@Jamiet99uk:
Simplistic? Anything but. Complicated? No. Boring? NEVER.
Baseball is as much drama as sport- you need to know the characters, the motions and moods, sights and sounds...
THE BASEBALL-IAD (Baseball's Heroic History GREATLY Condensed)
In the Beginning, The Great Baseball Manager created the Diamond and the Outfield.
But it was void and without fun.
And so the Manager said, "Let there be light!"
And lighting up the landscape were fellows such as the gentlemen Mathewson and the nice guy Walter Johnson and that villianous Ty Cobb, who played greater than mere mortals and yet was the Devil on the field, spiking players with his sharpened cleats and snarling at everyone and hurling racist anger from his just-post-Civil War Georgia uprbringing.
And so Baseball was like Eden to America, so great and wonderful, but then the Black Sox took the Forbidden Fruit, Gambling Money, and fixed a World Series, and were cast out.
And the Manager of it All was displeased... ans so he created Babe Ruth. And Ruth was the symbol of joy in America, a big, happy boy, with such power never seen since the days of Hercules.
And he played for Boston, but the greedy Boston owner traded him for money to the Yankees in New York.
And as the Babe grew into the star he was and the Yankees became the roayalty of baseball, the Red Sox of Boston paid for their heinous deed, and four 86 years suffered without the light of a World Series win.
And so Baseball was happy again- but still not perfect.
And so other stars graced the landscape, including a serious and virtue-driven man to be Ruth's teammate, so that the Babe might have a brother to hit homers with, and so his joy might be balanced with solmenity and virtue.
And thus came about Lou Gehrig, and the Yankee Dynasty.
But then the Depression hit America, and Baseball responded.
The Babe grew old and weak, and sadder, but still brightened American faces. He would pass from the field, but never the hearts of the American Public.
Gehrig carried on without Ruth, but he, too, grew weak, stricken by disease, and died prematurely, and Baseball seemed in dire straights, and in need of heroes once more.
And so Baseball brought to us The Gashouse Gang in St. Louis, with gritty players and even grittier play, and Baseball saw they WERE good. And soon he brought forth the Great Early Trio of Hitters, Stan the Man, The Splendid Splinter, and The Yankee Clipper, and thusly Musial, Williams, and DiMaggio battled it out.
And the fans saw it WAS good, and America WAS happy, even in Depression.
And then came War, and War threatened to end Baseball. But the President of the time bade the game go on, for he felt that Baseball was so intrinsic to the America Spirit it was like the Olympic Flame, and must NEVER stop burning.
And so Baseball continued, but it WAS hurt, as the greatest, mightiest of the diamond heroes were off becoming true heroes in the Greatest of All Wars.
And as the War ended, and the Boys came home, Baseball came back to normalcy, slowly, but not before the Cubs, Cursed by a Greek and a Billy Goat, won a pennant and played in the Series of '45.
But they lost, and have never again appeared in a Series, and have remained Cursed for 102 years and counting.
And Chicago WAS hurt, as its South Side White Sox, too, could muster no wins.
But the game went on, but would change dramatically, and would see two TRUE heroes arise.
For now came one of the first signs of the Civil Rights Struggle. For baseball had, for so very long, been a game that leveled all classes, rich and poor, but not, yet, black and white. Those born of Skin of White were welcomed; those of Black were scorned and spurned, were treated to horrors no man should experience.
And Baseball, America, the World could stand the division and injustice no longer.
And so Baseball sent Branch Rickey to the Dodgers, a Brooklyn instituion at the time. And Rickey as a boy had loved ball, and as a young man had served as manager of a collegiate team with a black player. That black player was denied entry into a hotel, denied his Rights of Man, and Rickey rmembered the pain in his eyes, how he bemoaned, and cried "My skin is against me!"
And Rickey would stand it no longer, would heal the sharp, wounding split in Baseball, and that WOULD be the first stich in repairing the larger Racial Gash in America.
And Ricker scoured the Negore Leagues, where the blacks played their own brand of baseball, and searched not only for ability, but for courage, and character.
