AN ARTICLE on baseball would never be complete without mention of my father. I don’t know why. Perhaps this is another shrink issue and I should altogether stop writing articles on my hangups over the fact that we’re being lied to about everything. Sure, he took me to Dodgers and Angels games as a child, but baseball was likely only nostalgic to my father because it was nostalgic to his father before him. This also probably explains why my grandfather attended our father-and-son outings. That is to say, we were not a sports addict family. We peered in and digested the enthusiasm, but only sparingly. I figure their noticeable interest ultimately had something to do with our American pastime. Hot dogs and the cult of patriotism and all that. Baseball was just something we did once in a while, kind of like visiting Mount Rushmore or the Grand Canyon. I also have a hunch that the nostalgia can ultimately be traced back to my grandfather, Linwood Hadley, a man whom I’ve never met nor rarely ever heard mentioned except in passing, but whose profound influence could be felt in the manner of my upbringing.
So, I guess you could say this is a follow-up to my recent paper on the Boy Scouts of America, which you can read about here. Boy Scouts. If you’re already confused, and you certainly wouldn’t be the first, the Boy Scouts were created by Freemasons for the purposes of initiation. But what’s new about that? John Wayne and Nat King Cole are a large part of our national pastime and they’re both Freemasons, pushing the masonic agenda in everything they did. My great-grandfather was too—Freemason. Hence baseball and the Boy Scouts, which brings up my next point. I never even really thought about baseball until my web guy told me in passing that he doesn’t like the sport because it’s a masonic ceremony, and I was like, “Wait, what…?”
My readers assume I have this all figured out and yet I’m simply discovering the man pulling the strings whenever I happen to pass each curtain. Our ultimate goal should be to get the hell out of Babylon by removing one layer of occult clothing at a time. This takes a dedicated effort. You too can do your own research into all things esoteric, including baseball. If that’s what you’re committed to at this very moment, then welcome. I’m eager to tear down my false paradigm and climb out of the labyrinth of lies we’ve been indoctrinating into navigating from the time we could walk and talk, perhaps more eagerly than just about anyone. I want out of Babylon.
Let’s get to it then. While I don’t expect this to become another multi-part series like my recent The JFK Assassination Was a Hoax two-parter, which you can read here, Agent Zapruder, and here, Zapruder Film Hoax, I will similarly deal first with the spooks involved in the game and the intended ceremony before turning my attention to Tinseltown. For the sake of argument, we’ll just call this a movie review.
If the fact that I’m so willing to chuck a piece of Americana into the rotting garbage heap that is the Lake of Fire annoys you, then feel free to write your shill rebuttal about how baseball is not a masonic ceremony. Continue on with the bread and circuses and paying no attention to the man behind the curtain, that sort of thing. Shill reports and gate-keeping academics are a dime a dozen. Entire Christian ministries are devoted to them. I don’t even care anymore. Yahusha is soon returning and when he does, baseball is going to burn. Better get used to it now. Every high place is coming down. Hugh Hefner’s Hollywood sign will have to wait its turn behind every church steeple.
Freemasons. Theosophists. Spooks.
I can probably recite two-, maybe three-dozen baseball players off the top of my head. Mickey Mantle. Lou Gehrig. Ken Griffey Jr. Yogi Berra. Also, Joe DiMaggio, thanks in part to Simon and Garfunkel. My first thought, after hearing that baseball was a masonic ritual, was to begin typing random names into the search engine. I wasn’t disappointed.
Babe Ruth was a Freemason. Willie Mays was a Freemason. Ted Williams was a Freemason. Rogers Hornsby. Cy Young. Ty Cobb. Honus Wagner. All Freemasons. In fact, masonic websites insist that baseball players are notoriously known for their involvement in the brotherhood. Freemason Branch Rickey signed Jackie Robinson to the sport, and I’m willing to bet Jackie was a brother. They’re probably all Freemasons.
You will accuse me of wild accusations based upon several Google searches and a hunch, but if you’ve taken the time to read my work, then you should know by now that secret societies like to pinpoint certain key individuals as road markers to the psyop while hiding the greater number of players, so as to throw us off their scent, but also to build the illusion that is the American dream and cause the spell to do its intended work.
