Here’s a great piece out of Spitball magazine about a disenfranchised, disillusioned fan. I love going to ballgames, but sometimes, I too get annoyed or overwhelmed by all the extra entertainment provided. Rather than relying solely on the game to keep our attention, clubs bombard fans with music, mascots, kiss cams, and other such distractions in order to ensure that everyone is having fun. Oftentimes, I wish the game would stop being about profits and would go back to just being about baseball.
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To tear the old place down was the last straw,
But they had long since changed the game for me.
I didn’t spend enough to pay my share
Of salary and profit for the club,
And, so, somehow, membership was revoked.
I had for years parked on the South Bronx streets,
And bought a hero sandwich up the block,
And sat with homemade scorecard through all nine,
Without the need to buy a bobble head.
But worst of all, I still contributed
To silence that once hung across the park,
A hammock on those lazy summer days,
When you’re content to let the whole world slip.
Then came fake bugles, mechanical cheers,
Loud music danced to by Cotton-eyed Joe.
You couldn’t hear the elevated train
For all the noise the cartoon subway made.
Forget the bat’s crack or the leather’s pop.
They couldn’t trust that I would stay awake,
And so they filled the once expectant space
Between the innings with crowd pleasing din
The way they do it in the minor leagues.
