I was watching the second game of the playoffs earlier this week (the one that the Braves won 3-0). Matt Olson came to the plate, and I had a couple of flashbacks. It was a simple thing; all he did was stride up to the plate, look at the pitcher, and settle into his stance. No wasted motion. No visible emotion.

I was reminded of John Smoltz coming in from the bullpen during his seasons as a Braves closer. As he approached the mound, he looked like a competent executive on his way to the office. He would get there, dispatch three batters, and go home for the day.

But then there was a stronger memory. As I have already written, baseball is in my blood. It just ran very thin when it came to hitting and throwing. And sometimes catching. Although I never played beyond Little League, I  revered the traditions of the game, it was only while watching the Braves game that I realized one of the important differences between what it is now and what it used to be.

It’s not the designated hitter, nor Sabermetrics, nor its evil spawn, the shift. It’s the attitude.

When my dad and three of his four brothers played for the Benson Bulls there was a visible difference. Every Wednesday and Sunday  afternoon, in season, the team would suit up and go to do battle with Coats or Angier or some other small-town team. They would shed their everyday personas and become baseball players wearing flannel uniforms and carrying a part of the pride of town on their shoulders. Showboating and grandstanding were looked down upon. It was as if the game was not just a game.

They took it very seriously, although they didn’t get paid.

When they took the field, they jogged into position and assumed the baseball ready position, staring toward the plate, knees bent, and their hands resting on their knees. There would be the usual encouraging chatter, some of it essentially senseless (“Hey, batter, batter, batter) and some aspirational (“Can’t hit it if he can’t see it!”).

What there wasn’t was high fives, low fives, skipping around the bases, gold chains, or various gestures, religious or otherwise. The Benson Bulls and the teams that they faced approached the game in a workmanlike manner, meaning that they employed  their skills in a way that was competent and of acceptable quality. In the balance between appearance and result, for them, result was what counted most and excessive display was to be avoided.

It's not that I’m opposed to bling, high-fives, or antics along the baselines. As an orthodox live-and-let-liver, I’m in favor of people doing what they want so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else. However, I miss the solemnity of the game as it was once played, the dedication to the traditional rules (with the possible exception of the spitball), and the players who would give up their bodies simply for the love of the game.

I also believe that in this day of bobblehead dolls, fake mustaches, headbands, and phony  gold giveaway chains, we lose some of the focus. That’s probably true of a lot of things in our time: we value appearance or trinkets above results.

But it made me feel good to see Matt Olson stride to the plate, settle into his stance, and get ready to go one-on-one with the pitcher. He does seem to approach his job in a workmanlike manner.