Does MLB even like baseball?
Does MLB even like baseball?
One fan's thoughts on the current state of the game
Every summer I try to watch the Little League World Series on ESPN. At least a few innings here and there or a game or two in the earlier rounds of the tournament, and then of course the championship game. It always refreshes my love of the game of baseball.
Little Leaguers epitomize the art of trying. No one plays with more heart. Certainly not the professionals who make millions of dollars playing for the corporations masquerading as teams in Major League Baseball. These kids throw and catch and swing and hit with such intensity, they run and jump, they dive and slide, they smile and laugh and cry and scream, and they radiate joy and a full immersion in the moment that seems to elude the professional players, indeed the modern adult in general.
They also remind me of how I fell for the game in the first place.
It started when my dad took me to Candlestick Park when I was little. Five years old, Giants and Cards, 1963. I saw Willie Mays and I was awestruck by his speed, his grace, his power and magnetism. Unforgettable. But it really took hold a few years later when I started playing the game myself. And watching the kids in the Little League World Series always takes me back to that.
Three Flies Up on the playground during recess. Saturday pick-up games with five guys on a side. Playing catch with Dad in the front yard. Wiffle ball at the neighbor’s house. Imaginary games played in my head while bouncing a beat-up dirt-brown hardball against the retaining wall until holes broke open in the cinderblock. Eight years old on my first team, looking at my coach like some mythical hero. Breaking in a new mitt with glove oil, an old ball and two shoelaces. Ten years old in my first full uni, real cleats, stirrup socks.
In the late 70s, I coached a Farm League team (there was still no such thing as Tee-ball, at least in my town) for a couple years with some buddies, a few guys I knew from school or work. Man, we were a motley crew. Bunch of hard-drinking working class heroes, some of us barely into our twenties, none of us great players or even great students of the game. But every one of us had played and loved the game as children, and every one of us loved passing that on to the kids we coached.
Our team never went to the Little League World Series, but our kids played with the same joy and the same all-out effort. To the limit of their skills (or perhaps their coaches’ skills), and with every bit of their hearts. And I’m willing to bet many of them came away with a deep and abiding love of the game.
In recent years, Major League Baseball officals have been in the workshed, frantically tinkering with the game, turning this screw, hammering that nail, wrenching on bolts. All in the name of attracting more fans, specifically younger fans. They’ve made a series of rule changes to speed up play and create more offense in the game. They’ve even hooked up with a huge gaming firm to juice up fan engagement. That’s right, MLB, for all intents and purposes, now has an official league bookie (but that’s another rant all by itself).
Individual teams have also made changes to their product, changes designed to appeal to a younger crowd. At their ballparks, they’ve added huge video screens and booming sound systems and countless promotional gimmicks.
I saw this first-hand when my wife and I took my father and a friend to a Giants game this year. I’ve been to my share of games over the years, both at Candlestick and Pac-Bell/AT&T/Oracle Park, although I hadn’t been in awhile. We live 2.5 hours from San Francisco, so it’s always something of a project to get to a game. And man, it’s gotten expensive. Even though I got the tickets fairly cheap, the travel and the food and drink kicked my wallet’s ass. (For example: just four dogs and four beers, $108.) Throw in another round and a little merch and my VISA card was crying uncle.
And the experience this time was… different.
I’ve always enjoyed the roomy rhythm of live baseball. You know—it’s a breezy shirt-sleeve salty beerfoam day. You start up a conversation with the stranger in the next seat. Maybe someone on the other side of you is patiently, diligently—and quietly—recording the details of the game on their scorecard. You laugh at the heckler several rows down. Hey Blue, he says, Try using both eyes. There’s a guy coming down the stairs yelling, Beer here, cold beer. You can actually hear the pop of a fastball hitting the catcher’s mitt and the umpire yelling, Stee-rike! The organ player plays the intro and the crowd yells, Charge! right on cue. At the crack of the bat, the whole place roars or groans in unison.
If you’re an attentive fan, you’re watching to see how the players adjust to every pitch. Is the centerfielder playing deep or shallow, straightaway or cheating left or right? Are the infielders at double-play depth, or drawn in to prevent a score from third? Does the batter adjust his stance or grip with two strikes on him? Where is the catcher holding the target for the pitcher? How big of a lead is the runner taking off first?
And I’ve always found there was time for all of that and more during a day at the ballpark. Not just time but space, as in mindspace, or call it the capacity to process stimuli. Like I love it when you see someone taking a nap at a baseball game. I don’t think of them as being bored; I think of them as being relaxed. You never see someone nodding out at an NFL game, right? I’ve been there. Way too loud and crazed for a nap.
Anyway, that whole feeling of comfort was missing from this last trip to Oracle Park. Don’t get me wrong—the park is still beautiful and inviting, and the staff was wonderfully personable and accommodating to my 90-year-old father. But the overall experience felt cluttered, uncentered, diluted. Like a novel without a main plot.
There is a nearly constant roaring jumble of sounds that distracts from rather than enhances the game. Incredibly loud, pounding music in five-second snatches before and after almost every single pitch, piped-in beat-heavy pop music at a volume that completely precludes normal conversation with your friends, much less strangers. I honestly think there was more music than game. There is so much music the poor old organ player can hardly get a chord in edgewise.
The crack of the bat seemed diminished by comparison. The game itself seemed smaller.
I’m actually okay with most of the new rules. I was feeling puritanical about a couple of them at first, but oh well. On TV, I do appreciate the quicker pace. I mean, we all had enough of the guys who stepped out every pitch to get all OCD with their batting gloves. And I think, on the field this is still essentially the game of baseball. But in the stands, I don’t know. In the stands it feels more like a carnival or a disco surrounding a nearby baseball game.
All of this makes me wonder, does MLB even like baseball?
They’ve taken some of the pastoral nature out of the game. I’ve always heard, in a competitive business environment you need to differentiate your product, market what makes you special. But MLB and its team owners are making baseball more and more like every other sport. Loud, fast, powerful and showy on the surface, boom, crash, bang.
And maybe that’s not how you create real baseball fans. Not with louder music, or in-game betting come-ons, or even by tweaking the game for quicker play or more offense. Even though I hear attendance is up this year, I’m skeptical any of that will directly result in more hardcore baseball fans in the future.
Because maybe true baseball fans are made not in the stands, but on the field.
In playgrounds and sandlots, in front yards and neighborhood streets. With fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters and friends and teammates and teachers and coaches and the heroes among them. With taped-up bats and mud-stained balls and hand-me-down mitts and the jackets our mothers made us wear thrown down for bases. Or in our first full uniform, our first pair of cleats. Those stirrup socks. Chatter from the dugout, a fresh-raked diamond, chalk on the baselines, a new-mown outfield.
Yep, I think that’s the easiest way to get it, that lifelong bone-deep baseball jones. Not in the stands or on TV, but playing the game. Like the kids in the Little League World Series and the kids I coached back in the 70s. And like me.
I still love watching the Giants, and I treasure all the memories I have, from The Stick to Oracle and Mays to Posey. I’ll still be on the couch with Krukow and Kuiper talking ball in the booth and the Orange and Black on the diamond. But now I’m not sure when, or if, I’ll ever go back to an MLB ballpark.
And that makes me a little sad.