7.15.02 @ 12:04AM
Who took the CHARGE! out of baseball?
It was a near-perfect evening -- balmy and clear -- and for such
an evening the perfect thing to do is to go to a ball game. We
drove to Baltimore to see our two favorite teams, the Orioles and
the Oakland A's have it out. They gave us a great evening's worth:
a 1-0 pitchers' duel, won by the A's.
Camden Yards, the home of the Orioles, has everything a baseball
fan could want. There are food and beverage stands and big
restrooms every few yards. There are souvenir shops, a sports art
gallery, a man who makes baseball bats and a stadium staff that
must have gone to charm school. They are universally courteous,
friendly and helpful.
Inside, there is not a bad seat in the place. The scoreboard is
so complete one doesn't need a printed program. Behind center field
is a tree-covered park which groups can reserve for picnics. The
whole place is spotless and bright.
But there is a manufactured quality to the enthusiasm. The A's
got the only run of the evening in the first inning, and it was two
innings later before the O's arose from their torpor. Meanwhile,
the public address system played often -- at a high decibel level
-- a cavalry bugle call, to which the fans were to supposed to
respond with a lusty cheer of CHARGE! The cheers were lackluster
for some time, so large signs flashed: LOUDER! MORE NOISE!
Gradually, the crowd become more animated, helped along by a person
in a black and orange bird costume (real birds, if they could talk,
would no doubt claim offense at the ridicule of their species).
Despite the electronically-induced enthusiasm the crowd had a
good time. Many families were there, and who could argue that
watching a baseball game isn't a more wholesome way for kids to
spend an evening than watching mindless television programs,
playing bloodthirsty computer games or, for that matter, stealing
hubcaps?
This was the first time since 1952 that I had attended more than
one baseball game in a single season. My thoughts kept drifting
back to that long ago year when the Oakland Oaks won the Pacific
Coast League pennant, after the salty and indomitable Casey Stengel
had built them up before he moved on to the Yankees. All that was
before the major leagues ventured west of the Mississippi River
(and when the World Series would have been more accurately
described as the Eastern Third of the United States Series).
The Oaks, like most teams in that AAA league, were a mix of
aging major leaguers in the sunset of their careers and brash
youngsters (such as Billy Martin) on the way up. The stadium was a
rickety fire trap. At full capacity (when playing the cross-Bay
rivals, the San Francisco Seals) it held maybe 13,000 fans. The
scoreboard was activated by kids on platforms behind it who dropped
tin numbers into slots to indicate runs. But like the other night
in Baltimore, it was always a great way to spend an evening.
Those evenings may soon be in short supply. The major league
players, who we are told average incomes of $2.4 million a year,
are threatening a strike. The owners are pleading poverty. One day
last week, baseball Commissioner Bud Selig told reporters that two
franchises were in dire financial straits. Twenty-four hours later
the crisis had, miraculously, passed. In 1994, on the eve of the
last players' strike, Selig told Congress, "There are many
franchises today, and again I could begin to articulate them one by
one, who have deep trouble...We have a remarkable amount of teams
losing money."
To set things right a few weeks after Selig's testimony, MLB
(Major League Baseball) got $130 million in new franchise fees from
groups in Phoenix and Tampa. Then, as baseball kept marching toward
the poor house, the price of existing franchises went up: $250
million for the Texas Rangers; $311 million for the Los Angeles
Dodgers; $323 million for the Cleveland Indians; and, finally,
early this year, $700 million for the Boston Red Sox, a team whose
value was estimated at $90 million in 1994, when Commissioner Selig
was pleading poverty.
The players enjoy their astronomical salaries; the owners like
their big profits; however, the profitable teams don't like the
profit-sharing arrangement in which they have to dole out some of
their profits to weak teams.
Last week the All-Star game ended in a tie in the 11th inning
because Selig could not bring himself to bend the rules to allow
previously-used pitchers to come back so the game could be
finished. Fans were furious, which is not surprising. They wanted a
final score. Now, if the players and owners muddle their way into
another strike, it may be the last one. Fans have signed no loyalty
pledge. They can move to auto racing, tennis, golf, even soccer.
Selig & Company seem to be taking them for granted. They
shouldn't. There are other ways to enjoy a near-perfect summer
evening.
topics:
Television, Sports
