Baseball; the Last Great American Pastime by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Baseball; the Last Great American Pastime

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#2- Sumthin’ Changed; The Sixties and Seventies

Now that we have heard many of the learned opinions; may we

be sufficiently brave to examine a few facts?

That it is widely said by the older set that baseball is no

longer “The Great American Pastime,” and that the younger set

has never even heard that it was once thus so named seems all

too obvious in 2016. But, just in case, like me, you weren’t

paying attention lately I figured I’d write that anyhow. For the

purposes of this book I’ll assume that the oldies were at least

somewhat correct in their memories and take the newcomers at

their word or lack thereof. This may well result in a fruitless

quest to find the legitimacy of a throne never granted in any

official coronation. Any purported invisible crown is inherently

difficult to find; though its absence is quite easy to not see.

This may make about as much sense as the official story of how

the 1919 Chicago Black Sox did the unthinkable and threw the

World Series, which they were heavily favored to win. That is,

until Eliot Asinof’s 1963 book, “Eight Men Out,” put forward a

logical story of what may have happened behind the scenes.

Eliot, a former minor league baseball player, was later rewarded

with the charge of having taken liberties with the “facts.” His

impetus may have been that the official facts led nowhere

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plausible or comprehensive in forty-four years. I suspect that

he cried all the way to the bank when it became a movie in 1988.

In that vein, the writer has chosen to present an un-filmable

book, often straying from and other times making use of the

“facts” available on respected Wikipedia, in an attempt to

convey that which has thus far escaped the limitations induced

by ambiguous words and polls. The issue here is baseball’s

primacy, dammit, not the changing titles and dates they were

granted to Napoleon. In baseball we have our own kings; one the

Sultan of Swat.

It seems logically possible that the popular repositioning

of baseball may have begun in the 1970’s; a time when pitching

came to overshadow hitting. Fans had become accustomed to seeing

the 1950’s and 1960’s blasts of Ted Williams, Stan Musial,

Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Frank Robinson, Ernie

Banks, and Harmon Killebrew. By the 70’s they were either gone

or playing out their last strings. While Reggie Jackson and Mike

Schmidt did their best to carry the torch, they were overwhelmed

by the pitchers. In attempts at compensating, the mounds were

twice moved back, first in 1969, and the strike zone was

reduced. The effects were not instantaneously noticeable.

 

Baseball fans and the country for that matter were divided

on this departure from tradition, much as they were divided

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about the war, officially termed a “police action,” in Viet Nam.

The US involvement in the Korean civil war which began in 1950

and ended with its settlement in 1953 was a showing of the

budding US concern with world affairs. After unsuccessful

attempts to stay out of both World Wars One and Two, early

intervention was deemed the better route and it was thought to

be essential for the protection of our new ally, Japan. The US

populace raised no meaningful objections and it was over in

three years.

But, things were different regarding the Viet Nam War. The

US had “advisors” there since its 1950 inception. The frustrated

French decided to pack it in in 1954 and the US stepped up to

the plate. President John Kennedy increased troop levels and

President Lyndon Johnson sent them through the roof, despite

formerly having been a vocal critic while in the Senate. False

reports of “winning the war” were distributed to the public

under the auspices of General William Westmoreland. Their

absurdity was easily determined when the daily enemy kill

reports were totaled at three times more than Viet Nam’s

population. Exacerbating the public rejection of the “one

shooter” Warren Report; for the first time it was apparent to

all capable of addition that our government was very capable of

lying to the citizenry. This time there were no “protecting our

allies” issues as in Korea; but rather the war was “justified”

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by the now discredited domino theory. And the damn thing kept

dragging and dragging and dragging; until our inglorious

departure in 1975. Vocal citizen opposition grew by the minute.

Sharp divisions of opinion drove wedges between North-South,

Coast-Interior, doves-hawks, and young-old. More and more people

abandoned being the strong silent type and were speaking up. The

others identified with Agnew’s “silent majority,” as opposed to

his “nattering nabobs of negativism.” A phrase was made popular;

“Don’t trust anyone over thirty.” Baseball was okay as 27 of the

34 players on the NY Yankee 1968 roster were under 30; the most

senior at 37; and that was Mickey Mantle. Unlike other

professions, baseball kicks you out well before senility.