We will get to the ceremony aspect of baseball in a moment. First however, I wanted to show you what a very simple search on Amazon.com provided. Freemasons are clearly into the idea that baseball is one of their own home brewed science projects. But even more important than the featured product—a tie clip, I want you to pay particular attention to the actual square and compass design, here cleverly swapped out with three bases on the diamond field, two baseball bats, and the pitchers mound in the place of God. Believe it or not, I’ve already given you a preview into the ceremony. You’ll want to take a note of the fact that the pitcher mound and the ball is a stand-in for the “Big G.”
Come to think of it, the design is not so clever after all.
And that is because baseball did not become a sport of Freemasonry after endless nights of flamboyant apron-wearing and blindfolded, noose-wearing initiates were led into the dark among a roomful of closeted homosexuals. It was esoterically designed from its very conception. Like every ancient hieroglyph, the ultimate purpose of the Mystery religions is to lead the neophyte to knowledge of the god within. The immortal soul. If you don’t know how this works, then I suggest reading the following papers: Plato. Homer. Shroud of Turin. Pinocchio. Elvis Presley. Christian Steeple. Christian Cross. Coiled Double-Helix. Watson & Crick. The Lion King. Birthday Candles. Isaac Newton. Statues.
Therefore, I decided to take my inquiry back to the very beginning, and this is what I found.
Spook literature only grudgingly identifies baseball’s inventor as a certain Abner Doubleday (1819-1893). For whatever reason, they’re attempting to spin the narrative, and it appears as though the bones of Doubleday, buried today at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York (the very location of baseballs invention in 1839), are caught up in an identity crisis. The very thing is happening with the Apollo moon missions, by the way. I half-expect knowledge of the lunar landing to be scrubbed from public consciousness in the coming decades. The baseball crisis may or may not have something to do with the fact that Doubleday was a Theosophist. In 1878, Doubleday relocated to Mendham Township, New Jersey, just 40 miles due west of New York City. His move apparently had something to do with the fact that Helena Blavatsky and Henry Steel Olcott, founders of Theosophy, moved to India that very year. Doubleday became the president of American Theosophy in the wake of their absence.
Theosophy’s founders were spooks, and Doubleday was no exception. Was he also a Freemason? We are not told. But Doubleday did fight at the battle of Gettysburg and that was one big flamboyant masonic summer festival.
The Wikipedia describes his “greatest accomplishment,” wink-wink, by highlighting the fact that Doubleday aimed the cannon that fired the first return shot in answer to the Confederate bombardment of Fort Sumter on April 12, 1861. Major Robert Anderson, who would be knighted in New York City the following year, was Sumter’s defender and he was a Freemason. Then again, P.G.T. Beauregard, who fired upon Sumter, was a highly ranked Freemason, having only recently been knighted. Try not to let cognitive dissonance win the day.
On April 12, 1861, there was a lot of Boom! Boom! Boom! going on in Charleston Harbor and nobody died. This well known fact has often bothered me. They could have at least faked the numbers, as they so often do. Nobody would question a hundred casualties with names like Jedediah Smith or Henry Jones. The only mortal injury happened afterwards during a 100-gun salute—a certain Private Daniel Hough. It is not an accident by any means that Fort Sumter resides on the northern 33rd parallel. The Civil War began with the lowering of the American flag at Fort Sumter on April 14, 1861 by Freemason Robert Anderson. It ended four years later, when Anderson raised the American flag over Fort Sumter on April 14, 1865. Same date. Abraham Lincoln was shot at Ford’s Theater by spook John Wilkes Booth that very night. April 14. I am reminded of the fact that the RMS Titanic hit an iceberg in the North Atlantic at 11:40 p.m. on April 14. Both were hoaxes.
The inventor of baseball was involved in Fort Sumter, the opening ceremony to a very strange war.
Baseball has another inventor in the person of Alexander Cartwright (1820-1892). Cartwright was an undeniable Freemason, and once again, his importance as the “father of baseball” is in dispute. Its origins can ultimately be found in something called Knickerbocker, from which the New York based Gotham Base Ball Club is named. In 1842, Cartwright broke away from Gotham and led the establishment of the Knickerbocker Base Ball Club. Actually, Cartwright had a part in the 1849 California gold rush hoax. If you haven’t already, you’ll want to read my paper, I Do Not Believe in the 1849 Gold Rush. It involves masons, Mormons, and the military. I suspect the rally cry for gold was simply alchemical in nature, a coded language which Cartwright would have been outright familiar with. We are not told who Cartwright spoke with in California, but he quickly reemerged as fire chief of Honolulu in 1850, a position he would hold until 1863. If that doesn’t impress you, the fact that a New York lawyer turned gold prospector turned fire chief then became an advisor to Queen Emma and her successor, King Kalakaua, should.
