was and is to expand institutional reach, as well as to make it known that all human beings are welcome in Episcopalian spaces. This show also proved how a venue can redefine a spiritual experience and broaden the concept of what it means for something to be sacred or holy.
The young local, a music student, sat on a stool and began the hymn “It Is Well with My Soul,” a nod to the venue’s typical set list. At the softening of the second chorus, a house centipede curled its body through a gap in the church floor and propelled itself toward the stage, its antennae flailing like the limbs of a Pentecostal parishioner. It brought me comfort to see this, as I have also been pulled from the basement of my own filth and revived by someone’s love. In what other kind of environment would this animal help me feel understood?
The singer continued and raised her eyes to a plastered, peeling ceiling, though she gazed at nothing, or no one, her eyes neither hollow nor present, a look worn only when peering inward. There were no embellished notes, no vocal runs for show, and no hands lifted. There was just her, comfortably perched on a stool between her accompaniment as she offered her voice to something simultaneously around her and in her heart. This all took place as the audience, tucked into the room on steel chairs, slowly noticed the centipede doing its dance in front of the band. Nobody expressed any fear or disgust, only smiling glances at the creature before returning their attention to the music.
What is a spiritual moment if not an exaltation of someone else’s work, such as a song? Few things are more reverent and selfless. What is a holy act if not showing love—mercy, even—to something often dismissed as vile, like that centipede? Perhaps I was at church and in a church that night.
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The rivalry between Chicago and St. Louis will be enough to intrigue the casual fan in London. Sure, some will be there for the spectacle, but many will bring to their seats a meaningful kinship with their club. For others, the impact of this series won’t be felt until later. The gravity of an experience often evolves or reveals itself with time, and often via unexpected context.
For example, in the summer of 2016 Pearl Jam followed up a 2013 success with their second concert at Wrigley Field. The band’s front man, Eddie Vedder, is a known Cubs fan, and this concert was an obvious juxtaposition of worlds that would marry (and sell) well. Toward the end of the set, Vedder sang “All the Way,” an anthem for fans trying to manifest the club’s first World Series in more than a century. He had sung it before, but with the Cubs now in contention for a League Title, the crowd sang along with palpable belief. Later that year, the Cubs would win their first World Series in 108 years. The response of fans was that of a sacrament. Cemeteries were filled with fans, next to loved ones’ graves, listening to the final game on radios. People etched personal letters in chalk along Wrigley Field’s outer walls; collectively it became an 800-foot memorial to the team. What is a prayer if not speaking to spirits we believe can hear us?
Vedder’s “someday” had arrived, and his song bore new meaning. Maybe it wasn’t prophetic, but it sure seems, in hindsight, like a willing of what was to come. What is a spiritual experience if not a moment where the distinction between faith and true belief is realized?
Who knows what will reveal itself to the attendees of the MLB in London Series, whether in the moment or later, or how impactful it will be? If the 2019 fixture between the Red Sox and Yankees is any indication of what to expect, almost sixty-thousand people will file through the gates to experience Major League Baseball and its sensory overload: the smells and sounds of concessions and vendors, the crack of wood bats connecting with the ball, and the kinship between strangers seeking an enjoyable day at the park. What’s more spiritual than letting a thing enter your heart and fill it with joy?
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In 1871, Horatio Spafford lost his real estate fortune and his four-year-old son to the Great Chicago Fire. Two years later, his wife and four daughters boarded the SS Ville du Havre to England while he stayed behind for work. The ship collided with a sea vessel and sank, killing all of Spafford’s daughters. His wife wrote him a letter to notify him that she was the lone family survivor, and on his way to visit her, as he passed the place where his daughters died, he was inspired to write the lyrics to “It Is Well with My Soul.” What is a holy act if not composing something beautiful from darkness, if not providing a light through which others can see and find their own peace?
I’m not sure if the singer at that church in Baltimore knew this story when she sang the hymn, but the veneration of the secular crowd that night suggests when reverence is paid to something sacred, its impact persists. I learned of this backstory a few weeks after the show, having been unable to shake the experience, and was struck by Spafford’s resilience. I thought of my own young children, the things I try to cultivate in them as my parents did in me. I love the Cubs because of my parents, who love the Cubs because of their parents. The context of Spafford’s story heightened the meaning of the young local’s performance to me, but it cast new light on why I love so many other things, too. An experience can be spiritual. Who you spend it with can make it sacred. A venue can simply illuminate these things, as can paying a little attention to the context and details of the moment.
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I suppose it’s just baseball. A gimmick. A way to fill seats and expand an institutional empire. From a business perspective, this series, like so many other out-of-venue ventures, will likely work and continue to grow. But for fans invested in the details, it can be more. Maybe no kids from London will leave the game and pick up a bat, take it home, and mimic players’ stances as I did when I was a kid. Maybe the day will simply be a good memory for people who love each other, who cherish moments. But seeing a new thing for the first time and an old thing from a new view can be one and the same, much like being in a church or at church. No matter how you view events like these, they are inarguably a reason for strangers in search of something to gather in one place. What’s more spiritual than that? ◆
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