 

Paralleling the lack of “progress” in Vietnam, the growing

discord between the man throwing the ball and the man with the

stick, and the resultant lack of baseball hitting gave rise to

various discussions which attempted to explain what was obvious

to some. Paid pundits cited the increase in night games, the

larger gloves, the possibility that some excellent hitters never

got to the majors because of a lack of home run power; and the

increased use of relief pitchers; my personal favorite. In

bygone days most boys would not consider pitching unless they

were unable to make it as a hitter. It was less glamorous and it

paid less. It’s difficult to pick the exact date when thinking

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changed, but by the 1970’s most pitchers had been pursuing that

path since childhood and they were bigger. It was not unusual to

see a game where the pitcher was bigger than any hitter he

faced.

They rightly have said that baseball is a game of inches;

so picture what happens when a 6’5” pitcher strides toward the

hitter and releases the ball utilizing a front leg stride twelve

inches longer than what a batter is accustomed to seeing. No

surprise. He seems ‘close’ and the hitter has less time to see

the ball. What may be surprising cannot be mathematically

calculated using 12 inches; as to the batter it appears to be

anywhere between three and ten feet. An average major league

fastball carries a speed of about 92 miles per hour. Couple that

with control which two-thirds of the time puts the ball where

the batter has the most difficulty hitting it mixed with at

least one wicked breaking pitch. The next time you think of

saying that some pro hitter stinks, put yourself in his place.

You wouldn’t have a prayer. That’s not to make excuses for the

hitters, as they are well paid to do their job. Just sayin’ it’s

not an easy one.

 

The 1970’s saw a coastal shift. Not only did the premier

teams less originate in the “declining” cities of the east, but

they flourished where the country was moving in search of the

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endless summer; California. The fact that pitching took a

temporary upper hand is of no significance to a true baseball

fan. It only affects those who can only appreciate distance

travelled; quantity versus quality.

Still, it required an adjustment for many to maintain

interest at the Mendoza line; the term coined during Mario

Mendoza’s 1974-1982 term in the majors. Actually, Mario laughs

it off as he was not the worst and could play the integral

shortstop position well. He just somehow wound up with the

dubious batting distinction of being the boundary line of

incompetence.

At the time the pundits said that there will never again be

a home run hitter who could simultaneously bat .300.

During one game I watched on TV, the announcers had this

discussion.

“If Ted Williams was playing today, do you think he could

hit .300?”

“Nah, more like .270-.280.”

“Williams?”

“Well, yeah. Don’t forget that if Williams was playing

today he’d almost be sixty years old.”

It was half a joke.

At least five teams of the era will be memorable; the

Reggie Jackson Oakland Athletics; the Sandy Koufax Los Angeles

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Dodgers; the Jim Palmer Baltimore Orioles; the Johnny Bench

Cincinnati Redlegs; and the Billy Martin-Reggie Jackson New York

Yankees. People may have been temporarily distracted by the

interesting, daily show and there were some great World Series’.

But by the 1980’s it was apparent that sumthin’ changed, and not

for the better. Other forms of entertainment expanded and

baseball cards began to be sold by the bushel. Previously kids

bought them in packs of five and “flipped” them to get others;

but now it was possible to just buy the entire set; much less

fun. They even lost the pleasant smell of bubble gum.

The 70’s had its stars. As it is relative, there are always

stars. However, this time they were disproportionately pitchers.

My father, who played some ball just before and after World War

Two, told me that back then one’s goal was to be an “everyday

player.” With the exception of the few biggest stars, pitching

was not valued anywhere near as much as the other eight men on

the field; both in stature and remuneration. Many big league

pitchers were paid the league minimum.

That changed in the 70’s, as a standby phrase became; “Good

pitching beats good hitting.” And for a while, it did. The

Baltimore Orioles’ starting rotation Of Jim Palmer, Dave

McNally, Mike Cuellar, and Doyle Alexander was described by

opposing hitters as an; “0 for 16 four game series,” a “reason”

for an inability to bat .300. Not mentioned was Brooks Robinson

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on third, Mark Belanger at short, and Paul Blair in center field

as candidates for the defensive best to have ever played their

positions. Frank Robinson, acquired from Cincinnati, provided

the offense.

