The Goose Is Flying High

Recently, Major League Baseball commissioner Rob Manfred intimated that the COVID-19 changes to the game—seven-inning doubleheader games and the placement of a man on second base in extra-inning games—will not be permanent. That’s a start, I guess, but it’s not about to resurrect professional baseball to its former glory as America’s pastime. Unfortunately, the sport has gone the way of so many things today—down the tubes with no turning back. Played by mega-millionaires in ballparks that double as shopping malls and arcades, the game almost seems secondary. With owners who eagerly embrace partisan politics on top of all that, it’s quite easy to breakaway and never look back. I once believed that my bond with baseball was inviolable—until death do us part. I couldn’t conceive of life without it. That was then and this is now.

The first ballgames that I experienced in the flesh were at the old Yankee Stadium, the House that Ruth Built with its wooden seats painted blue and concrete poles holding the place together and, too, obstructing views. I recall intensely feeling the history there with its three monuments out in dead center field—in play approximately 461 feet away from home plate—memorializing the team’s deceased greats: Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and diminutive manager of “Murderer’s Row” Miller Huggins. From my little kid’s perspective, Yankee Stadium maintained a downright ghostly feel. During the must-see Old Timer’s games—which don’t exist anymore due to the decreasing attention spans of the fan base—the on-field master of ceremonies introduced the widows of Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth, which further added to the spectral ambiance.

Shortly after my introduction to baseball at the only game in town in the Bronx, I chose the Mets as my team for better or for worse for a quarter of a century. Although growing up in a sprawling sea of Yankee fans, with a father who lived and died with the Yankees for over seventy years, their cross-town rivals in Queens were a better fit for me. While I loved the game’s storied past—and peculiarly appreciated getting spooked by the widows of Ruth and Gehrig—the Mets were fresh and on TV a whole lot more than the Yankees in those days.

Cheesiness notwithstanding, I considered Shea Stadium a baseball palace. I see the hot dog price at Citi Field, where the Mets now play their crazy game, is $6.75. Parking is $25 and cash is not accepted. Once upon a time, downing two, three, or four hot dogs was par for the course at a ballgame. And the beer sold at the ballpark was exclusively the team’s beer company sponsor’s product. Nowadays, Citi Field has an extensive selection of “Big Apple Brews,” including Goose Island Honker’s Ale, Johnny Appleseed Hard Cider, and Shock Top Lemon Shandy. You can still sample a Budweiser on tap, but also Bud Light Straw-Ber-Rita and Bud Light Platinum. It’ll cost you $9.50 for the watered-down privilege of any of the above. Ballpark peanuts and sunflower seeds, which were not something I ever purchased at games, will set you back $5.00/bag. This can add up to an expensive night out for the family.

Oh, the memories: peanut shells everywhere, spilled beer and soda on the concrete grounds, and the wafting aromas of suds and frankfurters. Not having attended a baseball game in more than twenty years, I can’t say with certainty if the residue of spilled craft beers sticks like the flat Budweiser of my youth did. Ditto: I don’t know if the hot dog bouquets still permeate the stands and runways of contemporary ballparks. There’s just so much food competition there for the pricey wieners, including restaurant rows—something for everyone—on the premises.

So, I say: Play ball—all nine innings. And who’s on second? The guy who earns his way there. Not that it really matters anymore…and that’s profoundly sad.