So chances are that, like me and mostly everyone else, you missed the opening day of the Major League Baseball season last week when the Oakland Athletics squared off against the Seattle Mariners ….
…. in Tokyo, Japan.
Yeah, that’s right. For reasons known only to MLB, rather than embrace the pageantry and notoriety that comes with an official celebratory Opening Day game (traditionally played in Cincinnati or Washington), it was decided to start this season of America’s past time with a whimper on the other side of the planet with two teams that have absolutely no national following and both of whom had losing seasons and finished more than 22 games out of first place in their division.
[*yawn *]
And they wonder why baseball is losing fans. According to the National Sporting Goods Association, from 2000 to 2009, participation in youth baseball has dropped from 15.6 million to 11.5 million, a drop of better than 25%. The TV ratings also continue to decline—the 2001 World Series averaged 24 million viewers a game; a decade later, less than 16 million per game tuned in to watch the Fall Classic.
For me personally, baseball flops are nothing new. Although I played for years, my moments of shining on the little league diamond were few and far between, to be generous. I remember one time swinging at a pitch that was so close, the ball actually hit my thumb and split it open, and although I was bleeding, I had struck out. (On a side note, the umpire, after seeing me bleeding, actually took my thumb, sucked off the blood and said, “Okay kid, you’re still out, no go back to your bench.” The pre-AIDS 70s were a very different world.)
I can also vividly recall one of my cheapest hits (in a “career” that was littered with them). I was standing in the batters box when the pitch came in directly at my head. I ducked down to avoid getting beaned, but in my haste to save my skull, I left my bat aloft, which the ball struck and bounced off … directly into the short infield. The pitcher, catcher and I were all momentarily stunned before I realized by the umpire’s reaction that the ball was in play! I threw down my bat and scampered down to first, easily beating the throw. I’m pretty sure Babe Ruth used to swat ’em like that …
Anyway, growing up, I was also a passionate New York Mets fan, which meant plenty of baseball heartache, especially during my formative years of the late 70s and the early 80s. Living only an hour or so from Shea Stadium, my friends (particularly my buddy Milo) and I were able to attend games, and those excursions were often quite entertaining independent of the on-the-field action.
So many Metsie Metsie Metsie memories at Shea—like going on the field on Banner Day with an Ellis Valentine banner and then waiting after the game at the player’s exit to see his reaction as we waved it wildly as he sped past in his Porsche. Or the time Milo’s father and his uncle took us to a game; they imbibed their share of beer and even bought a few for us although we were underage. Milo’s uncle also had a few too many and got lost, and it took us forever to find him after the game, like the Seinfeld episode in the parking garage. (Also like in that clip, there was a “creative” substitute for a real highway rest stop.)
Another time we went to a game with our best friend Higgy, who decided on that evening that it was his mission to make life (more) miserable for Mets left fielder Darryl Strawberry—unfortunately for Straw, the stadium was practically empty so he (as well as the rest of the evening’s patrons) could hear Higgy’s taunts loud and clear as they carried through August night. Funny to us, but I’m pretty sure I saw Darryl shed a tear.
As mentioned, after games we would go back to where the players exited the stadium, and would often ogle their cars as they departed—my boyhood favorite Rusty Staub drove an expensive foreign auto with a steering wheel on the right side!
Ah, Rusty!
If you don’t know of “Le Grande Orange”—so dubbed by his fans in Montreal because of his bright red hair—he was a very good (not great) player who made his name in dramatically leading the Mets to their surprise appearance in the 1973 World Series.
Of course, I had his baseball cards and even named our cat after him. I was heartbroken when he was inexplicably traded to the Detroit Tigers in 1976. Fortunately, he came back to the Mets in 1981, and it was awesome to be able to root for him again. It was later in his career, and he had settled into the role of pinch hitter extraordinaire. By then, he was also a bit more “husky” than he had been in his younger years, so we affectionately would chant “Roast beef! Roast beef!” instead of “Rusty! Rusty!” when he came up to bat.
Despite being a big fan, I never got a chance to meet Rusty as a kid, but an opportunity came later in life. I’m sure many of you have forgotten, but for a short stretch in the late 1990s, the New Haven Ravens used to play at Yale Field, and one night, Rusty was scheduled to appear at a game for a fan meet-and-greet.
I went to the game and brought with me an old picture of his that I had taken out of a yearbook with the dream of having him autograph it. To the picture I had taped a newspaper clipping from a game that Rusty had won with a bottom of the 9th pinch-hit walk-off home run—it had stuck out in my head because I was home sick and had watched the whole thing, even keeping score, and then to have my favorite player win it had made it special. His signing it would be icing on my memory cake.
So when I got into the stadium, I went straight to where Rusty was. His appearance was sponsored by a TV sports channel, so he was stationed behind a table festooned with the channel’s logos, signing autographs for fans.
My shyness and the possibility of actually meeting my childhood baseball idol instantly turned my knees to jelly, but I eventually was able to talk myself into getting into the line with the other fans.
Eventually, I got to the front of the line, and there, live in the flesh, was Rusty Staub—looking right into my eyes and saying, “Hello!”
Trying to not be too starstruck, I pulled out my old picture and clipping (drenched with nervous sweat by this point) and began to explain to how I was a fan and the relevance of my keepsake. Before I got too far, however, he said, “I’m sorry, but I can only sign this,” and he slid across the desk a photo emblazoned with an obnoxious logo from the TV sports channel.
Remember from “A Christmas Story” when Ralphie finally makes it to Santa? Rusty didn’t tell me that I was going to shoot my eye out and kick me down the slide, but it was that same sort of crushing feeling. I took the photo, mumbled “Thanks” and sullenly started to walk away but stopped.
I turned around, half caught Rusty’s eye and said, “For what it’s worth, I never forgave the Mets for trading you for a washed-up Mickey Lolich.”
Rusty stopped, turned directly to me, smiled and said, “Me, neither! Worst trade ever, right?”
And although he never did sign my picture (oh well!), he did chat with me for the next five minutes while still signing for other people. Not exactly Mean Joe Greene throwing his jersey to a kid, but still a good memory for a kid who used to spend his afternoons playing baseball on what’s now a soccer field next to John F. Kennedy Elementary School.
Thanks for sharing.