American League competition came from the West, in the name

of Charles Finley’s Oakland Athletics. Check this rotation;

Catfish Hunter, Vida Blue, and Ken Holtzman; with Rollie Fingers

in the bullpen in case anyone needed help. Reggie Jackson, Joe

Rudi, clutch Gene Tenace, and Bert Campaneris supplied the

necessary offense.

The less competitive AL teams had pitchers like Nolan Ryan,

Tommy John, and Jim Kaat.

On the other side of the aisle there was one lone remnant

of offensive tradition. And one of them was about as offensive

as one could get on the diamond. The Cincinnati Reds; the “big

red machine;” provided an assault, proportionately reminiscent

as being as far ahead of its peers as the 1960’s New York

Yankees. Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, George Foster, Johnny Bench,

Tony Perez, Dan Driessen, Davey Concepcion, Ken Griffey Sr., and

others made the lineup sufficiently nightmarish for opposing

pitchers to call in sick on their scheduled dates. On the mound

they sported Don Gullett; as good as any when his arm wasn’t

sore; Jack Billingham, Pedro Borbon, Clay Carroll, and Rawley

Eastwick.

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If any criticism was possible, it would be that the Reds

were absolutely fascistic in their efficiency. This corresponded

to an era in which the US continued their democratic, leftward

drift. Outside of Cincinnati, many just wanted to see the Reds

beaten in some sort of egalitarian posture consistent with the

time; and one year at their height; the very underdog Boston Red

Sox almost did it in the World Series.

A few of the greatest pitchers of all time toiled in

relative National League obscurity. Steve Carlton, nicknamed

“Lefty” as in “The Lefty,” Phil Niekro, Ferguson Jenkins, Don

Sutton, Gaylord Perry, Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman, and Juan

Marichal. Bob Gibson had already gotten some fame as his

Cardinals got to the series three times in the 1960’s. He posted

a 7-2 record with a 1.89 ERA there. His 1968 regular season of a

1.12 ERA is the lowest ever in the live ball era, only surpassed

three times in the dead one.

The temporarily outmatched American League still boasted

Frank Robinson by way of Cincinnati, and Reggie Jackson in New

York by way of AL Oakland, though they had trouble in supplying

a .300 hitter who wasn’t Rod Carew tiki-tiki; and managed to

lose about ten consecutive All-Star games in their

embarrassment. Palmer was on the mound, along with Kaat, Tanana,

Hunter, Holtzman, Blue, and Ryan. It was abundantly clear, that

like the nation as a whole, the game of baseball had entered a

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period in which those who initiated the action were at the

forefront. The questions of Woodward and Bernstein resonated

more than the replies of the man who used to be in charge of

things.

Pittsburgh’s Willie Stargell seems to have been later

viewed as a more powerful, but at the time was considered an

inferior substitute for Roberto Clemente. The slugger’s story is

a subject to itself, and leads one to the times’ offensive star

of stars; the aforementioned Reggie Jackson. Michael Jordan is

called basketball’s greatest of all time for many good reasons,

but primarily because his team won six titles in eight years. It

is largely forgotten, if in fact ever noticed, that Reggie

Jackson’s teams won five World Series in seven. Outside of his

lifetime home run accumulation, you may not be impressed with

his statistics. But, remember that he played during one of

baseball’s lightest hitting eras; and that he got the nickname

of “Mr. October,” for coming up clutch at the most important of

times; the World Series.

At the time, I was in my early twenties, married to the

love of my life, and living either in the unattractive safety of

NYC commutable, “family protected” New Jersey or affordable,

remote suburbs. Diane had no previous interest in sports, no

matter the specific genre, but somehow got interested in the

time’s sports headlines; those of Reggie Jackson, Billy Martin,

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Catfish Hunter, Thurman Munson, George Steinbrenner, etc., etc.,

usually engaged in some sort of dispute; usually either some

manifestation of defiance of those traditionally in power or the

displaying of a penchant to say things which are not customarily

said in baseball. The sportswriters had it easy. Asked about

Jackson, teammate Mickey Rivers once said something like; “He’s

all fucked up. His middle name (Martinez) is Spanish; his last

name is black; and his first name is regal white. He don’t know

who he is.” Unprovoked, when Reggie Jackson once remarked to a

reporter that he had an IQ of 160, Rivers responded, "Out of

what, a thousand?"

