Just Plain Stupid

Baseball Commissioner Rob Manfred is verging on breathless over the opening of the Braves’ new $1.1 billion complex.  MLB has now reached the point where you don’t talk about ballparks or stadiums, even, but complexes.  The mall goeth before the fall.

“There has never been something this massive around a baseball stadium,” says Manfred, “and it’s really an amazing accomplishment.”  Or not.  Somebody should point out to the commissioner that Wrigley Field, Tiger Stadium and just about all the classic ballparks were located smack dab in the middle of cities.  What’s Wrigleyville if not “massive,” in 2017 or 1947, for that matter?

No, what the commissioner is talking about is the furthering of baseball into a daylong “experience” ala Disney or Universal.  It’s nice, if you can afford it and don’t particularly care about the quality of the product on the field.  And the media, as ever, is playing along as the uncritical observer, as when USA Today says the 41,149 seating capacity “will make for a far more intimate ballpark experience” than the “old”—as in twenty years old—Turner Stadium, which seated 50,000.  In a pig’s eye it’ll be intimate compared to Wrigley Field or Fenway Park.

Those facilities have posts that carry the upper deck close to the field of play; SunTrust Park is more of the same old same old, cantilever construction carrying the upper decks up and away to the stars.  And what’s so great about a smaller capacity?  Sporting events are all about supply and demand for tickets.  If your team is good and tickets are scarce, both the primary and secondary markets will be sky-high expensive.

I guess Commissioner Manfred didn’t take economics in college.   

April Showers

I suggested to Clare a couple of months ago that she look into season-ticket packages with the White Sox, as a kind of communal penance thing.  And the Sox had just the ticket(s), if we were interested, a package for all the April games, for which you could not pay father and daughter to attend.  No sir, but we’d go for free if the younger of us were playing.

Which is precisely what happened for eight years of high school and college.  What Michele and I did was what parents of athletes are supposed to do, go out and bear witness regardless the elements.  It’s raining as I write this, an inconvenience that won’t have a major bearing on my day.  But three or seven years ago, I’d be Johnny the Weather Forecaster checking the radar and seeing what the odds for afternoon precipitation are. 

Some forty thousand Cub fans will be doing likewise because they have tickets to see their world champions play the Dodgers today.  What miserable weather for a ballgame, what perfect weather to watch your daughter play in.

Make Me

The commissioner’s office has released a statement saying it wants to work with the Indians in getting them to move away from Chief Wahoo, their simpering mascot/logo.  As soon as word hit the street outside Progressive Field yesterday, fans were all aghast, talking about history threatened and how a crude caricature isn’t hurting anyone.  If only the team would change its name to Your Granny, with artwork “borrowed” from those fans so fond of the Chief.

A good rule of thumb is that most people don’t like to be told what to like, think or say; label something offensive, and you’ve practically guaranteed they’ll hold onto it for dear life.  I’m sure a whole bunch of Indians’ fans are complaining they’re being singled out by the “politically correct” police.  Sorry, not on this.

I will admit, though, the argument would be a lot easier if there weren’t folks out there who think “Tomahawk missile” is culturally offensive.  They do, they’re wrong, and only Chief Wahoo benefits.  

Not Your Daddy's Wrigley Field

Really, it’s too bad Leni Riefenstahl wasn’t on hand at Wrigley Field last night to shoot footage for “Triumph of the Will, part II.”  Things are getting a little out of hand with golden jerseys and whatnot.  Someone needs to remind Team Ricketts that they’re merely the flavor of the week, and the bigger they are, the harder they fall, vines and all.

The Tribune did a story the other day on the rising cost of everything Cub.  Right now, so long as they win, nobody outside of us White Sox curmudgeons really cares.  But it is interesting, this tectonic shift in appeal.  The story included a timeline on ticket prices for an undefined “regular ticket,” bleacher or grandstand, either way a nice seat.  In 1962 such a ticket cost 75 cents; in the collapse year of 1969, $1; and as late as 1998, $12.  These various prices harken back to a time when attendance amounted to an impulse buy.

