You know you’re losing it when you yell at the TV. I’d watch a pitcher gaze at his catcher like he’s pondering “Guernica” at MOMA, and I’d say, loud enough for my voice to carry over the airwaves to wherever the game was being played, “Throw the friggin’ ball!”
He would when he was good and ready, which gave me time to ponder the vast sums these athletes were being paid to mostly stand around doing nothing whatsoever.
I had long ago given up defending my love for baseball. Where once I tried to convince the non-fan how dramatic the game can be, or how magnificent some of the plays can be, I’d capitulated: Yep, it’s like watching paint dry, I’d say, but I acquired the baseball habit when Mays and Mantle walked the earth and I’m unable to break it.
While watching games, I complained about the lack of action. While reading about them I complained about statistics like exit velocity and launch angle – about as interesting as being told by your server that your chicken was roasted in an oven heated to 375 degrees.
Then came MLB 2023, with its pitch clock and shift ban and lo, there is much joy in Mudville. Casey may not be striking out less, but at least he’s whiffing more briskly. I stopped yelling at the TV.
Then, last month, I attended a game in person: Rangers vs. Yankees in the Bronx. It had been at least 10 years since my last visit. I know this because the Yankees’ starter that night was Andy Pettitte, who retired in 2013.
Seven of us rendezvoused at the ballpark, including my old friend Michael, a fellow Yankees fan with whom I have exulted and commiserated since the days of Reggie Jackson, Thurman Munson and – Boo! Hiss! — George Steinbrenner. When I told Mikey what I’d paid for the tickets — $60 a pop – he said, “Where are they, the Bronx Zoo?”
Nearly. If you haven’t checked the price of baseball tickets lately, let me catch you up: Say you want to see the lackluster Yankees host the perky Orioles tomorrow night. Since you don’t go to games much, you’ll consider splurging on the best seats in the house. Fuhgeddaboudit: $1834.66 per tush at this writing.
But it wasn’t the cost of attending the game (I took the D train, but Mikey paid $42 for parking and if I hadn’t eaten beforehand, I’d have shelled out $12 for a dog and suds) that got my goat.
It wasn’t even the quality of the game, which was another in a series of somnambulistic outings by the Yankees since superstar Aaron Judge tore a ligament making a catch he would have been better off not making. (The lowlight: Yankee Isaiah Kiner-Falefa stole second, thought he was out for some reason, and so began trotting off the field, at which point he became really and most sincerely out when Rangers second baseman Marcus Semien tagged him.)
No, what made me swear off attending sporting events once and for all was the nonstop blare of music and words. Some of this stuff goes way back: the CHARGE! bugle call; snippets of “Day-O” (Belafonte lives!) and the theme music from “Zorba the Greek,” etc.
What’s changed is how relentless it all is, and how loud. Especially annoying: the sound when a Yankees pitcher has two strikes on the batter, which I associate with submarine movies, but which online commentary tells me is the imperial siren from “Star Wars.”
My explanation for all this noise is that the people paid to “enhance the fan experience” aren’t fans themselves. Since they can’t imagine getting excited about anything happening on the field, they think all the excitement has to be generated up in the booth. Their starting point: Quiet is boring, noise exciting.
If I could get an audience with these folks, I’d explain that the people willing to fork over $60 and up per ticket actually like baseball. When the home team has runners on base, no one has to exhort them to “make some noise” or “clap your hands.” They just will because, being fans, they recognize a fraught moment when they see one.
As with baseball, so with modern life in general. The noise, the flash and the pace assault and then numb us. And once we’re numb, those who seek our attention deploy ever-louder, flashier and more frenetic stimuli to obtain it.
After 10 days in Thessaloniki, where the soundscape is dominated by motorbikes, followed by a couple of days of loud cafes, louder subways and loudest baseball game in New York, I looked forward to some quiet time in State College.
And then I heard the lawn mowers. I wore noise-canceling headphones on my transatlantic flight. Ligyrophobe that I am, I may start wearing them all the time.
