BASEBALL: BRING BACK THE GOOD OLD DAYS!

Baseball is America's favorite pastime, but with overgrown stadiums and juiced stars...it's definitely not what it used to be. Here our guest-blogger, Paul Ruth, reminisces about the sport and ballpark he loved so much...

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Oftentimes people talk about how it used to be — phrases like, “back in the day” and “when I was a kid.” Mostly these stories are outworn and boring and seem no longer relevant in today’s world. But, I have to say there is one thing that I really miss — I miss the sports experience of going to a sports game just for the thrill of watching the game.

In today’s sports, a ticket for each of your children, a hot dog, and a beer will cost enough to force you into taking out a second mortgage. Whatever happened to sports being every man’s event? Now you can expect to spend, spend, spend. My wish is for the sports experience to go back to what it used to be; back to a time when going to a baseball game was a casual event, not a day of rudeness and disruption; a wish for the game itself to be the focal point, not the amusement; and for the sporting event to represent the culture of the game. Consider, if you will, these two stories:

I was young, about the age of eight, and it was my first baseball game — Detroit Tigers vs. Kansas City Royals. The ride to the park was one of sobering amazement where everything looked old but in a new way. Hidden by the surrounding buildings, the stadium seemed to appear standing on the street trying to hail down a cab. Tiger stadium was a place of magic; at least it was the way my father and grandfather talked about it. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

I remember the stadium looking run down and seeming older in person than it did on TV. Five dollars was the price of parking in the shadow of the stadium, which looked like an old wooden battle ship. Instantly, when you walked in, the place had a smell of dirt and old age, almost like going into your grandparent’s basement. We had upper deck seats, so we quickly made our way to the ramp. It was so steep you almost needed a rope to pull yourself up. The upper concourse was one of action and crowded behavior. We could hear the starting lineups being announced, muffled by the post that held up the structure with all its strength. People were bustling about at the hot dog stands, beer stands, and vendors, or impatiently waiting for someone so they could get to their seats before the game started.

Not wanting to miss the opening pitch, my dad hurried me to our seats — walking across a suspended bridge, into a small narrow tunnel, along a path that failed to convince me that this was going to be fun. Then all at once, like a great awakening, it was all there — the field, the stadium, and all of the people who came for one reason, to see the game. You could almost reach out and touch the players as they ran onto the field. There was no need for a program; I had committed all of the names to memory while listening to Harwel on the radio.

The game progressed with every ground ball getting a reaction from the crowd. People cheered and were only distracted when a walking vendor obstructed their view while spending too much time in one place. By the fifth inning my father bought me a hot dog and tipped the man who sold it. No one had a problem passing the classic ball park dog down the row. The home team won and the ride home concluded my first real experience with the great American pastime. Years later, Tiger Stadium would be deemed too unsafe to host anymore games. I was sad to see it go, but I understood (like an adolescent understanding why their dog has to die).

There was a new stadium and a new sense about going to the game. It was about three years since my last Tiger’s game, and it pleased me when my father asked me to go as if I was still eight years old. Much of the previous experiences had been repeated, but we paid ten bucks for parking and walked a little further. The stadium seemed to command the attention of the drivers passing by on the freeway and roaring on by amid the fervor of a normal home game. The stadium looked newer than it did on TV; it was open and airy, and didn’t seem crowded even though there were quite a few people there. The lineups were announced over the concourse speakers, which featured about six new starters from the previous year.

I walked through the sunlit tunnel, hurrying my father who was not as quick as he used to be, and when we exited the tunnel, it felt like I had just reached the top of the stairs on the roof of a medium-sized skyscraper. Compared to what I remembered, this felt distant, like you didn’t know the players. These were players who made more per game than I made in a year, including a Christmas bonus.

The vendor came by and my father asked for two hot dogs. My father, knowing better, had stopped at an ATM on the way for this purpose. I felt bad letting my father pay for it because it was so much so I didn’t ask for a pop. The Tigers won, as they battled for top of the division, but it didn’t seem to have the same meaning for me. It didn’t feel like every ground ball was important. I was distracted by people who seemed to be more distracted by the game than enjoying it, or by the others who were in their group continuously focusing on everything but the game.

We rode home flipping between our favorite radio stations in silence. When we finally parked the car in the driveway I looked at my dad and said, “It just wasn’t the same, you know?”

He nodded and said, “Yeah, I know.”