With the suggestion of a new offensive statistic -- the EHR -- Hank Festa (Gibby's '88 Series Limp Shot, June 6, 2002) has perfecly lined the late, lamentable direction of the game. It has become a carnival act, yet without the spice and color of the old carnies. The era of the post-Kirk Gibson blast has indeed been a sad commentary, and yet, the vagaries of generational perception being what they are, as an aging pentagenarian I must confess to marking the decline of the game to an even earlier time.
For me, it dates back to 1970, for several reasons: first, that was roughly when artificial turf began to truly proliferate, even to outdoor parks that had no need of it; second, the great old venues of history began to suddenly vanish in a tidal wave of concrete-doughnut construction -- Forbes Field, Shibe Park, Crosley Field, and Sportsman's Park, soon followed by the desecration of old Yankee Stadium, all of them gone to the wrecking crew within the space of six years or so, and replaced by multi-purpose standardization; third, the classic flannel uniforms of the past gave way to stretch material, and new designs suddenly made too many ballplayers look more like beer-swilling softball guys than true athletes; and last, but equally important, Curt Flood's challenge to the reserve clause would soon lead to free agency.
However just and liberating it may have been for the players, it's about time we all admitted that it was a hell-sent catastrophe for the fans, almost instantly leading to outrageous player salaries and equally outrageous ticket prices, distancing player from fan, and destroying fan identification with the local team as players quickly hopped from club to club in pursuit of more bucks. The much-revered free agency "victory" has been the worst nightmare that ever happened to Joe Average, loyal fan.
Other abominations soon followed in the chaotic wake of the early '70s, including ever-greater scoreboard histrionics; the San Diego Chicken, Phillie Phanatic, and all their absurd progeny; the concusssive, mind-numbing shockwaves of blasting Neanderthal vibrations, transmogrifying the ballpark experience into a kind of Disneyland-meets-The Grateful Dead permutation. The old fiction of baseball as pastoral retreat now became wholly unsustainable, even as reassuring myth. We could no longer even pretend.
Well, if it's any comfort -- even cold -- Ty Cobb and all those deadball guys of mythical legend must have felt much the same when Babe Ruth's monstrous blasts propelled them willy-nilly into what we now call the game's first Golden Age. And so it goes, each new generation marching to its own cadence, however strange and dissonant to the righteous ears of the self-anointed, however alien and disturbing to guys like Hank and me.
Also by Mickey Whitney
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Posted June 19, 2002.
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