First Word

Reality often seems to overpower romance, so I need to get this post off as soon as possible.

The Series could well be a “freeway series” this year — or, as we on the east coast would prefer to say, “interstate series.” If it is freeway-east, (technically, toll-road-east, but don’t let’s explain that to the rubes that might not yet know — let them find out for themselves), then the teams will be two hours’ drive apart: Philadelphia and New York. If it is freeway-west, similarly, it will be two-hours drive apart: Los Angeles and Anaheim.

Quick note to google-map surfers. It might look like Anaheim is much closer than two hours’ drive from Los Angeles, but that is pure illusion. Trust me, I lived there for eight years: if you have a meeting in Los Angeles and you must not be late, you must needs allow at least two hours if setting out from Anaheim. You have to be there to understand.

Either freeway-series would be interesting. Or, Dodgers-Yankees would be interesting — both of those teams having such great traditions.

The fourth possibility, Anaheim versus Philly, is too painful to contemplate. Let’s hope that does not happen. Anaheim is a team without tradition, without real fans, without anything — except money. The only thing that could justify their existence in the Series would be, being at the other end of a freeway to a real team.

And I say that as one that has seen more live MLB games in Anaheim than anywhere else!

Some of those games were interesting. I saw Phil Niekro (or was it Joe?) pitch a knuckle ball. Watching the warm-up before the first inning from the third-base line, it looked like a girl throwing: all elbow, like shot-putting a whiffle-ball. I was cocky-confident for our guys — until I saw them flailing at the air.

Another time, I saw a full-scale rumble at mid-field, emptying both dugouts and bull-pens, and Reggie Jackson (!) vainly trying to serve as peace-maker.

So much for the Anaheim Angels. The only thing about that team that could resonate with me, despite having seen them “live” more than any other team, is the syllable “heim.”

Baseball today is a commodity millionaires’ club. Millionaire, meaning the players are compensated all out of proportion to reality, and commodity, meaning that they are traded or freely move, as the case may be, based on ability weighed in the scale of gold shekels: nothing more or less. There is no loyalty, no sense of the home-boy.

I have written before about how this situation is almost unbearable.

When our Führer emerges, he will have his work cut out in every area, and baseball is very far down the list — but not utterly unimportant. Here are some thoughts to stimulate his imagination.

The salaries are out of line, but that is only a symptom. The real problem is that the teams are composed of players that have no relation to the alleged city the team is associated with.

The AL pennant is between the Angels and Yankees; the NL pennant is between Dodgers and Phillies. Now, suppose it were such that the Angels and Dodgers had exclusively players from So. Cal. (for the moment, forget that the Dodgers should be a NY team), the Yankees from the NY metro area, and the Phillies from Philadelphia. This would be interesting. This would be multi-culturalism in an honest sense of the word. Everything would be different.

The respective fans would be rooting for their home boys — in the true sense of the word.

When the east coast teams played in California, they would be struck by the mellowness of the players and fans there. They would be overwhelmed by niceness. The swaying palm trees would reflect something about the personalities of their antagonists. “Hey man, let’s go down to the beach afterward and do some surfing,” would be the watch-word.

When the Californians came east, they would be horrified at first by the gruff belligerence of the eastern fans.  The gritty brick factories would be an emblem. It would be a little frightening at first — until one of the shouting, painted fans passed a bottle and offered a friendly swig of whiskey.

After each game, the players would gather at mid-field to shake hands — not, fulsomely, with their own teammates, as is done now, but… with the other team. What a novel thought!

After the series was over, the winning team could treat the other team to a regional specialty — a night on the town in Manhattan or Philly, or a bonfire on the beach — as the case might be.

The fans would gloat over the prowess of their home boys — or, as the case may be, think about how “we” — yes, we — will come back next year.

Even baseball is a barometer of how far we have sunk; and of how great things could be. How easily it could be so. How easily!