As I hunt and peck on the keyboard, the World Series is on the tube...and I can't help but think that the Series ain't what it used to be. First off, I'll likely be sound asleep long before the game ends. Gone are the days when they played the games during the day; when half of America called in sick to stay home and watch. Sure, productivity in the States crashed and burned the week of the Series, but at least we weren't rendered into a vegetative state by games that dragged on forever...or by the incessant ramblings of Tim McCarver. I'm not sure which is worse. In any event, the Series is Prime Time now and Heaven forbid the game go into extra innings or you'll find yourself waking up at two AM...and the damn game will still be on. Or, at the very least, Ron Popiel will be jamming a turkey into a flimsily made rotisserie oven.
Oh yes, regarding the daytime World Series: I recall rushing home from school in 1967 and watching Bob Gibson mow down the Boston Red Sox. There was no Sports Center in those days...just memory and pouring over the box score the next day in the local newspaper. Who knew that Gibson's catcher would be the same over explaining, long winded, Tim McCarver who today bleeds the viewer dry of interest by the time the 4+ hour game ends?
Oh yes, regarding the daytime World Series: I recall rushing home from school in 1967 and watching Bob Gibson mow down the Boston Red Sox. There was no Sports Center in those days...just memory and pouring over the box score the next day in the local newspaper. Who knew that Gibson's catcher would be the same over explaining, long winded, Tim McCarver who today bleeds the viewer dry of interest by the time the 4+ hour game ends?
On the off days when the teams traveled, the village kids would be in the park pretending to be Tony Conigliaro, Yaz, Curt Flood, or Lou Brock; arguing about who would win the next game and plotting fake illnesses that would be realistic enough to fool their parents into allowing them to stay home from school and catch the entire game - usually with no success. Although one year I had strep throat and was able to stay home and watch the A's and the Reds. I must admit that the relapse I had at game 5 was not completely on the level. I think Dad knew I was faking, but he knew how much I enjoyed the games, so he overlooked the fact that my untimely deterioration carried with it no symtoms at all.
The Series was part of the American experience. In those days there were no roided up, pierced and tattooed gazillionare athletes; there was limited hype, and the games ended before dinner time. Folks were actually interested in the games. Now, I doubt half the people watching will stop tweeting long enough to even feign interest, and the other half will switch over to The Real Housewives of Outer Mongolia after 3 or 4 innings of Tim McCarver explaining the nuances of the hit and run as if he's talking to an audience of 5 year olds. Hey Tim, we've seen baseball before.
So the Damn Yankees are facing the Phillies in this year's Fall Classic. Frankly, I share brother ECI's hatred of the Bronx Bombers (a pox be upon their house) and hope that the Phillies beat them senseless. I've been a Braves fan since they moved to Atlanta when I was a wee lad. The Bravos play in the same division as the Phils; therefore, I'll go with the National League team despite the fact that I pretty much hate the Phillies too. So here I am, watching the World Series, already feeling drowsy, and cringing with every syllable uttered by Tim McCarver. Maybe I'll wake up in time to see the end of the game...or to catch the 800 number I need to purchase a can of that spray on hair. Hi Ho.
Note: It looks as though the game is going to be finished before midnight. Miracles - and Tim McCarver's mouth - never cease.
