Please Natter Elsewhere About That Irrational Pastime

Love it or leave it. I wish I could.

Leave it, that is.

I’m talking baseball here. God knows, everybody else is.

The opening of the season. It’s right up there with the smell of fresh-mown grass. It’s purebred Americana. When life was simpler. When you could still find a parking place.

Wake up, everybody. Those days are gone.

Irvine is considering banning grass. Mowers are bad for the environment. Today we have leaf blowers.

Fact is, I don’t even remember when life was simpler. I was never a boy.

I don’t know from bucolic back-yard pitching sessions or stickball amid the urban grime. The smell of a dirty baseball mitt has never ushered in the poetic Muse.

I spent my youth at Girl Scout meetings, formulating cookie marketing strategy. I don’t feel at all deprived.

I know. Women like baseball too. This is what I’ve been told.

The editor of the Times Orange County Edition is partial to the Chicago Cubs. She has a framed picture of that Chicago baseball field hanging on her office wall.

The editor who reads this column likes the San Francisco Giants. When his team headed toward the World Series, up went his “Humm Baby!” sign. This was understood by all. The Giants’ manager has even trademarked those very words.

Then the earth went spasmodic when the Giants were about to meet the Oakland A’s in Candlestick Park. How’s that for a sign?

Enough is enough, is what it meant. This baseball stuff has gone way too far.

Times sports columnist Jim Murray just wrote this: “Baseball is America. . . . Baseball is caring. . . . Baseball is for life.”

Yeah? Well, how’s this? Baseball is traffic. Baseball is spilled beer. Baseball is long lines. Longer yet at the women’s restroom. Baseball couldn’t care less about equal time.

Now George Bush and Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney hold their summit at Toronto’s SkyDome, a newfangled baseball park.

Bush’s team, the Texas Rangers, lost to the Blue Jays, 2-1. The baseball angle upstaged talk of Bush’s upcoming meeting with Mikhail S. Gorbachev, the Canadian-American free-trade agreement, acid rain and this summer’s economic summit in Houston.

Here’s what The Times said in the second paragraph of its report on the meeting: “It is probably safe to assume that two powerful leaders have never met in a locale so oddly suited for political discourse.”

Great. Just what I’ve always suspected. So the Bush-Mulroney discussion probably went something like this:

George: “Yeah, Mikhail’s got some problems in the outfield. Those Lithuanians think they’re all free agents.”

Brian: “You got it, pal. Don’t I know. These Frenchies we’ve got here are giving me the same line. If they don’t watch it, I’ll lock ‘em out. I say Mike should just throw those Lithuanians a real curve. Teach ‘em a lesson. Hey, these hot dogs aren’t bad. You want another one?”

George: “Thanks. Hey, you see that! Go! Go! Yes! Yeeessss! Uhh . . . yeah, right, Brian, you and Mike got something in common. Maybe when I see him, I’ll ask if he wants to join us for the playoffs.”

So why am I writing about baseball if I look upon it with such disdain?

Because it seems I can’t escape it. It’s everywhere, 5% action and 95% talk. This blather about spring and renewal and God and baseball is polluting the airwaves and the ozone layer too.

Now put down this column and go play ball! Far away from me.