That 70's Game

So, I'm watching a baseball game and nobody is running on the field, clobbering first base coaches, or hurling batteries at anyone. It was a nice, sedate game on a nice sedate night on a nice sedate field.

The Ramones would have loved it.

I remember when a trip to the old ball game used to be the concrete safari it was supposed to be. Veterans Stadium. Yes, Veterans Stadium in south Philly. It lurched out of the asphalt like a nuclear weed and anchored the sports-entertainment complex for about 30 years. 30 long, long years.

But, let's step away from that since-demolished mausoleum and hop in the Way-Back Machine to, say, 1978. Back to the days of $1 hot dogs and $5 hookers. Back to the days where players were less worried about being assaulted by biblically drunk yahoos and more concerned with Morgan the Kissing Bandit. Don't remember Morgan? She was busty. But to simply call her busty was like saying Hitler liked to see the world. Good Lord, man, when she came barreling out of the stand towards an awestruck third baseman, her blonde hair flouncing like long johns in a twister, her breasts - two magnificent wonders of physics - looking like two Volkswagens drag racing during an earthquake, it was enough to make you forgive the 1970s for bell-bottoms, OPEC, and The Bay City Rollers.

Back then, the game had colorful uniforms and colorful players with colorful names. Where are the players today with nicknames like The Cobra, Spaceman, The Bird, Tugger, Mad Dog, and The Human Rain Delay? Even the real names were colorful. Guys like Biff Pocaroba, Mickey Klutts, and the unfortunately-named Dick Pole, dotted major league rosters. Things always look better from the windows of the Way-Back Machine.

Some day, today will look good, too.