Your last paragraph analyzes it perfectly, Don. "The short attention span of dumbed-down America" says it all and so much more about where our country is in these latter days of ignorance, poor taste, cancel culture, and just about everything else we could name that's so wrong in the America of today. And "the deliberately paced unveiling of a game" with "myriad strategies" (the steal, double steal, hit-and-run, drag bunt, sacrifice bunt, intelligent and timely choice of a reliever, etc.) that created the wonderful mental aspect of the old game.
Like you, I grew up eagerly studying the historical record book. As an 11-year-old I was able to order a paperback copy of the Encyclopedia of Baseball (two White Owl Cigar labels required, courtesy of Dad) and I pored over that volume for endless hours each summer vacation, amazed that Ty Cobb could hit .400 three times and that Ruth once hit .600 in a World Series. Summer was baseball fantasyland for the kids in my neighborhood. We'd play sandlot ball by day and listen to Harry Caray broadcast Cardinal games at night over KMOX, St. Louis (I often fell asleep with my transistor radio beside me as I listened in bed). I'd even occasionally pick up the Pirates if weather conditions were right over KDKH radio, if I remember the call letters right (that's a long way from Mobile). My favorite Bob Prince story came from the habit Prince had of inviting some friend up to the booth while he called the game. One such time he was conversing with one such guy when an enormous roar erupted over the airwaves. Prince, completely nonplussed, then said, "Well, we've certainly enjoyed talking with my old friend Joe Blow. And by the way, that roar you hear in the background was for Bob Skinner, who just hit a grand slam home run." I'm sure you have more funny stories about Prince.
As a kid I'd frequently go to double-A ballgames of the Southern Association at the late, great Hartwell Field where the Cleveland-affiliated Mobile Bears played. It was just seedy enough to be fascinating to my young eyes. There was an old foundry just beyond the right field fence, and I was much taken by the flickering foundry lights flaring all through the night. Railroad tracks ran between the right field wall and the foundry, and about 8:00 each night some long freight train would come lumbering by, shaking the ballpark and blaring its whistle at us. I always hoped a Mobile player might blast a homer into the hopper car, but I never saw it happen. Black folks were allowed into the ballpark but were only allowed to sit in a faded bleacher section way down the left field line and were forbidden from coming anywhere near the all-white grandstand area or from buying any refreshments under the stands.
All this was back before the advent of horribly concussive music at the ballpark, and I reveled in the sounds of baseball: the pop of the big pitcher's fastball in the mitt, the cry of the vendors: "Peanuts! Get your fresh hot peanuts!" and "Cold beer, ICE cold beer!" I loved the constant infield chatter and the little two-note whistle of the shortstop, all constantly encouraging the pitcher. As darkness fell over the field I'd look around and see all the men lighting up, their cigarette and cigar tips glowing like little orange fireflies all across the dark stands, overhung by a large wooden roof. The whole scene produced almost a cozy, intimate feeling, the shielding roof blocking out city sounds while magnifying ballpark sounds back to us, and all of us sitting there rooting together for the Bears. No women came to minor-league ballparks in those days so we were mercifully spared their gabble.
On very hot afternoons at home a friend and I would sit at my kitchen table and play a game you may remember called APBA baseball, a game which had individual playing cards for every player, realistically duplicating their strengths and weaknesses. I learned about the game from an ad in the old Street & Smith's baseball magazine so I mailed off for it and was delirious with joy when I saw the game's contents. When we played, my pal would always take the Milwaukee Braves and I'd take Musial and the Cardinals. One game he pitched Spahn for all 18 innings of a close game. When Musial hit a homer in the 19th to win it 2-1 for me, my friend brought his fist down hard on the Spahn card yelling, "Spahn, you bum! I should have taken you out ten innings ago." I responded cooly, "That's what I told you. You wore his arm out." Little did we know at the time that Spahn would come very close in real life to duplicating that kitchen-table performance (losing to Marichal in 16 innings, 1-0, I believe). I never tired of APBA baseball.
The Greatest Trade in Baseball History
If we weren't playing real baseball or APBA baseball, we'd be trading baseball cards, mostly TOPPS cards, though an occasional Bowman might find its way in. In 1957, the year following Mickey Mantle's magnum opus year, I found the Mick's card in a pack I'd bought at the grocery. A tremendous find, of course, with all Mantle's glittering 1956 stats sparkling on the reverse, and a great photo of him swinging the bat in follow-through posture. Even so, I wasn't a Yankee fan, but a good friend of mine was. In fact he had a whole fistful of Yankee cards, wrapped tightly in a worn-out rubber band. But he didn't have Mantle, not the 1957 Mantle. And that's how the great trade came about. I walked eagerly over to his house with the most daring proposal in baseball history on my mind and the Mantle card held deftly in my hand, for he had something I desperately wanted, a card I had never had in any edition.
"Hey, Jimmy," I said. "You're not gonna guess whose card I got today."
"Another Kaline? You already have three of them."
"No," I replied, "not Kaline. Somebody better than Kaline."
"Mays?"
"No, somebody even better than Mays."
"Well, lemme see it then." So at that moment I held up the Mantle card.
"Oh!" he yelled. "Where did you get it?"
"Would you like to have it, Jimmy?"
"Of course I would!" he screamed. "I haven't had a bit of luck with Mantle this year."
"Well, if you want to make a great trade, you have Ted, I believe."
"Ted who?"
"Ted... you know Ted," I smiled slyly.
"Aw," he grinned.
And that is how Mickey Mantle was traded for Ted Williams, the greatest trade in baseball history, whether of real players or cardboard ones. And I still have that 1957 Ted Williams card, hanging in a framed wall display along with 1952 Bowman Musial and 1960 Fleer cards of Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Honus Wagner, and Cy Young. Sounds more impressive than it is because these are fairly common cards, but they are worth more to me than the few dollars they'd fetch at sale.
I seriously miss the old game.
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