But there is no joy in Mudville, mighty Casey has dozed off

More Playoff Musings

by Bill Ribas

While the bad calls made by the umpiring crew lately are easy fodder to make fun of, I just can’t seem to get up to speed. And frankly, I’ve been dragging my hindquarters around the house for the last few weeks here, and it finally dawned on me as to why. Forgive me for a second while I rub the crust out of my eyes, but that’s an indicator of the problem. It’s these playoff games that start out as ball game, but after a few hours turn into a marathon. I feel like Jerry Lewis in the 23^rd hour of his labor day telethon, what with the hey and the ho and the Shnabble! (that line works only if you picture a comedian doing an impersonation of Lewis). The problems usually start around 10:30 pm or so, you know, usually around  the 3^rd or 4^th inning. At this point in the game, the beer is making it harder to get up off the floor (I actually am seated on the floor watching, because it keeps the volume lower since the speakers are at ear level because I don’t want the kids to wake up, and leaning against the couch the screen is just above my eyes, and I don’t know why I am explaining this). I would watch the game from the couch, but ever since the missus picked up a second hand sofa that is softer than a dump truck full of puppies and kittens, I can’t watch from there or I’ll fall asleep way too early, wake up at 3 in the morning to a Shamwow! commercial and a neck that’s locked looking over my right shoulder. The floor keeps me awake longer, but it’s only prolonging the inevitable.

In ye old days of analog tee vee, this wouldn’t be a problem for two reasons – 1, the games were on in the afternoon, and 2, you couldn’t rewind what’s on the screen. The worst thing would be maybe missing dinner, or missing the first few innings of the game, but you stayed intact. What happens now goes something like this – turn game on, beer, watch game, beer, watch game, beer, start nodding, beer, snap head awake and rewind the last 20 minutes of the game, beer, snap head awake and rewind the last 20 minutes of the game, snap head awake and rewind the last 20 minutes of the game, look at the clock and realize it’s not going to end soon and you have to be up in a few hours to get the kids ready for school, only to stumble off to bed and realize you will have to check the highlights on ESPN in the morning.

It’s not frustrating that I am getting older and don’t have the stamina to stay awake forever to watch what happens in a ballgame. I long ago gave up any hope of say, looking good, staying in shape, or hitting the lottery (although that is still a possibility, and just around the corner, I know it, I just know it!). My eyesight is slowly eroding, things get fuzzy, my hearing is shot from playing in bands for so long, my memory is getting hazier with each moment, and there was something else, but, ah, nevermind. So there’s not too much to hold onto lately, and, well, when these games start going well into the night well into October, it’s just too much to take. Add in the blown calls by the umps, and the wild environmental swings (in round 2 of the playoffs, temperatures have ranged from 45 to 93 degrees according to MLB.com), and throw in Joe Buck, and it’s all I can do to keep from heading to the hunting lodge and pulling a Hemingway.

Why Joe Buck? That’s a question I’ve been asking for years. Long after Costas outgrew his welcome, fighting his height issues the only way he could (verbally) to be relegated to the occasional primetime broadcast or Olympic desk job, Buck came along to ruin baseball for the masses. Sure his dad had a storied and perhaps deserved reputation as a broadcaster, but Buck has taken announcing to new lows. People often talk about how Tim McCarver is the embodiment of grandpa Simpson, as if he has gone over the deep end, and at times, it seems he has, though for a long time while he was a Mets analyst, he constantly got in trouble for calling out poor performance on the field and the like. So he’ll escape the cheap shots for now, and besides, it’s not nice to make fun of old people.

Buck, on the other hand, announces in both the present and the future, as if every word that dripped from his mouth was audio gold, as if he were speaking at the moment and narrating 30 years later, trying to make every play, every second of activity that he speaks the most important thing in the world. Let me offer this advice Joe, play by play of a ball game is not the same as delivering the Gettysburg Address. And if I hear that pompous, self-important voice one more time describing a routine grounder I am going to put a Craftsman screwdriver through my skull. In the booth, McCarver doesn’t stand a chance, since he’s essentially working next to Ted Baxter, and of course he’s going to sound like he’s gone off his meds compared to the stoic delivery of Buck, who can take what is essentially a kid’s summertime game and turn it into a droning, 3 hour plus Donner party play by play.

Should baseball be doing this to itself? Should games extend well into deer hunting season? And why can’t I get the SAP button on my set to work, so I don’t have to listen to the FOX broadcasters? I suppose it’s just one more thing that’s spinning out of control, something I can’t get my hands on, and I now know why kids laugh at old people who stumble or get forgetful or angry at nothing. It is funny from that perspective, and heck, if I see an old lady slip and fall on the ice this coming winter, I’ll be the first to laugh. But I’m not laughing at baseball at the moment, because I’m too tired, because I can’t get my head around the whole game because I can’t see the whole game. And for those closet Dr. Phils out there looking to blame the tiredness on the beer, I simply ask you, have you ever tried watching a ballgame with say, a diet Pepsi and a box of raisins? Hot tea, perhaps, and some scones? I didn’t think so, tough guy. And with Saturday’s game starting at 8 pm, and the average length clocking in at 4 hours per game, I would bet I don’t make it through all of game 6, unless I get some 20 dollar ultra grande macchiato chocolate espresso with sprinkles, and in this house, anyway, that ain’t going to happen. I’ll find out what happened on Sportscenter in the morning, like I always do.