And Rickey found Jackie Robinson.
And Baseball saw he WAS good.
And so Robinson came to Brooklyn, and the Noble Experiment, as it was called, was put to the test. Rickey, the Great Integrator, was put to the test. And Robinson, the Great Breaker of the Color Barrier, was was put to the test.
The team divided over Robinson. Members threatened to leave the team, to destroy Brooklyn's team, and the Experiment, and Justice.
And here Leo Durocher proclaimed that no man of able body and mind and being, regardless of skin color, would be turned away under his watch.
And so Jackie played- and so he face the mighty injustices and evils of Racism, and Hatred, and Bigotry, and Spite.
In the midst of the Hate, however, came the Captain, Pee Wee Reese. And Reese, as the stands shook with Spite and threatened Robinson, his courage and life, Reese came over, shortstop to second baseman, white to black, white to white, put his arm around Robinson, and declared he would stand by him, that he would stay by him no matter what.
And one by one th Brooklyn club followed, and the fans, and the city, and so Robinson played on, and the door was opened, and the Gash of Racism began to be healed.
Into the leagues, now, would come the stars Black Baseball had, the joy of Willie Mays, the greatest of them all, of Newcombe and Campanella, teammates of Robinsons, Elston Howard and Lary Doby and Hank Aaron. And those that had been barred from White Baseball for so long, had faced injustice, as had Atchel Paige, got a glimpse of the light so long denied to them.
And Baseball, again, saw it WAS good. Still not perfect, but good.
And a Great Age began in that Mighty Baseball Metropolis, New York, as all three of her teams, the Yankees, Giants, and Brooklyn Dodgers, all three were great, and nearly every year for nearly a Score of Years would meet, at least one of the teams, and often two, in that greatest of events, the World Series, as each team had its identity, unique and distinct throughout Time.
The Yankees were the Great Team, the Mighty Team, sporting the best players, from Berra to Whitey to Maris, and many more all managed by Stengel, that master of words.
But their brightest star WAS Mickey Mantle, who carried on in the tradition of Ruth, Gehrig, and DiMaggio. He was the Honest Kid from Oklahoma, or so he seemed, for he drank himself to stupor after stupor, and Baseball frowned, and his skills diminished, punishment for his robbing Baseball of even brighter lights of glory. But he played on through pain, and Baseball smiled again, and Mantle became an icon of greatness, and of flawed greatness.
Of America.
Then The Giants, the Old Team, a team so steeped in tradition, and of Old Baseball Ideals.
But the team had Willie Mays too, and Willie smiled and laughed and never stopped. He was Joy, Joy on Earth, on the Field. He grew greater and greater, and he would remain great and growing greater for eons to come, a Great AMONG Greats.
And Baseball saw this WAS good.
And The Dodgers, the Working Man's Team, the Team of the Masses. White players and Black, Reese and Robinson, the team embodied the Working Man, and yet forever fell short, always losing to the Yankees or, on that most storied of home runs, suffered at the hands of Bobby Thomson and the Giants, The Shot Heard Round the World tore through the Dodgers.
And yet still they had the Duke, a great man and of great skill, and New York thusly was forced to debate between the Three Teams and Three Symbols.
Giants, Yankees, or Dodgers.
Willie, Mickey, or the Duke.
And finally, after years of trial and failure, Brooklyn won the Series, and defeated the Might of the Yankees.
And Baseball saw it WAS good.
But the Yankees wrought such anger and revenge the next coming season, and punished the Dodgers for their impunity, and Don Larsen Shut Out the Dodgers, as the pitched a Perfect Game in the World Series.
And the Series ended with the Yankees as champions again, but also with Jackie Robinson, worn by age and by the strain of his task, ending his last game, and Series, by striking out.
And Baseball was sad indeed, but New York, Brooklyn would carry on.
But the sites of the homes of those beloved Giants, and Dodgers, fouled the game, and the sites showed greed, would not give the teams a proper place to play, to practice Baseball.
