Last week my brother and I were in an unexpected place: Section 132, field level, first base side, for Game Six of the 2021 World Series.
Our allegiance to the Houston Astros dates to May 29, 1965, just after the Astrodome opened. That afternoon, third baseman Bob Aspromonte drove in Joe Morgan in the 10th inning for a 4-3 win over the St. Louis Cardinals. Our tickets cost $2.50.
Subsequently, my brothers and I endured many lean years, when faithless wags referred to the team as the Half-Astros or the Lastros. But we’re gratified by recent successes and have largely reconciled ourselves to the unseemly cheating scandal of 2017. (Sorry about that.)
Unfortunately, our team went quietly in Game 6, victims of a 7-0 shutout at the bats of Atlanta’s worthy ball club. But at least we’ve experienced a Series game in person. What’s there to complain about?
Don’t underestimate us.
We are, my brother and I, well, traditionalists.
For example, we’re not fond of the designated hitter rule, which appears to be gaining momentum. Rumors suggest that this Series may be the last in which pitchers wield a bat. The last pitcher to bat in a World Series may have already taken his turn at the plate.
All things — even baseball — evolve. We’re just unpersuaded by the assumption that baseball benefits from more power at the plate, at the cost of an interesting element of managerial strategy.
But since we’re talking curmudgeon, here are two suggestions for fans at future World Series:
First: Sit down. You paid as much as four figures for your World Series seat; use it more often.
Sure, you’re excited, but you’ve just leapt to your feet in celebration of a routine catch of a routine fly ball in the first inning. Or, if you get carried away, think about sitting back down after your emotions subside.
Your enthusiasm blinds you to a basic physical principle: If you stand up, those behind you cannot see the game. A chain reaction develops and soon ever-widening swaths of long-suffering fans are straining to get a glimpse over the bodies in front of them.
My brother and I are able-bodied. We could stand for endless at-bats, as we seemed to do during Game 6. But what about the decrepit codger four seats over, who made his way painfully to his seat supported by his cane? Who knows how many decades he waited to see a World Series game? Occasionally he struggled to his feet, but he spent many of the game’s most exciting moments staring at the backsides of the fans in front of him.
Come to think of it, this isn’t curmudgeonly; it’s just consideration for others.
Second: Decline to “Get Loud.” Modern baseball is already too loud. This isn’t subjective. A few years ago I smuggled a decibel meter into an Astros game. Irreversible and cumulative hearing loss begins at 85 decibels. Driven by the unrelenting percussive music broadcast throughout the ballpark, my meter regularly registered readings in the 90s and sometimes into the low 100s. In short, if you spend much time in a modern ballpark your hearing is being damaged. And so is your kid’s.
But damage is being done to the game, as well. In its natural state, baseball is a quiet, contemplative game. Ideally, its patrons’ responses reflect and are in sync with the rhythm of the play on the field. Sometimes the crowd is loud. And why not? Baseball can be very exciting.
But other times baseball’s deliberate pace calls for reflection or conversation between innings about the game’s progress and its finer points. In the modern game, conversation among fans is impossible.
It’s strange. Game 6 was played in Texas. Maybe a third of the crowd bridles in indignant outrage at the idea that somebody might make them do something, like wear a mask or take a vaccine against a deadly virus. Yet if someone tells them to “Get Loud,” they thoughtlessly comply, whether the rhythms of the game justify the noise or not.
So, from two old-time baseball curmudgeons: Sit down. Pipe down. Play ball.
