Once upon a time, I was a kid who lived, breathed, and, yes, occasionally ate baseball. I played it every summer, every spare moment, and I bled Red Sox red. If no one else was around to play, I played catch with myself in the yard, tossing the ball as high as I could and pretended it was a deep high fly. If someone else WAS around to play we’d re-enact great moments of a recent game or we’d show-off our favorite players’ batting stances. (I had them mastered.)
Baseball was my first love, my enduring passion, my constant companion.
I watched Yaz work his Fenway magic, sat in shock as the ball went through Buckner’s legs, and was mesmerized by Pedro’s heroics. I’ve lived through The Curse and, oh sweet joy, its glorious breaking in 2004. I watched Big Papi’s homers sail over the bullpen wall and mimicked Carlton Fisk’s body language to will the ball fair in ’75.
These weren’t just players on a screen or figures on a baseball card, they were real people. Heroes on my hometown team. I’ve cheered the highs, cried the lows, and lived every unpredictable moment of the game.
However, somewhere along the line, between one pitch and the next, my love story turned into a heartbreak tale.
But I’ll keep this light-hearted. We all know that any relationship spanning half a century is bound to have a few balks and strikeouts. And after 50 years, baseball and I, we’ve had our fair share.
Today’s game — I suppose technically you can still call it baseball — feels as distant from the game of my childhood as a Model T is from a Tesla. Games are now marathons that meander for hours with no end in sight. We sit, we wait, we watch. Pitching changes, video reviews, extra-long commercial breaks, the dreaded intentional walk…we sit some more. Oh look… another pitching change. Hey, c’mon, that guy just pitched to one hitter!
Where once we had a great game in under three hours, we’re now subjected to the never-ending odyssey of the four-hour ordeal. And if you ever watched a Red Sox / Yankees game between 2003 and 2017 you know that four hours would be a blistering pace.
Today’s game is littered with “specialists.” Remember when a player could field, hit, and run? Now we have pitchers who can only pitch to left-handers in the 7th inning when the moon is in the third house of Aquarius. And a First Baseman who can’t hit and can’t run, but you can bet he’ll be a defensive replacement in the 8th or 9th inning.
Perhaps the nail in the coffin might be the vanishing stars. Where are the Yazs, the Papis, the Pedros of this generation? Sure, they exist, but with so much turnover it’s harder to connect, to feel that emotional investment that makes every ballgame a saga. Today’s Red Sox have Rafael Devers, and he’s great and all, but he just feels like the face of a team, an organization, and a game that’s no longer as much fun as it was even just a few years ago.
The TV ratings have gone down, as have the participation numbers of little kids. Today they’re playing soccer and basketball and lacrosse and other sports besides baseball. I mean, I played all different sports too, but baseball was always in the mix. Today I don’t think it’s even in the mix (or the mind) for too many kids.
Now, you might be thinking, this old timer’s just grumbling about the “good old days.” And you’re not wrong. But this isn’t just nostalgia talking. It’s the longing for the thrill, the excitement, the love that was baseball.
So what’s the future for a lost lover of the game like me? Is there a road back to the ballpark? I’d like to think there’s still hope. I’ve been to a couple Triple A Worcester Red Sox games at Polar Park not far from home and it’s decidedly a better experience than the last few Big League ones I went to – faster game, incorporating technology, more comfortable, good food, easier to get in and get out, and half the price. And the game itself isn’t bad. Triple-A players either on their way up or in some cases at their peak.
I even caught a foul ball at the game. It took me decades to get one, but now I’ve got one. Look at how happy this “little kid” is to catch a foul ball.
I know Major League Baseball likes to test its new ideas in the minor leagues and rookie leagues first. So let’s experiment. Here’s my pitch: It’s 2023. We’ve got AI doing everything from flipping burgers to conducting symphonies. Why can’t we inject a bit of that futuristic jazz into the ol’ ball game?
Imagine, if you will, a virtual reality (VR) experience where you can literally step into the shoes of your favorite player at the plate or on the mound. Picture interactive digital scorecards allowing fans to predict the next play, with scores tallied and shown on the giant video board. How about biofeedback sensors in gloves and bats giving real-time stats and analysis?
Then there’s the issue of game length. The pitch clock is going to help, but they need more. Maybe limit the number of pitching changes per inning? The immediate runner on 2nd base during extra innings is also a good innovation. We need more.
Here’s my crazy idea: Each game gets 6 one-pitch at bats per team. You don’t know when they’re going to be. Could be the first batter of the game, or could be the guy who comes up with bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth. The at-bats are selected at random prior to the game and only the official scorer knows in advance when they will be. Teams could make it fun and have a big announcement with music and lasers and fireworks and get the crowd all lathered up for the drama of the one-pitch at bat. High risk, high reward. Give it a fun name. Make it exciting, like when someone gets the Video Daily Double on Jeopardy. Bells, whistles, fireworks. One pitch for all the marbles.
I can feel the ultra-conservative baseball heads exploding as I type this. They had a meltdown at the thought of the DH. Imagine trying to explain the one-pitch at bat???
Now don’t get me wrong, baseball can definitely be great again. It’s got history, drama, and a charm all its own. And perhaps, like all great romances, this is just a rough patch. Maybe, with a little imagination and some 21st-century tech, we can bring the spark back.
I may haven fallen a bit out of love with baseball, but I’ve not yet written it off completely. There’s still a flicker of hope that the game I once adored could win me back. If baseball can adapt, become the game that the next generation needs it to be – faster, more interactive, more exciting – then maybe, just maybe, this old flame might rekindle.
And if that happens, I’ll be there, cap on head, hot dog in hand, ready to fall in love all over again with memories of tossing the ball high in the air to myself in the backyard on warm summer evenings. Because that’s the thing about first loves. No matter how much they change, no matter how long you’ve been apart, they never really leave you. Here’s hoping baseball finds its way home.