And so New York was punished, as the owners of the Giants and Dodgers grew greedier than the city, and more wicked still, and moved their teams west, to San Francisco, and Los Angeles.
And Lo, the people of New York moaned and cried out in pain, but no agony could match that of Brooklyn's.
They had lost their Dodgers. They had lost their soul.
New York was further punished as the Yankees fell to the Pirates of Pittsburgh, so small in comparison, and yet the Yankees were felled by the Shot of Mazeroski.
And Berra, and White, and Mantle, all grew older, and weaker. They retured to the light, briefly, but soon enough the team fell into pain and dismay. For the Yankees had waited so very long to let black players into their light, and now Baseball punished them, and those players, Willie Mays and Hank Aaron and those many that would follow, would enjoy success, whilst the Yankees crumbled.
The Mighty had fallen, and New York's Punishment was ended, and the Redpemption was begun.
For two teams were given birth in light of Baseball's success, and then two more, and one of those teams that were given birth was granted to new York, to cherish.
And those fans who had once delighted in glorious battle against each other, Giatns to Dodgers, now welcomed the Mets. And the Mets were TERRIBLE, losing more than any other team, but garnering the lvoe and support of New York all the same.
Losers, were these Mets of New York, but Loveable Losers.
And as New York endured this, the other sites of Baseball were, too, active. Boston remained a beacon for the game, and The Splendid Splinter, Ted Williams, DID give Boston hope, as did young Carl Yazsatresmski, and Boston had hope, even in light of their Impossible Dream, and their Curse of the Bambino.
Chicago remained woeful on the field but gleeful in the stands, as Harry Caray and Jack Brickhouse provided the voices for Chicago, and for St. Louis, for years to come.
And out West, in their new home, the Dodgers were, still, alien and uncomfortable, but Vin Scully, who had began his days as Voice of the Dodgers in Brooklyn after Red barber, the Old Voice of Baseball, left, and it was in Los Angeles Scully would become the Voice.
Not just of Los Angeles, or of the Dodgers, but Vin Scully became the Voice of Baseball.
And Baseball smiled on, and saw how it WAS good.
It was now that Pitchers, high on their Hill, now, after years of the Batter dominance and power over the game, now the Pitcher had his Age.
And the stars of the age shone, and so, too, did their teams, all but the greatest of Batters, all but the kind of Mays and of Aaron, all were brought to heel.
Juan Marichal brought to the Giants not only a kick that soared high and majestic, and not just a blazing fastball, but also the spirit of Latin America, ans Hispanics now, in the wake of Robinson's Revolution, had their chance, and a champion in Marichal.
Their greatest champion was of Perto Rico, was the Pirates' Clemente, as brilliant as his life would be tragic.
And just below the Giants in Los Angeles, but in no way below Marichal, the Dodgers had Sandy Koufax. How fast and tight his fastball, cuveball, any ball spun and blazed about, and he was said to be the Greatest of his Time.
Sandy would pitch no-hit games, perfect games, but not a World Series game when it fell upon the time of Yom Kippur, the holiest day for Jews, for Sandy was of the Jewish faith.
And he did not pitch, and Los Angeles, and Baseball, was angered, at first.
And then realized IT'S wrong, and Sandy was hailed a hero once more.
And yet tragedy struck the great hero, unforseen and unforseeable, as his arm went limp, and could pitch no more before his time had yet passed.
But never would he pass from the hearts of Baseball.
St. Louis had the glaring Bob Gibson, and he made the heavens shake and the batters tremble when he let loose his fury and fastball alike.
And still Baseball grew, but was now challenged, was in danger of losing its Charm.
And so, Baseball allowed not just a hero, but the fulfillment of a Redemption.
A Miracle.
And so Tom Seaver came to those woeful Mets of New York, and he proved to be on of the titans of all of time on the Hill, few ever to be mentioned about, let alone above him.
But Seaver could not alone bring about a Miracle, the Miracle Baseball was to bring.