For a detailed and accurate view of the time, one can see

Jonathan Mahler’s “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bronx Is

Burning,” a book, followed by a television series that focuses

on 1977 in New York City. At its best, it is said to weave

political, cultural, and sporting threads into one story. At its

worst it was an eleventh hour reflection. For those not there,

suffice to say that it was a time of internal strife, police

stations under siege, fires, and firemen attacked for doing

their jobs. The Bronx was indeed burning; and at the times not

always meaning the smoke generating conflagrations; but rather

those which it was interesting to watch.

In an attempt at crystallization or perhaps distillation;

in the Bronx they were playing game two of the 1977 World

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Series. It was on a Wednesday, October twelfth at Yankee

Stadium. The twelfth was traditionally that of Columbus Day; the

calendar date upon which he and the Pinta, Nina, and Santa Marie

allegedly landed in the allegedly new world. However, thanks to

a 1970 edict the “holiday” had been re-calculated as being “the

second Monday in October,” celebrated or not that year two days

prior on a Monday; ostensibly to provide a three day weekend.

Chris Columbus and his day would come under further scrutiny and

questioning in years to come. The artificially lit night game

conjured to obtain maximum viewership proved to be a tad

redundant that year in its seeking of darkness as the day was

marked by the rarity of a total solar eclipse. So, there’s the

scene. Now for the professional coverage.

Cameramen working the game cut to a helicopter shot of the

surrounding neighborhood where a large fire was shown raging out

of control at a Bronx Public School. The following exchange

occurred between ABC announcers Keith Jackson and Howard Cosell:

Jackson: "That is a live picture, obviously a major fire in

a large building in the south Bronx region of New York City.

That's a live picture, and obviously the Fire Department in the

Bronx have there, a problem. My goodness, that's a huge blaze."

Cosell: "That's the very area where President Carter trod

just a few days ago."

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About nine minutes later the camera again panned to the

scene of the fire, with Cosell saying: "That's a live shot

again, of that fire in the South Bronx that Keith called to your

attention just a few moments ago. Wonder how many alarms are

involved, but as Keith said, the fire department really has its

work cut out for it."

Altogether the two men spoke about the fire on five

separate occasions. Television viewers were repeatedly assured

that no one had been hurt, but were told mistakenly that the

site was a vacant apartment building. According to the “New York

Post,” the phrasing used by the two broadcasters during the game

was afterwards "spun by credulous journalists" into the now

ubiquitous phrase "Ladies and Gentleman, the Bronx is burning"

without either of the two announcers actually having phrased it

anything near that way.

While accurate, that may be a bit picky as the main point;

the game; was still going on at that time. However, you will

later see how the significance of the precise phrase, “Great

American Pastime,”

 

At that un-nerving time the City of New York's finances

were rock bottom and the place was considered unmanageable. I

know this has been stated in more polite terms, but hindsight is

20-20. What can you accurately call a “rescue” which required a

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Big Mac Band-Aid? For those sight challenged; less than halfway

through bureaucrat Beam’s term as mayor the city was "careening

toward bankruptcy." The newspapers even noticed it. There were

signs that the “petty rebellion” had manifested itself on the

most important communications device of the time; the TV. Or did

it? In 1972, “The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson” had moved

from Midtown Manhattan to Burbank, California, in mostly

insignificant ways being an analogous equivalent of the Brooklyn

Dodgers move to Los Angeles. Carson belittled his old home with

script writer jokes like; "Some Martians landed in Central

Park today ...... and were mugged." Before anyone draws any

conclusions from that he also more often spoke of “beautiful

downtown Burbank.” Whatever Carson’s “real” feelings was

irrelevant. The mid-country viewers were watching on a TV placed

in their bedroom, living room, or highway saloon and didn’t

really think too much about where the filming took place. For

the vast majority of the country New York was hated in multiples

of Burbank’s cute nonsense; though it is rarely openly stated.

