I Don't Care if I Ever Get Back

“Beer!” Someone shouted loudly over to my left.
The pitch comes in hot and a little high. “Strike two”, the umpire said matter-of-factly.
Not to be outdone someone on the right called out “Cold Beer!”
The next pitch came in slow and low “Ball two” said the umpire very quietly.
ICE Cold Beer” Someone else behind me screamed out above the crowd.
The next pitch hit the batter. “Take yer base,” the ump pointed toward first.
Somebody right in front of me screamed out as if in pain, “PeaNUTS!, Get yer peanuts HERE!”
And there are “Hot Dawgs!” here, and “Coco COla!” there . . . how quaint that all seems today.

Yes, those were the good old days. Time between innings were spent in casual, sometimes elegant conversations among friends and even strangers who were sitting around you. You talked mostly about baseball, how the game was going and what would probably happen in the next inning. We were telling each other what to look for. There was some music, usually the National Anthem before the game began, and then the “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” in the 7th inning, but otherwise it was all pure baseball abmience, usually watching the shadows lengthen and pool into darkness as the nighthawks swooped above the brilliantly-lit playing field.

Today it is different. The game is no longer so matter-of-fact. Things are always spectacular now. The umpires dance and spin and shout out and gesture. The players hop like bunny rabbits over wrongs, whether actual or perceived. There is constant music, or just plain amplified noise, interrupted for breathless moments of pregnant silence as the pitch is delivered, then - thank God, the music starts up again with its mindless ditty which is never completed because there is always another next pitch.

The vendors in the stands too have changed their wares now, here in the year of our Lord, 2015. You still hear the cry of “Beer”, ICE Cold Beer”, and “Peanuts” but now we have come to hear “Get yer Steroids Here!” Somebody over to the left will shout out “AnaBOLIC steroids!” “Hot Dogs!” calls out somebody else, and a kid over to the far right calls out “Stanozolol! Get it NOW”. A sprightly -looking old codger carries a tray and shouts out “Human Growth HorMOAN!” A sign up on the concession stand reads “Deca-Durabolin” and beneath it is written “Need a Dr. prescription? - We GOT a doctor! Come on up! Get Yours NOW!”

Well, looking back now we can see that these performance-enhancing drugs made their entry into our society through the games played by young boys. Somewhere around the 1960s and 1970s, money got into the game in a really big way. Those who were good got paid well, those who were very good got paid very well. Then the drugs quietly tiptoed into the scene. Skinny players popped out like the Michelin Man, hallowed records were shattered into oblivion. The need to get into drugs crept down from the major leagues right onto the sandlot and highschool games. And as every sports fan knows, if you don’t begin “developing” until high school, it will be too late for you and you will miss out on glory. And worse, on the money too.

So instead of getting drugs out of the game we had to admit they were “necessary” to help the human body and mind reach the Performance-Enhanced levels required to cope in modern life. So we made them legal. Now that everybody is using them, where can you go to stand out now? “Psssssst . . . let me show you something