Now one of the notions being discussed in what now may be a futile attempt to salvage baseball in 2020 was the return of some Sunday double headers.
There might be a reader or two now with quizzical looks. What the heck is that?
Another tear comes to my eye.
"Let's play two!"
That was the daily battle cry of the Chicago Cubs' longtime hero, Ernie Banks. You see his photo at the top. This classy guy never played in a World Series game, but certainly you didn't hear a whole lot of whining from him about that. He was simply content to put on a uniform and play America's pastime from sunrise to sunset. And that included a bunch of doubleheaders in Wrigley Field, which didn't even have lights until 1988.
Of course, Ernie would be much annoyed if he was still hitching up the stirrups as an active player in 2020. Because doubleheaders as we used to know them no longer exist. Actually they disappeared over twenty years ago. Those Sunday afternoons devoted to two games, usually starting at 1PM and then winding up around 7PM. These days, the Yankees and the Red Sox usually play a single game in that same time frame. But, back then, this was one neat day at the ballpark. Tons and tons and tons of baseball. Two games for the price of one. Such a deal.
I went to a few of them when I was a kid and they were still regularly scheduled. Armed with my scorebook and a brown bag filled with two Taylor Ham sandwiches, I was neatly tucked away for a day full of memories. I craved a double bill and my father reluctantly complied for a while. I figured he saw a bargain with two games offered for the price of one ticket. Eventually, his participation fell to the hands of that dreaded four word declaration.
"Too long to sit." My dad would ultimately adapt this time-honored phraseology into other great excuses.
"Too hot to stand."
"Too far to drive."
"Too crowded to go." He turned it into a science.
But, soon enough, I was old enough to battle them by simply going off to enjoy said event with my neighborhood friends. And that most certainly included a baseball doubleheader.
I remember a bunch of them. There was one on a long ago Independence Day when, in the first game, the Mets' Tom Seaver once again flirted with a no-hitter until the Padres' Leron Lee broke it up with one out in the ninth inning.
There was another late August one in 1984, prompted by a rainout, where the Mets swept the Padres and showed their fans that years of suffering were paying off thanks for the efforts of Dwight Gooden and Keith Hernandez.
Indeed, I go back deeper into my annals for a doubleheader I didn't attend. When the Yankees hosted the Minnesota Twins one hot Father's Day in the non-refurbished Yankee Stadium for the first ever Bat Day. Despite my pleading, that one was denied to me via a festival of Dad's excuses.
It was too hot to stand.
It was too far to drive.
It was too crowded to go.
The hat trick. What made this even more devastating to me was that the fact that most of the other kids in my crowd went. All summer long, I was the only one playing baseball without a Tom Tresh bat.
You don't get these opportunities anymore. Whereas teams used to regularly schedule seven or eight of these Sunday doubleheaders every season along with the impromptu twi-night double dips precipitated by early season rainouts, we are denied now the chance to enjoy six or seven hours of baseball for one admission. Teams now don't want to give up single games of ticket, hot dog and beer sales for the sake of playing two games for one admission.
And, now, you don't even get this via a rainout. Because, in these greediest of days, major league franchises have now discovered the wonderful financial gluttony of a day-night doubleheader. There's one game in the afternoon. Then the crowd files out, the stadium is allegedly cleaned, and then you have to buy a completely new ticket to see the game at night. Every franchise does this now. And it sucques.
Despite the double admissions, there are other financial benefits that teams enjoy as a result. Many years back, I was at the daytime first game of one of these travesties at Shea Stadium. I engaged an usher in a conversation and he also explained to me that state labor laws are constructed so that the employees do not get overtime on these days. So, essentially, they are working two games in one day, but getting less money than they would if they were attending to a traditional doubleheader. Another buck saved so we can pay that overrated fifth starter 10 million dollars a year.
Time passed and there is only an illusion of progress. We can gripe all we want, but nothing changes. I adapt my father's adage one more time.
"Too frustrated to complain."
But, for me, I'll take some post-pandemic doubleheaders. Oh, who am I kidding? I'll be happy with just one game at all.
Dinner last night: Hot and sour soup, scallion pancakes, and General Tso's Beef from Mandarette...Take-out Saturday.
No comments:
Post a Comment