And so came Matlack, and Koosman, and Gentry, Seaver's Great Colleagues. None could pitch as Tom Terrific did, but they pitched well, and all the better under his watch. Here, too, came a young lad from Texas, of the Name Nolan Ryan. He would pitch more than a Score and a Half years, but only his first five for those Mets; he would become grizzled aged, fearsome and the King of Strikeouts. Yet now he was but a young boy with a strong arm and strong spirit, and the guiding help of Seaver.
And the hitters of Jones, Agee, Kranepool and Grote, all gave life to the offense ad Seaver and his Men gave life to a mighty Staff of Pitchers.
And the Mets thusly began their Miracle, as they atoned for the sins of New York and her past betrayals. For they grew, and climbed up from the Depths of Despair in Baseball's Cellar.
The Cubs, then, fell to the Mets, and to their own Curse, and the Mets Won the Series to the shock of all that beheld the sights, as the populace proclaimed these Mets to truly BE Workers of Miracles.
New York had a Team back, Miracles back, Hope back, and Baseball smiled on her once more.
She smiled, too, on the lights that were fading.
On Mantle, as his career ended, and his life slid into despair, but Baseball would keep watch over the Troubled Son.
On Williams, ans the Splendid Splinter ended his reign.
On Musian in St. Louis.
On Koufax in Los Angeles.
And yet, Baseball's most Prodigious Son feared the light at the Days Past Playing. Willie Mays still smiled, but his smile shone not quite so brightly. He still played on, and yet he was no longer able to play as he once had as that Kid in New York, or else as the Mighty Mays in San Francisco those many years. And he passed from Baseball, and Baseball shone the bightest of her lights upon him again, to signify the End of Mays Days.
So Ended the Time of Old Baseball.
For Curt Flood, an Outfielder of the Cardinals, fleet of foot and quick of wit and mind, wished the players to be free from their teams. For so long, forever, had the players been bound, indefinitely, forevermore, to their teams, unless it be the whim of an own to cast a player aside or trade him as one might trade cattle. The players were overly poor and helpless, the owners forever powerful.
And so Flood challenged this bondage, The Reserve Clause.
And in America's High Court, Flood won the freedom, at length, for the Players.
But now the freedom shattered Baseball's sense of Team, of Identity, as one season turned to the next, and players no longer stood so much for their teams, on the whole, as for themselves.
Greed had once more crept into Baseball's Creation, and would never, yet, be quite done away with, for the greed of the owners remained, the greed of the players intensified, and Baseball became a Business, more so than ever, as well as a Leveler of Classes and Races.
A Game.
But the Game went on, and in new locations. San Diego and Seattle, Oakland and elsewhere, Baseball, once a Tribe of Sixteen, swelled to more than a Score.
The Athletics, long the nomadic whips of baseball, whipped after early days of glory in Philadelphia, whipped and robbed by the Yankees and others in Kansas City, now came upon the Bay of Oakland, and settled, adn there found prosperity, respectibility, and a Dynasty.
Catfish and Reggie, Bando and Blue, and all the rest, brought glory upon the Bay, and upon themselves, Series after Series.
Now, too, did another Dynasty arise, here in the oft-forgotten land of Cincinnati.
The Big Red Machine came to life, as Nolan and Morgan, Rose and Bench, Sparky and Griffey the Father, Foster and Geronimo and all the rest banded to form the Red Machine, and bring glory upon once-barren Cincinnati.
But here, too, did Boston respond, and a Series for the Ages transpired. That Series was fiercely fought, and gave Baseball and the Nation much joy. Boston had not yet won since their Curse began, and the Reds, too, had not enjoyed triumph for many a year.
In Inning Twelve of the Sixth Game, here occured an event which shook Baseball, gave it a crowing moment, as, after a fierce battle between the rival teams, Calton Fisk, a loyal young catcher of New England, waved, willed Fair a Home Run that saved Boston.
Still, however, the Curse weighed heavily upon Boston's shoulder's and they lost the Series, and Cincinnati was thusly redeemed by that victory, and one in the Next Season.
