Patriotism on Cue

When Love of Country Becomes a Performance

There’s always a moment just before the first pitch when we all rise. It's muscle memory at this point. You stand, you remove your cap, you face the flag. Maybe it’s an a cappella version of the national anthem. Maybe it's a pre-recorded performance echoing through the concourse while people shuffle to their seats with beers and nachos. I do it. I’ve always done it. I’m used to it. That’s not what bothers me.

What’s been sticking with me more and more is what happens in the middle of the game, the moment when a stadium voice politely instructs us to rise again, this time for God Bless America.

There’s no pause for reflection. No room to opt out. No space to think.

It’s a cue, like a prompt in a play. And if you don’t follow it, you feel it, that strange, tight energy around you. It’s not reverence. It’s surveillance.

I don’t remember God Bless America being part of every game growing up. The national anthem, sure, that’s been part of the baseball experience as far back as I can remember. But this second song, this additional pledge of allegiance... when did that become the norm?

I looked it up. It turns out, this all started after 9/11. Yankee Stadium began playing God Bless America during the seventh-inning stretch to show unity and resolve. Other teams followed suit. At first, it meant something. But like all rituals that get repeated too often and too automatically, it’s lost something. It’s become less about feeling and more about compliance.

I’m not against patriotism. I love the “idea” of America, deeply. But I’m struggling more and more with how that idea gets performed. Especially in public, corporate-sponsored ways that leave no space for nuance, dissent, or quiet disagreement.

There’s usually a veteran honored sometime during the game. And I mean this sincerely, they should be honored. I’m glad they are. They’ve given something that most of us never have and never will. But the way the moment is presented feels so… packaged.

The announcement. The slow pan of the camera. The sponsor’s logo on the screen: “Tonight’s Salute to Service brought to you by...” We all clap. Some people stand. It feels like we’re supposed to clap, like we’re being tested. Like not clapping would somehow mean you’re un-American.

And that fucking bothers me, not because I don’t want to be grateful, but because I don’t want that gratitude turned into a sales pitch or a loyalty check.

There’s a chest-thumping, hyper-produced nationalism at the ballpark now. Jet flyovers. Camo jerseys. Special flag-draped hats made for Memorial Day, Independence Day, 9/11. A new drop of patriot-branded merch for every holiday. And fans buy in, because they want to show support. But I keep wondering, are we supporting or signaling?

Sometimes I don’t feel like participating. I just want to sit with my thoughts. And in those moments, I feel eyes. I feel the judgment. I feel the unspoken pressure, prove your loyalty asshole or risk being labeled.

And then I think, when did loving your country mean you had to demonstrate it on demand?

I think about the players especially the foreign-born ones. The ones who grew up in the Dominican Republic, Japan, Venezuela, Cuba. The ones who came here to play a game, to chase a dream, to support their families. They stand too. Quietly. Some stare down. Some glance up. What are they thinking?

Are they proud? Conflicted? Confused? Or just going through the motions?

We never ask. But we expect them to perform like we do. We expect them to participate in our rituals. It's subtle, but it's real. The message is “this is how we do it here”. And that’s not patriotism either. That’s assimilation by pressure.

The older I get, the more I see the cracks between what America says it stands for and what actually happens. I believe in the founding ideas. I believe in liberty, in fairness, in the right to dissent. But those things feel more fragile now more like marketing slogans than active values.

And it stings a little to see that reflected in baseball this game that has always felt like home to me. The diamond used to be a place where we could just be. Now it feels like a place where we’re being watched. Where everything is branded. Where even silence has a script.

I’ll still stand for the anthem. Not because I’m told to, but because I choose to. I’ll clap for the veteran not because I’m afraid not to, but because I respect their service. But when I’m told to rise again in the seventh, or when I’m surrounded by flags and symbols and soundbites that feel more like marketing than meaning, I get tired. Tired of the noise. Tired of the expectation. Tired of being told that patriotism means putting on a show.

Sometimes the most American thing you can do is sit quietly and think for yourself.