Baseball is almost the only orderly thing in a very unorderly

When Bill Veeck, the maverick owner and visionary of baseball, declared, “Baseball is almost the only orderly thing in a very unorderly world. If you get three strikes, even the best lawyer in the world can’t get you off,” he was speaking not only of sport, but of the eternal human longing for justice, structure, and truth. In this saying, Veeck unveils a paradox: that amidst the chaos of life—its corruption, its uncertainty, its cruel arbitrariness—baseball shines as a realm where the rules are simple, fair, and immutable. On the diamond, there is no favoritism, no trickery of language, no courtroom loopholes. Three strikes, and you are out. No appeals, no excuses, no disguises.

The origin of this wisdom lies in Veeck’s own life, for he was both a showman and a reformer. Known for his colorful promotions and daring innovations, he loved the drama of the game, but he also understood its sacred order. In an age when society bent rules for the powerful and ignored the cries of the weak, Veeck revered baseball as a sanctuary of balance. A pauper or a millionaire, a lawyer or a farmer—it mattered not. If the umpire called strike three, all were equal beneath the law of the game. In that simplicity, Veeck found something noble, something purer than the tangled affairs of the world beyond the outfield walls.

The ancients, too, yearned for such certainty. They spoke of dike, the goddess of justice, who weighed men’s deeds without favor. But in the courts of men, justice was often twisted by gold, power, or clever tongues. How rare, then, is a realm where rules do not bend! In baseball, the measure is exact, the law unshaken. Just as the stars keep their order in the heavens, so too does the game preserve its truth: three strikes and you are out. To the weary soul navigating the storm of life, this is a beacon of stability.

Think of Babe Ruth, who struck out nearly twice as often as he homered. His greatness lay not in avoiding the rule, but in embracing it. He failed, again and again, under the clear justice of baseball’s law—but he also triumphed within it. Contrast this with the world of politics, where a man might fail and yet maneuver his way to honor, or in business, where misdeeds might be hidden behind contracts and counsel. Baseball tolerates no such disguises. Ruth struck out when the strikes came, and so the game kept its purity, even for its greatest hero.

The lesson for us is powerful: live by the rule of honesty and order, not by the evasions of cunning. In life, as in baseball, there will be defeats, but let them be fair defeats, governed by truth, not deception. Do not seek to twist the world with clever words when your failures come—accept them, learn from them, and rise again to the plate. For the man who learns to live under firm and just rules finds a freedom greater than any lawyer can win for him: the freedom of a clear conscience.

What then shall we do? First, we must embrace the order in our lives, even when it leads to failure. Let the boundaries of truth guide us, not the slippery arts of excuse. Second, we must honor systems of fairness wherever they are found, defending them against corruption. Third, we must apply to our daily battles the lesson of the batter’s box: swing boldly, accept your strikes, and step forward again without complaint. Life will grant us many innings, and those who endure with integrity will find their victories.

Thus, Bill Veeck’s words endure as both jest and judgment: “If you get three strikes, even the best lawyer in the world can’t get you off.” They remind us that while the world is unorderly, we may yet anchor ourselves to truth. Baseball, with its unbending rules, is more than a game—it is a mirror of what life could be if lived with honesty, equality, and courage. Let us then step to the plate of our own lives with the same spirit: ready to face the count, ready to take our swings, ready to accept both defeat and triumph with dignity. For in that spirit lies the highest order in a world forever in turmoil.