Suddenly, Everything Looks a Little Less Goofy

Date: April 6, 1996

To: Walt Disney Co.

From: W.P. Plaschke

Re: Somebody really messed up this time.

Greetings. I know you are busy these days rearranging light bulbs, so I will be brief.

I ducked into partially new Anaheim Stadium the other night, checked out the mostly new Anaheim Angels in their second game of the season.

And, uh, Disney, do you have any idea what is happening out there?

Obviously not.

First thing I noticed was, no cheerleaders. Not on the dugout, not in front of the right-field bleachers. The dancing girls have disappeared faster than Jim Abbott.

Disney baseball without pom-poms? You cannot be pleased.

Next thing I noticed was, nothing on the dugouts. No Blues Brothers imitators. No fire eaters. No 12-piece orchestras. Only a brief appearance by somebody singing you-know-what during the seventh-inning stretch.

And about that canned rock music between innings. You’ll be outraged to learn that it is not pumped up to jackhammer decibels like last year.

This noise is now strictly background. The music is such that some fans can actually hear the first baseman catching the ball during infield drills, the next hitter rattling his bats as he walks toward the on-deck circle.

Disney, are you sitting down?

Then there’s your new stadium, only half finished, about 35,000 available seats, an increase to about 45,000 next year.

The most important part has been completed, and it’s a mistake along the lines of, Cowboys of the Caribbean.

Do you know that your center-field stands are gone? That your projected baseball Fantasyland opens up into the dreaded outside world?

That you can sit in a seat with the lowest average ticket price in the American League--around nine bucks--and watch a panorama of real life occurring beyond the fences? Like old-time baseball fans used to do?

Careful, Disney. Your sprawling baseball dream is becoming a tad intimate.

And wait until you see this new pregame video on the left-field scoreboard.

You know how you act like nothing happened before you were born? Or if it did, it consisted mostly of pirates abusing wenches?

You are not going to want to watch this video. Fred Lynn is in it. So is Bobby Grich. Brian Downing. Fregosi. Mauch. Reggie. The Ryan Express.

It is a wonderful montage of past Angel teams and their division championship celebrations, set to sentimental music. Imagine that. The trendiest company in the world actually acknowledging it has a memory.

Disney, you are going to kill somebody over this one.

And what about the team? Goodness, the team. We wouldn’t want to be in General Manager Bill Bavasi’s office when you find out about this bunch.

First, the uniforms did not come out the way you want. The players do not look like workers at a Tomorrowland ice cream stand. They look like, gulp, real players.

The logo could pass for something worn by Toronto. The pinstripe shirts and pants with solid sleeves are worn in Cincinnati. I’m no expert, but I can spot no periwinkle.

Not only don’t your players look like softball stars, they don’t play like them.

You bought into the American League, Disney, but under those shirts beats National League hearts.

In the second game of the season, an eventual 2-0 victory over the Red Sox, Tim Salmon tried to steal a base. Only Dave Hollins’ single up the middle stopped him.

Salmon has averaged four stolen bases in four major league seasons. Cover your eyes, Disney. Your pretty statue is going to start getting dirty.

“We’re going to keep guys on their toes around here,” said Terry Collins, the new manager.

Then there was Jim Edmonds, who hit a line drive to center field and was thrown out trying to stretch it into a double. Then was scolded by Collins for being apologetic.

“I said, ‘It was a good play, you went for it, keep going for it,’ ” Collins said.

Afterward, perhaps inspired by two huge TVs in their new clubhouse, the Angels did something equally repulsive to you curators of good taste.

They remained for more than an hour. They howled at ESPN. They ate corned beef in their underwear. They did something the Dodgers never do. They hung out like a team.

“A player came up to me the other day and said the whole thing was so much better than last year,” Collins said. “The player said it felt like baseball around here again.”

Excluding silly construction helmets on ushers--they aren’t that afraid of Troy Percival are they?--that player was right.

There can be only one explanation, Disney. Somebody sneaked into your offices in the middle of the night and changed everything.

Somebody who values baseball as sport, not sideshow. Somebody who realizes that nine hard-played innings are entertainment enough.

Now that you have been warned . . . think you can let that person stay awhile?