Opening Day has come and gone, rotisserie league fanatics got their noses buried in the box scores, and folks hither and yon are all a-twitter because it’s baseball season again. Pardon The Old Coach when he gives ya the low-down that the game of baseball today is nothing more than one big snoozer played by over-paid malcontents with no respect or appreciation for the spirit or tradition of the game, and bears no resemblance whatsoever to the grand sport it was back when yer favorite shortstop, The Old Coach, was smackin’ the old horsehide around Firemen’s Park for the Greater Featherstone V.F.W. Post 613 in the Muscatel- Lactose County Chamber of Commerce Sunday Afternoon League.

Listen up, greenhorns, The Old Coach remembers when baseball was a game of strategy and know-how, utilizing the same complex battlefield-like maneuvers perfected by my idol, the great Ty Cobb, God rest his soul. There was none of these steroided behemoths splattering the upper decks with rabbit balls, mainly ‘cause we didn’t have no upper decks, but that’s not the point! What The Old Coach is tryin’ to say is, is that we relied on our wits and wiles, movin’ guys around the bases with base hits, base-stealin’, and of course our favorite standby, goadin’ the pitcher into hittin’us with a fastball by tellin’ him what a lousy lay his wife was. You can bet The Old Coach took his share of belts on the bean for the team. It helped make me the man I am today.

We’d don the proud black and gray of our V.F.W. Post 613 uniforms at home, throw our cleats in the backseat and drive out to Fireman’s Park, pitying the poor slobs who were to be our designated victims of that day, be it the Gillburg Baitcutters or the Lactose County SomethingOrUdders, whatever have you, they were in for a clock-cleanin’ big time! The Old Coach would just sit in the dugout with a chaw of tobacco in my cheek, coldly staring down the day’s opposition while filing my spikes to razor-sharp fineness with my favorite metal-shop rasp, darin’ them lowlifes to try and stop me from stealin’ second or third. The yellabellies were practically too a-scared to even take the field, ‘cause when The Old Coach says he’s gonna do the number on anyone who gets in his way, you’d darn well better believe it!

The Old Coach weeps for the youth of today, who can never hope to experience the joy and satisfaction that comes from successfully pulling off a double-steal to score the winning run while the other team’s second baseman is writhing on the ground in pain because you’ve just sliced his shin to ribbons with a perfectly executed slide. Old Abner Doubleday must be spinning in his grave when he sees those snotty fruit-loops who are desecrating the once-great game that was his gift to our land. Is this what our founding fathers and brave fighting men sacrificed their lives for? The Old Coach thinks not!

Just once, The Old coach would love to try his hand managing one of them big-league clubs today, but there is an inherent prejudice in the majors that precludes us old-schoolers from tamperin’ with the high-scorin’, crowd-pleasin’, politically-correct game that so-called fans love today, what with exploding scoreboards, crotch-grabbin’ Roseanne singin’ the national anthem, and Jane Fonda doin’ that freakin’ stupid Tomahawk Chop! I’d take those gomers over to Firemen’s Park and show them how the game was really played. A couple of cold brewskis at Flo & Earl’s Main Street Tap and a few well-placed spikes to the groin might be just what those jelly fish need!

And that’s the truth! Tell ‘em The Old Coach sent ya…

 

© 2001 Bill Klein. All Rights Reserved.     

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