Kalakaua was the last reigning monarch of the kingdom of Hawaii. The eventual overthrow is undoubtedly due to the fact that spooks had surrounded the family for several decades, preparing for America’s westward expansion and a little bait and hook called Pearl Harbor. Among them were the royal house of Hastings, involved in far too many psyops and historical hoaxes to number, which you can read about here. Donner Party Family Relations. Agent Cartwright died on July 12, 1892, six months before the Hawaiian monarchy’s abrupt end in 1893. It is by no means a coincidence that one of the leaders of the overthrow movement was Lorrin Thurston.
Thurston played baseball with Alexander Cartwright III.
So far we have mentioned Theosophist Doubleday and Freemasons Alexander Cartwright and Lorrin Thurston. Sometime in 1837, before Cartwright broke away from the Gotham Base Ball Club, Knickerbocker rules were formalized by another founder, William Wheaton. I checked. Wheaton was a Freemason, and just like Cartwright, Wheaton arrived to the Gold Rush psyop precisely on schedule. Wheaton was a forty-niner. As if I’m not already suspicious enough as to what they were hiding in California, particularly the per-existent cities of San Francisco and Sacramento, Wheaton was later appointed in 1876 by US president Ulysses S. Grant to the Register of the General Land Office of the United States, a position which he held until 1886.
Actually, as anyone who investigates this sort of thing will surely come to find, masonic baseball leagues were common practice in the first couple decades of the twentieth century. So many masons surround baseball, that eventually, one has little choice but to throw up their hands from the keyboard and go, Duh.
Let’s put it this way. I could come up with my own sport. I could then go about proving to you that it’s the greatest sport since Aztecs used human heads as a pitching and hoop dunking ball. I could gather my Truther friends into an empty field—perhaps where the train tracks meet Walmart—and provide a series of YouTube demos proving to the world how incredible my new sport truly is. But nobody’s going to play my modern day version of the ritual human sacrifice, because baseball diamonds carved into the grass of practically every American city doesn’t simply happen on its own merit. That’s not how the world actually works. We only know about baseball and a place called Elysian Fields, which I shall turn to in a moment, because spooks create the news and write the books and also the reviews. And if that doesn’t work, they will purchase every first edition from the shelves and spend millions on their own crap art so as to guide the hand of every American as they cross the street. Or in the case of baseball, they will fill the bleachers with spooks.
Case in point. By 1856, Andrew Chadwick, a sportswriter for The New York Times, had already begun pushing the idea that baseball would become America’s pastime. A couple dozen Lodge brothers were cracking their bat with a ball in a little field outside of New York and Chadwick’s selling America on grassroots. A quick search on The Wikipedia will easily demonstrate that spook behavior surrounds Chadwick. His grandfather was a close friend of the Wesley brothers. His father had an unspecified part in the French Revolution, and his brother, Sir Edwin Chadwick, became England’s “sanitary philosopher.” Essentially, Sir Edwin helped pave the way for Agenda 2030 by developing environmental measures and laws designed to counteract the effects of the Industrial Revolution. See what they did there? Out of chaos comes order. Chadwick was married to Jane Botts of the Virginia Botts family. Already, I’ve given you four separate rabbit trails in the life of Andrew Chadwick, sportswriter for The New York Times. Each probably deserves its own paper. Spooks all swim in the same circle.
The Gnostic Journey
The year was still 1845 when, in Hoboken, New Jersey, a baseball diamond was carved out of the grass. The place was called Elysian Field. From here, America’s pastime would become seared into the American consciousness. On June 19, 1846, the Knickerbockers played the New York Nine in the first officially recorded game between two clubs. Alexander Cartwright oversaw the ceremony as umpire.