Still more bonds were forged in this Age of Dynasties, as the Players in Pittsburgh declared "They Were Family!" and saw two great victories in the Age.
But only one would be seen by the long-time overseer of the Family, Clemente. For he was to die, tragically, in a plane crash, dying attempting to bring relief to those in need.
The Yankees rebuilt their frame, but were volatile. Reggie left the Athletic Camp for New York, and with him, and Munson, and Martin ans Steinbrenner, the new and ruthless leader of the Yankee Empire, a Series was once more won.
But New York's rebirth would be short, as Martin was exiled by Steinbrenner, Reggie would leave after a time, and Munson, the Captain of the Yankees, would die, too, in a plane crash.
And yet, happiness, solace, was found in this Age, as a Great Hero, Hank Aaron, ascended to the Kingship of the Home Run Throne. He succeeded the reverred Ruth, forever cast into the hearts of the Followers of Baseball, and of Baseball itself.
Baseball left the Age of Dynasties, and entered a new time, one that would become her Darkest of Ages, the Age of Sinners.
It began with Rose. Rose had been beloved by Cincinnati as a player, as a manager, but now he was Banished, sent East of Baseball, for Gambling and Greed, the sins that had claimed Shoeless Joe long ago.
Yet still events were to occur before the Darkest of Agees, last glimpses of the remnants of the Old Game, before a New Game took hold.
The Cardinals would remain a fixture of Greatness, and Victory, again, was attained, but the Cardinals, so consistent over the many years, so priviledged in Basball's grace, was to see a dark hour, now, come upon her.
For the Cardinals in a Series met the Royals, a young and new team, from Kansas City. And in the Sixth Game, in the Ninth Inning, with the Royals lacking in runs and nearly out of hope, the Darkness of a Wrongful Call allowed a Royal runner a base, a base he never had rightfully earned.
But the ded was done, the wound inflicted, and Kansas City would claim victory in light of St. Louis' dark, Wrongful Call, a Call that would prove to end Cardinal victory for a time.
It was a great miracle for little Kansas City, and a somber hour for St. Louis.
But for New York and Boston, the next Season, after great dominance by both and a Series of heroes, a wretch, and a miracle, were to unfold.
For in that Sixth Game, the Red Sox of Boston, so very close, a Strike, a Second away from breaking their Curse, led the Mets. But the Mets continued onward, hits came, runs, and errors of judgment by Boston.
And then it occured.
A ground ball rolled towards Bill Buckner, who was a on most other occasions so true and sure of his senses, and on this occasion, the ball, as New York hearts burst from joy and Boston hearts sank with agony, passed through his legs, and the Mets won the Game on the Miracle, and, the next day, the Series as well.
Joy was found in New York again, their great heroes, Gooden and Strawberry, Keith Hernandez and Mookie Wilson, Ojeda and Orsoco, Knight and many more, all were heroes, and were expected, now by New York, and by Baseball, to form a new Dynasty in the glory of Baseball.
But the Darkness that had already claimed St. Louis and Boston now wrought its havoc upon New York, as its players partook of Wicked Fruits, and the team fell in shambles. Gooden and Strawberry, in their youth, took the Fruit of Fame and of Ecstasy, and found in them only despair and ruin, as they themselves were ruined, only to be redeemed eons later by the forgiveness of their faithful. The rest of the team, too, scattered away, as the players wre now free to do, and New York was robbed of her chance at fruther glory.
But this proved but a warning, as the full wrath of the Era of Sinners was now unfolding.
Worse than the Wicked Fruits, the Forbidden Fruits of Steroids were now introduced, and, behold, how many wicked players partook of them!
For moeny or fame, and the Fruit would give these hethens powers of Ruth or Mays, but they would never BE Ruth or Mays, not rightfully.
But before the Fruits took over and their full grip was extended, last glimpses of greatness, real greatness, were seen, as the hero of Los Angeles, Gibson, hobbled about the basepaths after a home run hit, wounded as he was, as Scully and the Dodgers were filled with joy, unaware it would be, in fact, the last Series they would win.
