My kid asked me about the ten-cent beer night at Cleveland’s Municipal stadium for a Guardians (nee, Indians) baseball game back in 1975. They had heard about it on a podcast. Of course I remember.
Back then, the Guardians played baseball to an almost empty stadium. They needed a gimmick to put asses in seats.
I get it: you have to offer me beer if you want me to watch Major League Baseball. It’s boring.
By the way, if you haven’t heard what happened at the ten-cent beer night baseball game, it all went horribly wrong. A decent crowd showed up, but they weren’t baseball fans. They were beer fans.
The drunken crowd, probably bored with baseball, rioted to entertain themselves. The cops called in reinforcements, tear gas was deployed, and the game was called. The Guardians forfeited the game and thousands shed a tear (because of the tear gas).
There is a version of baseball that I love watching, though.
I watched fast-pitch softball this past weekend. Michigan was in the tournament (Go Blue!) but lost (God damn it!). I enjoy watching fast-pitch softball more than the Major Leagues. It’s not because I’m ogling the ladies. It’s a better game than hardball, and you can fight me about it.
I was a catcher in high school. I still love baseball, but I’d rather play than watch, and I’m pretty much too old to play. As for watching, I can’t take the slow pace and drawn out games. I know they’ve added rules to speed it up, and I know I’m being a whiny old guy, but I think the only rule that will motivate them is they don’t get paid if they don’t finish the game in under two hours.
No one gets paid. The salaries of the players, umpires, and even the goddam organ player are forfeit. If the organ player wants to get paid, he should finger some up-tempo, tension-inducing music that will make everyone want to scream in fury and hurry the hell up.
I know the grand old game is America’s past time, but I think we’re past that past time.
It’s pretty obvious that America’s true love, it’s blood sport, is football: there’s a clock; it’s dangerous; it’s class-oriented.
The MLB rules committee has to adopt some rules to capture the modern level of interest:
- Score three runs for balls hit over 400 feet
- If four balls are pitched, instead of a walk, the batter can toss the ball in the air and hit it with the bat
- Fireworks are shot INTO the stands
- Game ends when a team scores eleven runs, with a two-run lead, or when TWO HOURS have elapsed, whichever comes first
- If the teams tie at eleven runs, the winner is decided by two designated players doing the bat toss thing in which the two players put their hands on the bat one at a time to see who is the last one at the knob
Growing up, we always played weird variations of baseball to accommodate lack of players, so I think the public would be receptive to drastic changes.
For instance, we played one-on-one, but I admit that was ridiculous. We needed at least three players to make it a game. With just three players, we used:
- Pitcher is poison
- Call your field
- Ghost runners
I’m sure kids who played stickball had a dozen variations that might help the MLB rules committee.
One day, we played a four-player variation—my two older brothers against me and our friend Jimmy—and we almost lost Jimmy. Not “lost” as in misplaced; he could’ve died.
With what would turn out to be the last pitch of the game, Jimmy tossed an easy pitch to my eldest brother who absolutely drilled the ball, hitting it right back to Jimmy.
If you’ve ever watched fast-pitch softball, you notice that the pitchers wear a mask. It’s because they’re so close to home plate that they won’t have time to react to a ball hit back at them. The ball will be moving faster than their brain can sense danger and raise the glove.
Same thing with this hit ball and Jimmy.
That ball came off my brother’s bat and drilled Jimmy right in the chin. The ball fell straight down. Jimmy picked it up and called my brother “out.” (Pitcher was poison, remember?)
My brother hadn’t bothered to run. He had dropped the bat, put his hands to his face in horror, and walked slowly towards Jimmy.
I was out in left field so I didn’t know what the heck was going on. When I got there, I finally saw it: Jimmy’s chin had been split wide open. There was no blood though. His chin and cheeks were blanched white.
Our theory was that the ball had squeezed the blood out of his skin in the area of impact. When the skin separated, it simply didn’t bleed.
It had split open like an over-ripe peach that had fallen to the floor. We could see the inner flesh, and what might have been his jaw bone the way you glimpse the stone inside a peach. It was weird as hell, though, with a jaw.
Jimmy was baffled at our horror because the pain hadn’t registered yet. Then the blood rushed back into his chin, and gushed out of his gaping wound like a torn water balloon.
We pressed a dirty sock against his face, and kept him steady when the pain hit. We walked him home and got lucky, as Jimmy had no lasting damage.
I don’t think baseball should go full on death-defying like football has. Instead, they need to lean into what America loves best: big scores and constant action in a bet-friendly format that allows us to watch a game while drinking and eating snacks, but still be in bed at a reasonable time.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
Ashley Undone, a crime story and family drama, is now available. Set in Ann Arbor, it’s a Cinderella story pitting love of family against the evil of greed.
Reviews and early sales help a book more than anything. If you enjoy my stories here, you’ll love Ashley Undone.
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This week, I’ve joined with a group of authors in a Dark and Deadly Thriller Giveaway:
https://storyoriginapp.com/to/merFmvK
Next Picayune
Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune. I’ll be back in two weeks with more fun stuff.
All the best,
Mickey