NCSDO

Strikes and Strokes

Cursed—that's what I am. Imagine waiting your whole lifetime to reach a tropical island, and when you finally get there, the beaches are covered with biting flies. But I get ahead of myself.

When Senators baseball left DC in 1971, it was a dark day for Baltimore. As the closest team to the south was now in Atlanta, it meant that Orioles territory extended to somewhere in North Carolina—and that, in deference to fans in the greater region, "Baltimore" would no longer grace the front of the team's away jerseys. Whatever resistance there was to the idea wasn't enough: the city's name was officially stripped in 1973. Six years later—the year the O's lost the World Series to the Pirates—I was born.

Think of my jubilation when, in 2005, a baseball team finally returned to Washington. Could it be that Orioles players would again proudly wear the name of my beloved town when on the road? Would the glory days of the late 60s/early 70s return to Baltimore? I dared to hope.

This year, my wish came true. I couldn't wait to own one of the new jerseys, to show my allegiance not only to the O's but to the city where I live and work.

I made my way to the ballpark store and approached the rack.

My throat tightened.

My eyes bulged.

I stared at the travesty before me.

There was the long-lost script "Baltimore," sure enough, emblazoned across the jersey. The familiar finial of the "e" reaching back toward the stem of the "B" to underscore the word. The flourishing loops in the "B" and the "o." The bright orange letter forms outlined in black to match the piping on the sleeves. But in the midst of it all, where the shirt came together between the second and third buttons...a broken "t"! Instead of extending the ligature between letters—as is customary—and as had been done between 1956 and 1972—someone had chosen to repeat a portion of the "t" on both sides of the shirtfront, splitting the ascender up the middle and demolishing the cross stroke.



I've spent my life following baseball, my life learning about design. Good design, like a uniform, is about cohesiveness and unity. It reflects a pride in details cleanly rendered, an attention to balance and harmony. Likewise, baseball—a simple, elegant sport—is embodied in script lettering. In the grace of its strokes lies a charm and history that should be treated with respect.

Now, on the emblem of my own team's jersey, the two have come together—and neither is the better for it. One need not be a designer to recognize that a wretched mess has been made, an abomination committed. And not only against baseball. Against me.

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Design  

Posted by Adam Palmer on Thu, 07 May 2009 05:32:36 -0400   |    Permalink