The Twins of Minnesota, too, twice came from meager beginings to victory, and this gave America joy, a team from Toronto won a Series on a shot by Joe Carter, and this, truly, would be Baseball's lat great moment for some time.
For the Wickedness of the Land now came to the core, as steroids, greed, money, and selfishness and Sins Against the Game were committed.
Baseball, for a full Season, was at war, and dead.
Baseball in the eyes of many, now, was dead.
Greed, expansion, steroids, money, and a Lost Season, all Deathly Blows.
Baseball returned, but now was shunned. The Yankees returned to power with Jeter and Torre and Mariano, and in New York, there was some joy, but throughout the land, Baseball was still not forgiven. In Los Angeles came a Catcher, Piazza, and in Seattle an Outfielder, Griffey, whose father had been of the Red Machine ilk, and they were beacons of joy in their cities, but still Baseball was not forgiven. An expansion team, the Marlins of Florida, wona Series, and yet disdain grew all the more, for who were they, these Marlins, claimed the people? What business did they have, defeating an old, victory-starved team as were the Indians of Cleveland? A teram of BOUGHT players, America cried, and no more. She stopped to watch McGwire and Sosa partake of Steroidic Fruti and pass Maris, and in Los Angeles agony was felt as Piazza was, in an act of greed by the Owner, passed the Mets of New York.
And it was there, then in New York, the Shining Hill of Baseball, where the Game was first healed, and revived. For the Mets and Yankees would face each other in a Series, a "Subway Series" as they had called the contest in bygone days when the Dodgers were of Brooklyn and the Giants native to New York. Piazza and Jeter performed heroically, but the Yankees struck down the Mets, and won a Third Straight Victory.
And across America, the people, largely, still had not returned to the Flock which once was of Baseball.
It was now, too, in this era, that Caray died, and the Midwest mourned his passing deeply.
But not so deeply as would be the mourning that would soon take place on the Shining Hill, in New York.
For the Towers were Attacked, as was Washington, and Death and War came upon the land.
But Baseball, after a pause of grief and mourning, played on, the Mets donning the caps of the police and firemen who had perished in the Towers, and Piazza won that first Game after the Attack for New York, adn the Yankees came to the Series for New York.
And, amidst the loss adn sorrow and sadness, Baseball WAS back in New York, at the very least, and as tears of bitter anguish an despair flowed, so too, due to the deeds of Piazza and his Mets and Jeter and his Yankees, a few, solitary, tears of joy.
The Yankees would lose the Series to an expansion team, the Diamondbacks, largely unknown and largely alien to Baseball still, but the Series was immaculate, and it gave New York, even in defeat, a kind of joy; again, two years hence, when they would lose to the Marlins, New York, still hurt, still felt some joy, solace, in knowing its Yankees, is Baseball, was returned to her.
And that same Year, the Year of the Marlins' Second Victory, the Cubs, again, fell prey to their Curse. So close to a Series when a fan, known as Bartman, interferred with a ball, and Chicagoans were livid, and the Cubs remained Cursed, and would remain so through the Century Mark.
But one Curse was to die soon, and then another.
For the Red Sox of Boston were upon the cusp of defeat, trailing Three Games to None, and then, in a Miracle, won Four Straight against the Yankees, the Bambino's Team, and Four More Straight against the Cardinals.
The Curse of the Bambino was Broken, and Boston was Liberated Once More.
So, too, would be the White Sox of Chicago the following season, as they won a Series and their Curse died away.
And these victories helped to obscure the darker times, for the Era of the Steroid was still upon Baseball, and villians ran rampant. Canseco, and McGwire, and Sosa, and Rodriguez of New York, and Barry Bonds. Bonds would surpass the Rightful Rulers of the Home Run Thrones, and would usurp Aaron's Throne as Home Run King.
But the People would remain fast behind their Champ Aaron.
And more names would be named, and the issue would hang, but as teams returned to contention and once again races for glory mattered to the people AND to the players, Baseball was now largely healed, and could Grow Once More.
THAT'S the quick version.
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