Hopefully you placed a Neil Armstrong Hollywood basement moon flag after reading Elysian Field, because we’ve just been given another handshake introduction to the worship of Demeter and Persephone. Be sure to place another next to Cartwright’s role as umpire. In the ancient Eleusinian Mysteries, immortal rites were reserved only for mortals related to the gods, specifically those chosen by the gods. The importance of the spiritual Elysian Plane cannot be understated in practically every Mystery religion, including Freemasonry, especially as it pertains to the earthly function of secret societies. And also this topic. Baseball. I will once more refer you to my papers on Isis and modern day alchemy, Pinocchio, and also Sun worship and the human avatar, Alexander the Great, because the assignment which initiates received from the gods in the mortal realm hoped to adjoin with their employment in heaven. Alexander Cartwright and his associates chose Elysian Field because they were thinking in metaphysical terms. It was the immortal soul they were after.
Baseball hinges upon sacred geometry and is entirely based upon the number 3. I will therefore remind you: so is Freemasonry.
Consider the following:
27 total outs.
81 games on the road.
Since we’re on the subject of numbers, I’ll happily admit to the fact that I’m terrible at math, but I haven’t even begun to dig into the honesty yet. Truth is, I’d rather walk barefoot in the snow uphill both ways or play a game of Russian Roulette with Dirty Harry than sign up for another round of algebra. Just in case you too are terrible at math, then I’ve walked the line between sanity and the banana peel by slapping together a couple of math equations.
3 x 9 = 27
9 x 9 = 81
See how math works? Mm-hmm. Math. It nearly fractured my mind.
A moment or two ago I was trying to find out who it was that first called baseball a national religion; it is a person by the name of Morris Raphael Cohen. Perhaps I never understood the connection as a child between hobby and religion because baseball came across as all sport and no ritual. Then again, I never understood checkerboard tile as a duality, which just so happens to be how baseball fields are trimmed nowadays. In reality, baseball represents the maintenance of the cosmic order of the universe and the ritual regeneration of life, but only among the initiated.
One thoughtful glance at the above illustration, four corners of the realm and the firmament, and it’s like everybody knows the earth is motionless and flat, positioned under a solid dome. Everyone but the gullible masses. Uh-huh, keep laughing. If you’re wondering who the gullible masses are, they’re the people hollering and jeering, stuffing their faces with peanuts and Cracker Jack in the stands. They pay the ticket price merely for the elementary explanation of the hieroglyph and the exoteric amusements of life. They show up to Disney World merely for the imaginative magic and not the performance witchcraft. Disney World. The game is set up that way.
There are few better analogies to the fact that the world is a stage and its star players are traded around on various corporate-owned team rosters than the uninitiated arriving to watch and act like patriotic buffoons, as one would expect of the profane, while the initiated perform immortal rites. If you think I am simultaneously describing a Trump or Biden rally, or a Trump and Clinton rally, or a Romney and Obama rally, or a McCain and Obama rally, or a Bush and Kerry rally, or a Bush and Gore rally, then you would be correct. Also, if you think Cracker Jack deserves an “s” at the end of it, then you’ve just been Mandela Effected.
Baseball can perhaps best be described in the esoteric strokes of a Gnostic journey.
We will close on this thought. But here’s the thing. If you are proficient in understanding the esoteric, I needn’t illustrate anything. Just this weekend I was sitting in a hotel outside of Atlanta, hanging with fellow “Truthers,” and one of them asked: “So, what’s the subject of your next paper, Noel?”
I said: “Baseball as a masonic ceremony.”
A couple of those sitting near me dropped their jaw and were like, “Um, wow.”
It was a moment of instantaneous realization. Like me, they had never once thought to consider baseball as anything other than an American pastime, or perhaps an outing with their dad in another disjointed decade—thoughts which only fill the landscape of their minds now in passing. All it took was sliding two separate words together, baseball and Freemasonry, and they knew. A friend immediately arranged five separate beer glasses into a square and compass design and began to read off the hieroglyphs. See what I mean?
The narrative goes something like this.
It is the spring equinox. Persephone is released from her annual bondage in Hades and the game, much like harvest, can commence. A sacred song is rehearsed and then the players, dressed in pure white ceremonial garbs, take their place on the sacred quadrant. The priests dressed in blue, umpires, know the “law” and therefore ensure the ritual is rightly performed. But as spectators, our attention is turned upon the pitcher playing the part of the evil Demiurge. Yahuah. The field itself is the Earth, by which the batter must navigate without obstruction in order to obtain illumination. When he steps up to home plate, it is his moment to defeat the dust he is shackled to and shine like the stars in the firmament above. The four bases represent the four elements. Home base is most obviously the Earth, with third base, often referred to as the “hot corner,” signifying Fire. Naturally, the pitcher’s mound makes up the fifth element, and that is Spirit. The shortstop, which is considered to be among the most demanding defensive positions, navigates swiftly between the spiritual planes like Hermes.
