Most 30 somethings would agree that despite double digit inflation, the gas crisis, Watergate...and yes, even disco, US pop culture was at its absolute zenith in the 70s. American film and music allowed for variety across the spectrum, with room for all styles and tastes and everything in between.
And the same was true for the national pastime. Despite a bitter, jaded malaise I harbor over the modern game, which is more purist than gap generational, I can hark back to a time when the national pastime was played by joe lunch box types who weren't all millionaires who had to be big men and run a 4 second 40 to land a spot on a roster.
Playing ball was not yet the numbers or numberology game that it is now. The big show was still filled with characters. The Oakland As all had mustaches and long hair. The mound had a "Big Bird" who was as goofy as the Sesame Street version. 175 pound utility players like Bernie Carbo hit 20 plus homeruns and it meant more than He-Man superstars Barry or Mark juicing their 70 something. Managers with personality like Earl Weaver barked at umpires and invented the dirt kick before sweet Lou stole it as part of his routine.
Pitchers like Gaylord Perry cheated and used scuffed or spit balls long before MLB cheated for us and turned them into homer friendly golf balls. Small market teams added a cartoon character mascot to lure fans instead of asking tax payers to subsidize new ballparks. Mr. October may have a been a straw that stirred the drink, but he was no juicer. And that '77 3 homer World Series game against the Dodgers was Ruthian back when real pitchers faced sluggers without free passes.
A "We Are Family" mentality permeated MLB and Cinderella teams like the Pirates were so entertaining that they were immortalized with theme songs. The infamous Red Sox jinx had not yet sunk in all the way. More people remember Fisk's Game 6 12th inning jack than care that Cincy still won it all in '75. Half the league did not hate the Bronx bombers. The soap opera that the bench and front office had become kinda made you feel sorry for them.
Legendary voices like Curt Gowdy and Mel Allen and still ruled the booth. Today there's only Vin Scully left ...and then Joe Buck. Yuck. Baseball variety shows were saved for weekends. Today ESPN makes the whole 6 month season a daily variety show. Talk about overkill. By the offseason, fans are fed up with it and need the time off. And so the late great Commish Bart Giamatti's poetry no longer rings true.
Then we had Curt Flood who led the charge against reserve clause slavery and was a pioneer martyr for free agency. But it backfired and now we have monopolies in the big cities and parity only in college and minor league ball. Where once the uniforms looked like LeRoy Neiman paintings, now we are served up retro garb so that the new kids on the block can look like our real baseball heroes of the past.
I can go on. And on and on and on. And while a demographic group 35 or older may pat me on the back, it's safe to say that the PC/video game generation is laughing at me. Thing is, once upon a time, kids got their baseball fix away from the tube by actually going out and playing ball. Today, they just fire up the game console and perpetuate a shut-in, sedentiary existance that is all the more ironic in contrast to what the game has become.
Ballplayers once made 10 or 20 times the salary of we who pay to see them
...and not 50, 100 or 1000. In the 70s, the public consciousness mirrored the national pastime. We lived for the chess match. Today, the new status quo doesn't fit the pace and grace of the grand old game. Where fans once played the game, now they let it play them.
In this, the fast life era, where prime time evil makes news and cultural speed freaks want their reality television, the reality of baseball is that it has become unreal. And this time the unpredictability is predictable because of advances in equipment, physical training and a general apathy over issues of technology-based cheating. The game is not growing to keep its audience. It is metamorphasing to find a new one. But it is striking out in that respect for obvious reasons.
In the 70s, baseball was joy. It was fun. It was seasons in the sun. However,
now it may be an eclipse or a sunset depending on how you look at it. While one can blind you, the other affords a false sense of contentment or finality. Either way, we cannot expect the game to appease us and appeal to everyone as it grows and changes for better or for worse. For purists, the game we once knew and loved has entered a wintery season of our discontent. Baseball seasons break your heart for ending, as Giamatti used to say. As do eras.
» Hank Festa is a free lance writer who will wax nostalgic about the glory days of baseball until someone gives him a gig to applaud him...or shut him up.
Also by Hank Festa
» A Closet GM's Philosophy Of Winning: Stats & Role vs. Heart & Soul
» Gibby's '88 Series Limp Shot: Baseball's Last "Earned Home Run"
» Flamethrower's Epiphany: Confessions Of A Live Arm
» In The Event Of A Strike...: The Time Off Must Be Used to Fix the Game
» More submissions
Copyright © 2002 by Hank Festa. Posted June 12, 2002.
BALLPLAYERS | TEAMS | CHRONOLOGY | TODAY | BOOKS | NEWSLETTER | ERRATA | FAQ