If the team was good, you sat with a lot of other fans; if the Cubbies stunk, so much the better for you to sneak into the good seats after the fifth inning or so.  You went to games when you wanted to; watched home games mostly in the daytime; and never went broke in the process.  The days of becoming a Cubs’ fan in that manner are long gone.

Now, the game is an “event,” with dynamic pricing worthy of a Broadway show (how long until Alexander Hamilton throws out the first pitch or sings “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”?).  Once upon a time, museums were free, and ballgames cost very little.  Nowadays, museums in Chicago rationalize their admission fees as being no more expensive than a ballgame.  Something’s changed.

Obviously, I prefer the old days, even though they were subsidized by players who were grossly underpaid.  So, nobody’s being cheated in their pay envelope anymore.  But what happens when the Cubs—or Red Sox or Yankees or Dodgers…—stop winning?  Professional sports will do anything to avoid a drop in prices.  In Chicago, the Bears stink, but refuse to drop prices; the Bulls kind of stink, and act like the McCaskeys.  Only the White Sox have bowed to reality in the face of mediocrity.

We live in interesting times, with or without Ms. Riefenstahl.

Give It a Rest

NBA Commissioner Adam Silver has himself a problem that refuses to go away—coaches keep resting their star players to keep them fresh both for the regular season and playoffs.  But if someone has put out big money for courtside seats (and the Bulls charge $1,800 at the United Center), that person wants to be able to see LeBron James or Kevin Durant play.

I imagine NBA coaches have rested their stars since the days of Red Auerbach, but it’s a question that merits further research.  In many ways, the Bulls of 1970-71 were my favorite basketball team with Jerry Sloan, Norm Van Lier, Chet Walker, Bob Love and Tom Boerwinkle (I didn’t have to look up any of the names).  They were, as the cliché goes, a scrappy bunch coached to overachieve by the maniacal Dick Motta.  The team won 51 games that year before falling to the Lakers in seven during the playoffs.

Here’s where it gets really interesting—the NBA Finals, with the Bucks sweeping the Bullets, ended on April 30; by contrast, the Finals last year ended on June 19.  (In case you’re wondering, the NBA had 17 teams in 1970-71 vs. 30 today.)  Did coaches rest their players in January back then the way they do now, or did they see the season as more of marathon that would all be over in April?  It’s a question one I bet Commissioner Silver wishes he could spend time on rather than the problem he’s got to deal with right now.

If Him, Why Not Her?

The Twins have an interesting young outfielder by the name of Max Kepler, who was born in Berlin to parents who were both ballet dancers.  The young Kepler was exposed to the arts at an early age but opted for sports instead.  And, while he showed an aptitude for tennis, he picked baseball—mind you, German baseball—instead.  Go figure.

There are a couple of things worth noting here.  First, hats off to the Twins for scouting and signing Kepler; obviously, the White Sox couldn’t be bothered.  Second, if baseball can think outside the box in finding a talent like this—the left-hand hitting Kepler has a sweet swing and plays a nice right field—then why can’t it do the same with that half of the human population that isn’t male?  Not one in several billion is baseball ready?  I’d take those odds, if only I owned a ball club.  

Words of Wisdom

Before yesterday’s game against the Twins, a Sun-Times’ reporter asked White Sox rookie infielder Matt Davidson why he wasn’t watching the Masters’ golf tournament on the TV; Davidson had opted for a ballgame instead.  Said the rookie, wise beyond his 26 years:  “I don’t watch golf.  That thing bores me to death.”

Indeed.  Nothing like seeing a tiny white speck against a blue sky, hour after hour.  To me, all golf courses look alike, I don’t care how hard the par-5 seventh hole at Blah-blah-blah is.  Of course, baseball critics say pretty much the same thing, except the white speck comes off as a little bigger onscreen.  But you know what?  They can have Augusta and the green jacket and the old-boys’ misogyny.  Give me Fenway any day.  With Chris Sale on the mound, the place is electric.  Fore!