With the batter, we quickly arrive at the phallic aspects of this ritual. The home plate player raises his bat, which is not the law of the Demiurge but the law of Freemasonry and the sacred wand of the ancient Mysteries—a gnosis which can be known but never described. Only the most disciplined of neophytes will succeed. If he strikes out, it is because he was not successful 1/3 of the time, and the Grand Architect, who is also the accuser, has secured his place in this present Hades. He must then go back into the dugouts, the ancestral womb by which he was formed, until he is called upon again to bat in another incarnation.
The ball itself is the batter’s spirit or soul. If the batter fails to vex the accuser, his spirit then naturally returns to “God.” If he knocks it out of the realm, then he triumphs in so much as his soul has ascended beyond the firmament, prison walls of the Demiurge’s making.
He is now immortal.
Assuming you have read this far, then let’s take what we’ve learned today and apply it to something which I’m almost certain everyone should be familiar with. The added ingredient to every father and son story probably involves puberty, and one of my greatest adolescent expressions came while seated next to my mother in a dark theater, watching a baseball movie. Every hormonal angst was conveyed in a single moment when the boy with glasses fakes his own drowning at the public pool simply so that Wendy Peffercorn can resuscitate him.
The movie in question is The Sandlot. I probably don’t need to rehearse the plot, but it goes something like this.
In the summer of 1962, Scotty Smalls moves with his parents to the San Fernando Valley, where he has difficulty making friends. Although he attempts to hone in upon a group of boys who play baseball religiously in a local sandlot, he is embarrassed by his inability to catch or throw the ball, and his step-father is too busy, or perhaps uninterested, to teach him. Only Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez has the faith and patience to teach Scotty the discipline necessary for the game. As the narrative unfolds, baseball quickly becomes a metaphor for the fleeting moments of youth and the bond of brotherhood which very few seem to find.
Quite unlike masonic allegories akin to Angels in the Outfield, where terrible baseball players need Past Masters to assist them in their journey to the World Series, hitting the ball out of the park has never proven a problem for Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez. Rather, Benny has never been pushed to his own outer limits and tested. The ultimate obstacle, we come to find, is that every single ball Benny knocks over the fence line is guarded by a dog named The Beast. If we’re keeping a lookout for the esoteric strokes of Freemasonry—the relationship between the phallus and the soul—then the English Mastiff should be easily recognized as a stand-in for Hades. Complications further arise when Benny catapults yet another ball, this time unknowingly signed by Babe Ruth, beyond the realm, only to have The Beast paw and gnaw at it in every way possible.
Much like a scene involving Isis incarnate in The Golden Ass, it will take a Mithraic-like vision of ascended Past Master Babe Ruth, who enters Benny’s room through the closet by night, to initiate Rodriguez into the immortal fraternity.
“Let me tell you something about it, kid. Everybody gets one chance to do something great. Most people hardly ever take the chance, either because they’re too scared or because they’re unable to recognize it when it spits on their shoes. This is your big chance, and you should never let it go by.”
The Sultan of Swat adds:
“Remember, kid, there’s heroes and there’s legends; heroes get remembered, but legends never die. Follow your heart, kid, and you’ll never go wrong.”
Here we can easily ascertain the stark contrast between a recycled soul in the dugout and an ascended immortal. Benny “The Jet” may be a hero, but he has never truly conquered death, thereby securing his spot as a legend. Rodriguez knows exactly what he needs to do. Break the uneasy but longstanding truce with the Mastiff. In an unprecedented move, and against everyone’s pleas for rationality, Benny plummets over the fence, retrieves the ball, and then scrambles back into the sand lot unscathed. That is, until The Beast breaks through the measly boards separating them, as if its confinement behind the spiritual curtain had always been nothing.
An epic chase ensues, but in the end, The Beast is tamed. Actually, he becomes their mascot.
The dogs owner, a black man named Thelonius Mertle, who seems to exemplify the blind bard of Homeric legend, rewards Benny Rodriguez’s bravery by trading them the chewed-up ball for one autographed by the entire 1927 New York Yankees. They have received the blessing and the favor of the gods.
Baseball is a metaphysical narrative.