Nursing a Denver Hangover

First came artificial grass.

Baseball played on a carpet. Baseball played on a “field” that turned the ball into Silly Putty.

That wasn’t baseball.

Next came designated hitters.

Baseball played by a man who never picked up a glove. Baseball played without the pitcher ever coming to bat.

That wasn’t baseball.

We thought it couldn’t get any worse. We thought there was nothing more they could do to the beautiful game of baseball to desecrate it.

We were wrong.

We hadn’t counted on Colorado.

We hadn’t counted on Coors Field, which is to baseball what indoor soccer is to soccer.

We never expected anybody to build a ballpark that would make a farce of a century-old game.

We never suspected someone would erect a stadium in which 10 runs a game might not be enough to win.

We didn’t figure on Denver coming into the major leagues and making a mockery of hitting a baseball.

We never dreamed that Roger Maris’ record of 61 home runs in a season could be challenged by nine men on one team.

We couldn’t have conceived of a place where the altitude makes baseballs go flying over the fence like a hot dog wrapper on a freeway.

We wouldn’t have believed that an architect could design such a place without taking this altitude into account, without pushing back the fences 25-50 feet to compensate.

We wouldn’t want to dampen the enthusiasm of Colorado’s many new fans but wonder if any of them would like to attend a real major league game.

For years and years, we were willing to bend.

We tolerated indoor baseball. OK, so no rainouts.

We forgave San Francisco for failing to pick a site where a person could watch a baseball game without dressing for an Arctic expedition.

We shrugged off Minnesota’s goofy plastic bag of a fence. OK, so nobody breaks his neck crashing into a wall made of brick.

We endured a Seattle edifice so poorly conceived, pop-fly baseballs bang into fixtures hanging from the ceiling.

Throughout this century, we have accustomed ourselves to Yankee Stadium’s short right field line, to Tiger Stadium’s overhanging balcony, to Wrigley Field’s fickle winds, to Fenway Park’s left field monster. But these are characteristics by design, like tricky holes on a golf course.

And besides, these four yards have been with us forever. Their blueprints predate baseball’s use of outdoor electric lights.

But this new place in Denver, heavens to Abner Doubleday, what a loony bin this is!

Any pitcher who holds an opponent to three runs or fewer should be awarded an honorary no-hitter.

Checked swings become ground-rule doubles. Bunts go into the gap in left-center. Kindergarten children who play tee-ball could clear any fence in left, right or center.

Coors Field isn’t baseball.

Coors Field is baseball lite.

During last weekend’s Dodger series there, broadcaster Vin Scully said any hitting record set by a Colorado player should automatically be accompanied by an asterisk. He said he had never seen such a place, and Vinny has been around since the Dodgers tried that Robinson kid at second base.

Player after player is leaving Denver muttering about the conditions there. Hitters fatten up their averages and pitchers fatten up their ulcers.

So far, Japanese pitcher Hideo Nomo of the Dodgers has worked in two places--Candlestick Park and Coors Field. One of them has breezes that would carry Dorothy from Kansas to Oz. The other has an altitude that would give Neil Armstrong a nosebleed.

They are the miniature-golf courses of major league baseball.

If Ken Griffey Jr. played every home game in Colorado, he would break Hank Aaron’s lifetime record for home runs-- this year.

If Tony Gwynn played every home game in Colorado, he would hit 400--100 singles, 100 doubles, 100 triples and 100 homers.

If Mario Mendoza played every home game in Colorado, he would hit .299.

Before this season is over, I predict that Vin Scully will say: “The next batter for the Colorado Rockies will be Larry Walker, who is trying for his 62nd home run. And wait until you see him bat in September.”

I honestly believe that whoever built Coors Field must have had one too many.