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For nearly a century, baseball has worn on the purist's soul. The
sport has seen constant change, adjustments and technical
advancements, prompting the knee-jerk reaction that it has a brand of
conscience, changing right along with American society.
With the 1999 season at hand, we submit a contrary view: With
a single exception -- opening its doors to all races -- baseball
never needed to do anything. If it had stayed exactly the same since
the early 1920s, when Babe Ruth and a livelier baseball shared a
precious bond, it would be just as wonderful today. In fact, it could
be argued that nearly all of the so-called ``improvements'' have been
detrimental to baseball's essence.
That's why so many people feel it's the greatest game of all.
You don't have to touch it. Just let everyone in the neighborhood
play, and you're set for life.
We'll allow for some handy amenities, like sturdy leather
gloves, pine tar and pure strains of wood, but that's about it. And
remember, as you consider these arguments, forget how the changes
affected you personally. Think only of the game in its purest form.
Night baseball: You can't say this without being laughed out
of town, but here it comes, anyway: Terrible idea. The game is best
played, and most appreciated, in daylight.
``But I work in the daytime.''
Well, there you go with the personal stuff. Get over it. In
the old days, people managed. If you were there, you remember the
beauty of a daytime World Series. Everyone knew what was happening.
The whole nation talked about it. So you may not have seen every
pitch; like things are any better today? East Coast adults fall
asleep around midnight (what's that, the bottom of the seventh?), and
their kids never had a chance.
Polyester uniforms: Just horrid. Heaven help the overweight
guy. Give me the old cotton look. Way more stylish. Tough hang in the
heat, but nobody complained. And with new fabric came splashy new
colors -- almost invariably a disaster. Compare a long-established
franchise's new uniforms with the original; virtually every time, you
want to turn back the clock.
Artificial turf: Worst development in history. No explanation
needed.
Multipurpose stadiums: Never worked. Not from the first day.
Riverfront Stadium, Three
Rivers, the Vet? Absolute travesties from the word go.
Domed stadiums: It's not even baseball inside those awful
contraptions. It's damn near another sport entirely.
The designated hitter: Made for some lively arguments, but it
hasn't helped the game. There was never a need to change the rules.
Only an idiot would demand more scoring or take the bat away from
anyone in the lineup.
Perfect example: A year ago, in the Giants' home opener, Orel
Hershiser stepped to the plate in a first-
and-third, fourth-inning situation with the game tied 1-1. You simply
wouldn't have wanted anyone else up there. Not Charlie Hayes or Paul
Molitor or Jimmy Foxx or Hank Greenberg. Only Hershiser. The man
fancies himself an athlete. Let's see what he's got.
Franchise Movement/Expansion: This is where I have to put
aside my own interests. When the Dodgers moved to L.A. in '58, my
whole life changed. That one event dictated my future in
sportswriting, and I wouldn't trade a minute of it. Still -- tough
break. Franchises moved on occasion, but essentially it was the same
look for decades on end. The symmetry was exquisite. Rosters were
solid, extremely difficult to make. And unlike today, there was
little room for marginal, you've-gotta-be-kidding pitchers. The big
thin-out has made a discouraging difference in the caliber of play.
Free-agency: We don't argue the human-rights issue. People
should be able to work where they want, move freely between
employers. Just not in baseball, that's all. Oh, drop the sympathy:
These guys have always made good money and enjoyed fabulous
lifestyles. Bound to their teams like slaves, they played hungrier
and were more tough-
minded. Nobody strutted around with a guaranteed eight-year contract.
Renegotiate? Are you kidding? You had a lousy year -- take this pay
cut. Moreover, players only left their teams via trade. Infinitely
more satisfying for the fans.
The relationship with television: Bottom line -- we get to
see all the games. But television had no right to rig the postseason
into a prime-time show, and the endless commercials (as opposed to
the old 60-second break) are the biggest reason why modern-day games
run so long.
Expanded postseason: It's all very nice, with a ton of
meaningful games, but there was nothing like the raw desperation of a
September stretch drive, where only one team survived -- and got the
World Series as a reward. I'm sick of the word ``postseason,''
anyway. There's a new ``postseason'' record every five minutes.
Somebody breaks one of Mickey Mantle's cumulative records because he
got about 80 more at-bats.
Relief specialists: Without question, this has improved the
caliber of pitching and rewarded managers who truly know their
personnel. Teams see a starter for six innings, a flame-throwing
artist in the seventh, a wacko junkballer in the eighth, and a
precise assassin in the ninth. It's a blight on romance, though. Part
of the American work ethic is to finish what you start. Not so long
ago, you'd see Spahn and Marichal heading into the 10th inning
together, Gibson batting for himself so he could keep battling
Koufax. Complete games were a badge of honor, the sign of a real
pitcher. Today, the stat means nothing. Give 'em 7 1/3 good innings,
hell, you're a genius. By the time it's over, you're wearing a robe
with your feet up on the sofa.
The Players Union: Complete joke. I've seen packs of rabid
coyotes who acted more like real union people. Again, the players are
lucky to be playing a kid's game for money. Every time they have a
say, they screw it up. They should have no rights at all.
The Umpires Union: Just a laughable mess. There should be no
security for an umpire who consistently blows calls or acts like a
confrontational punk in a crisis. He doesn't keep his job. He doesn't
have some insufferable buffoon defending him in the papers. He
doesn't work the World Series because it's his turn. He's out looking
for a new line of work.
Interleague play: Yeah, whatever. Some of the matchups are
intriguing. But you can't be serious if you're relying on these games
to keep you interested, and the World Series loses some of its
special quality if the two teams played each other in June.
Removing the human element: This is a major problem in
football, where quarterbacks can't call their own plays, and people
just can't wait for those computer printouts to pop out of sideline
machines. Basketball has become a hopeless maze of assistant coaches,
some of them actually holding up signs to signal the next play, and
players can't think on their feet to save their lives.
Baseball has acquiesced to a degree. Many managers rely on
career head-to-head matchups fed to them by computer, and some even
insist on calling every pitch. But the game is at its best when some
pitcher says, ``Hell with that, I'm going with the changeup here,''
and strikes the guy out on his own initiative. Or when the printout
says your first baseman is 1-for-10 against today's starting pitcher,
but the manager plays him anyway. ``I saw the hit,'' he says. ``Got a
real tough slider and raked it up the alley. That's good enough for
me. The computer can take a hike.''
Funny thing about baseball. Even after all those changes, it
has retained the rich, pastoral feel of a family picnic. It used to
be easy, though. You merely surrendered an afternoon and let the game
wash over you. Today, you need a critical new ingredient: Your
imagination.
Bruce Jenkins can be reached via e- mail at jenks@sfgate.com.
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