The Star-Spangled Yammer

I refuse to discuss baseball. I refuse to discuss baseball even though Monday will be opening day for most of America’s teams. I refuse to discuss baseball even though a couple of American teams actually have already begun the season in Japan, where baseball is a lot more fun for us to watch than that other Japanese sport where the fat men wrestle in the white silk panties.

I refuse to discuss the breeze in the air, or the roar of the crowd, or the taste of the hot dogs, or the smell of the umpires, or any of that other same old stuff we associate with baseball every April.

I refuse to discuss our fine local lads, the Los Angeles Dodgers, even though I do respect them for employing Orel Hershiser in these final few months before he becomes eligible to collect Social Security. Old Orel has been around for such a long time that the Dodger Stadium announcer will probably introduce him by saying: “Now pitching, Mr. Hershiser.” I believe the next time Vin Scully does an interview, he should ask Orel what it felt like, pitching to Lou Gehrig.

I also refuse to discuss the Anaheim Angels, even though they have been around for close to 40 years without playing in a World Series and yet actually still have the courage to keep playing. Let’s face it, whenever you ask Anaheim’s fans to choose their favorite players of all time, they usually end up saying: “The Visiting Ones.” The good news is, the Angels do look a little better this season, except for their starting pitching staff of Who, What and I Don’t Know.

Furthermore, I refuse to discuss Pete Rose’s gambling habit, or Darryl Strawberry’s deserving of a 22nd chance, or John Rocker’s unusual opposing view to the concept of National Brotherhood Week.

Nope, no baseball talk from me today. No talk about tickets that cost an arm and a leg, or about players who get paid something like $100 million per arm and leg, or about grown men in short pants who rub dirt on their hands and spit on indoor rugs.

However, please join me for a seventh-paragraph stretch here, before I discuss what I do wish to discuss.

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I wish to discuss the national anthem.

I wish to discuss this song that they make us listen to before every game of baseball.

I wish to discuss how many more times we are going to have to listen to this song being sung in the months ahead.

Let me get my disclaimer in right now, before a single reader can reach for a computer mouse to complain that if I hate the United States of America so much that I even hate our national anthem, then I ought to just move to some country with a better national anthem . . . yeah, like Russia!!! You dirty rotten commie pinko Downey, you.

Look, fans, I am as patriotic as the next guy. I love my flag, my stars, my bars, my amber waves, my shining sea, my country ‘tis of thee, my mom, my apple pie, my truth, my justice and my American way.

But if I have to hear this song screeched one more time, I am going to lose what’s left of my mind.

First, a little history:

As most of you already know, or in case you’re concerned about being asked by Regis Philbin about this someday, our national anthem was written by Francis Scott Key . . . or, as I like to think of him, Francis Scott Off-Key. (Because, let’s be honest, some of the notes in this song, only dogs can hear.)

It originated as a poem Key wrote in 1814, published by a Baltimore newspaper. Key was actually a lawyer. (See, you’re liking him less and less already.) His poem was later set to music, but it wasn’t declared the official U.S. anthem until 1931, a lousy year for music if there ever was one.

Well, next thing you know, every time there’s a game of baseball, the crowd is asked to stand and sing along with Key’s song. Which is fine. It’s nice to have a song. Every nation ought to have a song. I mean, whenever our athletes win a medal at the Olympics, I’d hate to have them place a hand over their hearts while a band plays something by Engelbert Humperdinck.

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But must it be this song? There are so many superior ones--”America the Beautiful,” “God Bless America,” “Bye Bye, Miss American Pie” (OK, maybe not that one)--that would get our crowds to sing along. But today’s crowds rarely do. They barely know the words. The ones in Atlanta just stand around until they can sing “Braves” instead of “brave.”

And with whom do they sing along? With singers who now perform the anthem rather than sing it, jazzing it up, belting it out, holding a note for as long as they can hold it, sometimes sounding like human smoke alarms.

If we can’t change our national anthem to something better--and I’ll be writing to President Bush or President Gore about this, believe me-- couldn’t today’s singers just sing the darn thing properly, respectfully, then curtsy or bow and leave?

Because I’m telling you, the next singer I hear at a baseball game who busts my eardrums with this song, I am going to put his or her name in the paper and propose that he or she move to Russia.

Mike Downey’s column appears Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Write to him at Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles, CA 90053. E-mail: mike.downey@latimes.com