I walked into a local State Street sports bar this past Sunday and was pretty amazed at what I saw. Blaring on the tavern's largest screen was a WWE wrestling match. On two other TVs, race cars flew by and on some obscure television set in the corner, some sort of baseball game was going on.
Sunday night was, believe it or not, (and I am sure this will come as a shock to many) game two of the World Series'the biggest event of what used to be known as our nation's pastime.
The Angels won the home run fest 11-10, evening the California series at one game a piece.
There was a time when this type of information used to excite people. October used to be considered a magical time of the year. Only baseball's best ever get the chance to play this late in fall, the rest only get summers and late spring. It is the time of year that made legends out of players like Babe Ruth and Kirk Gibson and Reggie Jackson. Fanatic fans used to glue themselves to television sets and radios eager and anxious to see what would unfold.
Now people spend October nights watching \The Rock"" and ""Stone Cold"" Steve Austin instead.
Maybe baseball itself is to blame. Greedy owners and players have no doubt turned many off with their contract disputes and threatened strikes. Great players used to spend the majority of their careers with a single club, sometimes maybe two. Now, with free agency, the greats seem to play musical chairs with team after team chasing the almighty dollar almost more fervently than the almighty postseason trophy. Team loyalty has become tough when, once your favorite player gets good, chances are high he will be playing for George Steinbrenner the following season.
But I think that we, society as a whole, deserve some of the guilt as well. In a way we have given up on baseball. A look into any TV ratings will only confirm this new trend. Shows with names like ""WWE Raw"" or ""Smackdown"" now command all top spots and year after year World Series ratings continue to fall; this season's match-up is no exception.
Sure, most owners are jerks and probably every player is overpaid, but the basic game itself has remained virtually unchanged for over one hundred years now. And there is something to be said about that.
As cheesy as it sounds, going to a ball game with some good friends and having some beers is one of our country's greatest, and oldest, traditions. Playing catch with one's dad on summer nights has long been an American rite of passage.
It makes one wonder, I guess, what is in store instead for a generation fascinated with choke-holds and body slams.