As seems to be always true in baseball since Babe Ruth,

what is done by the New York Yankees is the news for the entire

country. The California migration has been duly noted. But

California migrants find newspapers difficult in the beach

breezes. They’re more interested in checking out bodies, hanging

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ten, or saying things like; “Psilocybin?” Don’t you wish that

you could be there too?

In the 1976 World Series, the Yankees had been beaten by

the impossibly dominant Cincinnati Reds. It was no surprise. But

NY fans were elated that the Yankees had won their first pennant

since 1964, the year of the CBS corporate purchase. George

Steinbrenner had become principal owner in 1973 and seemed

determined to restore the winning tradition. The fans were even

cheering the feisty manager; Billy Martin; finally back in New

York after an eighteen year banishment to the desert, just

because he was supposed to have been a bad influence on Mantle.

At 47 he still had some time left to influence some others and

they played “Billy Ball.” Many pros didn’t like it, but that’s

the way it was. Billy would call out to some dugout squatter;

“Hey, Patterson. What’s the count?” Either Patterson knew the

correct answer or he paid $500. Billy believed in paying

attention. It may have arisen from his playing experience. He

was not a person blessed with abundant physical skills, though

he never lost a fight, but through his knowledge of and

concentration on the game he was able to play at the highest

level. Those physically blessed specimens who were nonchalant

about it probably pissed him right off.

While many debate great managers, there is room for

disagreement. But Billy gets my vote because he had already

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demonstrated that whenever he went to a new team, that team

immediately got better, and he repeated that in New York.

Billy’s problem was that after being some place a while he

thought that he owned it, to the chagrin of General Managers and

the audacious people with greenbacks.

 

On slow news days the winter 1976 papers speculated about

how the Yankees’ off season acquisition of the colorful star

Reggie Jackson would get along with Thurman Munson, the Yankees

catcher and captain. Munson was a moody, no-nonsense person and

Jackson was extravagant; once saying that if he played in New

York they’d name a candy bar after him. And they quickly did.

However, it didn’t last too long. Jackson was more powerful, and

basically he and Munson did not get along. As it would turn out,

Jackson didn’t get along with any of his new team mates, except

one.

But, what does that matter? Some of the greatest teams of

all time did not like each other; including the 1906 Cubs and

the 1919 White Sox. The new Yankee dynasty was forming in

'77: Mickey Rivers, Willie Randolph, Reggie ... and those close

to Martin; Catfish Hunter, Lou Piniella, Graig Nettles. Fran

Healy, the backup catcher, was Jackson's only friend on the

team. Maybe Jackson was a Healy fan because Munson’s chicken-

armed throws to second base either arrived on the long hop or

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wound up in right center field. And let’s face it. On top of

that the guy was a singles hitting slapper to right who insisted

on batting cleanup. “Tools of ignorance,” indeed. These were

tools of over-estimation.

As early as the first signs of May lust, Jackson, after

going yard, ignored his teammates and manager, who had gathered

at the dugout entrance for the high fives. Reggie had already

had enough of the politics and didn’t care who knew it. While

perfunctory politics as usual may have been better for all

involved, the sixties would not officially end for two more

years.

 

For the first time in the twentieth century, player free

agency, which had its deliverance through the volunteered

sacrifice of Curt Flood in the 1960’s came to fruition, when

Andy Messersmith cashed in in the 1970’s. In 1976, he became the

first true free agent. Andy was perhaps the perfect beneficiary.

His injury plagued career showed signs of greatness when in good

health; and though not widely known his lifetime ERA of 2.86,

posted in his injury shortened career, is fifth on the all-time

list for players playing during the live ball era.

It was disparagingly said by the money people that the game

would never be the same. It was joyously said by the employees

that the game would never be the same. It was perhaps the only

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time when the two sides could agree to something; if only on

paper.

