At 70, I have watched and listened to baseball since long before we could quit praying for radio reception static-free enough for us to follow the games. I still watch and listen, but only for the single stellar play, the rare meaningful game. I thank Jim Murray (May 8) for making it so clear why that is so.
Jim Murray's diagnosis of modern baseball was a grand slam. It's no longer a game; it's a bank account. Mediocrity is rampant. Players paid a million a month for six months batting less than .200. Millionaire pitchers with losing records. With guaranteed pay, why bust your butt?
Games played at odd hours, day and night, on a pool-table surface. A juiced-up ball to revive interest. In the past, inept players ended up in the minors. Not today. With so many teams, any warm body is eligible.
I've seen Ruth, Gehrig, Ott and Hubbell play on grass in sunlight. I was a Giant fan in the '30s and '40s. There are no longer any giants, just greedy, puny pygmies. Fanatics who support this travesty are out by a mile.