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 The Game Just Doesn't Seem To Mean Much Anymore. By Tom Danehy I FULFILLED ONE of my long-time dreams the other day, and as is often the case in such situations, the reality didn't live up to the fantasy. I took my son to a Dodgers' game. And since they were playing in Los Angeles at the time, that probably had a lot to do with stinking up the scenario. By almost everybody's reckoning, Dodger Stadium is still one of the great places in the world to see a game. It was amazing how little the place has changed since I was a kid. It's clean and bright and airy. It's so clean, if fact, that you could eat food off the ground, a pastime me and my urchin homies engaged in with shocking regularity back in the good old days.
We'd sit out in left field and watch the entire game, dogging the morons who left in the seventh-inning to avoid the traffic, as though such a thing were possible in Gridlock City. Then we'd hang around after the game to congratulate the players and walk with them to their cars, maybe ask them a question or two on technique along the way. They never complained. But that was back when baseball meant something. When Alexander and I went last week, there was no magic. It was cool, but it wasn't great. The Dodgers were playing the Cubs and I feared the place would sell out, considering the Dodgers are always near the top in home attendance and the Cubs are the biggest road draw. But even though it was the start of a new homestand, the place was only about two-thirds full. The Dodgers exploded for nine runs with two out in the second inning. Alexander and I were still in the car, stuck on the freeway at the time, but we got to hear Vin Scully call it with the same enthusiasm he used with Sandy Koufax, Steve Garvey and Kirk Gibson. Instead of trying to take Interstate 5 all the way to Stadium Way, I got off near Elysian Park and tried to go in the back way. I missed the turnoff for the stadium and ended up downtown, right where the magnificent Union Station looks across at Olvera Street. The latter site was gearing up for the big Cinco de Mayo celebration, starring Tierra and Malo. Now there's a definition of Hell. Your punishment is that you'll have to sing "Suavecito" every night for the next 25 years. We finally made it to the ballpark and bought some incredibly reasonably-priced seats (as are all seats at Dodger Stadium). I told Alexander we should sit up in the top row and pretend we're Bob Uecker. But as we made our way up to the seats, we were stopped by an usher who looked like Barney Fife in a Disneyland costume. He told us that the top section was closed and that we'd have to go back and sit with the crowd in the good seats. I appealed to him in the strongest terms. "My God, man. Those people back there are trying to do the wave! Do you realize what that will do to my impressionable son? He might even think that's acceptable behavior!" He made us go back to our seats. Then, in an act of Instant Karma, two fortysomething guys who'd had waaaay too many Dodger Dogs in their time started fist-fighting over a foul ball. Poor Barney had to try to wade in between the two to restore order and hold onto his $6 an hour job. Dodger Dogs still taste the same. (A couple years back, they tried to change the way they were made and there was such a public outcry, they did a neck-snapping about-face and went back to the original method. Now if only the people in Los Angeles would get that worked up about the crime, traffic and smog.) I also had one of those chocolate malts, the kind that are brick-hard, come in a paper cup, and have to be eaten with a flat wooden spoon. They taste just like wood and the icy shingles you scrape off the top of ice cream which has been left too long in the freezer. I was surprised by the low turnout, but the next day I read in the paper that 5,000 people showed up for an Expos game in Montreal and 6,000 attended a Twins game. I felt sorta bad when I left the game. I'm part of a generation that used to adore baseball, but now just barely tolerates it. And that change is mostly baseball's fault. Baseball is hurting all around. As I do every year, I signed up to coach a Little League team. Despite my ambivalence about the pro game, I sincerely think every American kid should know how to play baseball. (Of course, some of the other coaches weren't thrilled with my approach. Except for the pitcher and catcher, I would have my players rotate positions after every out. As soon as we got an out, we'd call time and the kids would start running, first baseman to second, second to short, third to left field and so on. See I think kids should learn how to play baseball, not just right field. Plus, every kid who wanted to try to pitch got their chance. Sheer heresy, huh?) Anyway, just before the start of the season, I was told that we didn't have enough kids to field the usual number of teams, so I was being squeezed out by the consolidation of teams. Not that I was paranoid or anything, but I checked and it was true. The Amphi Little League had about 70 fewer kids sign up this year than last. And it's everywhere. Tucson Mountain reportedly had more than 100 fewer kids sign up this year. I asked a couple people why it was happening, and they said that more kids are playing soccer year-round. Hey, baseball's not my favorite game, but if we're losing baseball kids to soccer, I fear for America.
It's probably all part of that one-world government thing. That,
and the wave.
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We used to scrounge a buck and a half each (usually by cashing
in returnable soda bottles for a nickel apiece) and head down
the Golden State Freeway. We'd get to the ballpark at 