Time would show that few players would play their entire

careers for one team. Some would see this as a turn from the

traditions they liked to something transitory caused solely by

the greed of the players. At the outset of free agency the

players were getting contracts for six times over what they were

previously paid. Some would conclude that they were previously

cheated, and if their original team would have paid them a fair

wage they would have stayed with them. Old timers said; “They’re

being made millionaires and not one of them can even hit better

than Hack Wilson.” And everybody figured that ticket prices were

going up. Orange ball contrarian that he was, Oakland owner

Charles Finley commenced a throwback to the old days of Connie

Mack, and began selling his players for money before they could

seek a market wage. All seemed to be up in the air, but they

kept playing the “National Anthem” before every game, though

sometimes now the Hendrix version. Yogi said that the fat lady

always sings at the end, but frankly I never heard or saw her.

 

As if there wasn’t enough for some people to agonize over,

someone came up with a new idea intended to increase the lousy

hitting. The Designated Hitter created another division. The

American League adopted the rule which essentially replaced the

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at bats of a zero for four with three strikeouts pitcher with

one who could add something other than a sacrifice bunt to the

offense. In practice it extended the baseball lives of ageing or

injured, competent hitters, and no doubt added to the offense.

However, it also added to the split between the two

confederations as the National League adamantly opposed it.

Their adherence to tradition seemed to note a conservative

stance in the innovative group which once successfully dared to

welcome Jackie Robinson to white America. Perhaps they were

resting on their laurels. All in all it would prove to extend

some careers, serve as a bailiwick for otherwise quiet office

managers to negotiate the ramifications for the World Series,

and inspire public discussion; which centered on the young

versus old opinion about the value of tradition. Whether or not

it produced more runs was and is debated by statisticians;

though the conclusion does seem a trifle obvious.

For some, in hindsight, the harsh judgement was that the

decade that had created such excitement annihilated the game

itself. This does seem to ignore the time’s aforementioned stars

and its great teams; the A’s, the Reds and as again what was

usual after a brief hiatus, the Yankees. Despite the plasticity

producing ground ball singles on Astro-Turf, cookie cutter

stadiums named things like “Pratt’s Medicated Suppositories,”

the designated hitter, and free agency, the game again survived;

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this time with a US version of a cannabis induced sense of

humor.

 

2016 requirements for political correctness are always an

issue; making racial observers into walkers on very thin ice.

However, since these considerations have always been a part of

the country and a part of baseball I feel it appropriate to

point out a few facts.

The US is now 64% White, 12% Black, and 16% Latino. Major

League Baseball’s figures are 64% White, 8% Black, and 27%

Latino. Hmnnn.

White representation is precisely what one would expect.

Black representation is low, especially when considering its

peak of 19% in 1981; a steady decline since. Latino

representation has been steady at approximately 27% for all of

the 21st century.

Any attempt to explain the anomalies is the protracted work

of a sociologist-mathematician; and the writer is neither. At

the risk of being out and out wrong, it seems to me that fans

now appreciate anyone who plays the game well. Indeed, Hank

Aaron, Willie Mays, Barry Bonds, Ken Griffey, Jr., Jose Canseco,

and Sammy Sosa had as many fans as Mark McGuire; and likely more

than Jim Thome. Owners are logical, business minded people who

want to fill seats primarily through having a winning team.

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The “disparities” might well reflect preferences in a

society, more free than it was previously. I could well be wrong

about that. This book, however, is an effort to explore the

possibilities for the Great American Pastime’s alleged demise.

Insofar as that is concerned, it would take much greater

sociological insight than this baseball fan has to make a case

that Baseball does not reasonably reflect the population of

America.

Baseball’s racial segregation ended in 1947 with Jackie

Robinson. That same season, Larry Doby ended the color line in

the American League. Jackie is the closest thing to a baseball

saint I know of. He tolerated abuse from all sides to open up

possibilities for others.

There is no doubt that baseball has had its racists. Hall-

of-Famer “Cap” Anson adamantly refused to have his team play

against a team with a black member, and in later years used his

influence to maintain segregation.

The fact of the matter is that twenty-first century

baseball is not becoming whiter. It is becoming more Latino, as

is the country.