Death of a Major League Baseball Fan: No Mystery to This Murder

This is not a story about the actual death of a Major League Baseball fan. That story would be even less mysterious than the one I’m about to tell. Baseball fans been dying because they’re old, and MLB has failed miserably to replace those dead fans with living, breathing, beer-guzzling, belching ones over the last two decades. This is about the Major League Baseball fan in me being murdered.

Basketball was my first love, but our relationship was one of convenience. My dad put a basketball hoop on the garage, although not at the regulation 10-foot height, and he gave me a basketball. This was after I saw the Chicago Bulls play on WGN and was immediately enamored, and not with Michael Jordan alone. I loved how quickly Dennis Rodman and Scottie Pippen, as well as Jordan, could turnover their opponents and score on the other end. I loved their defensive effort and their attitudes, especially Rodman’s. But it wasn’t love; it was just lust. I couldn’t tell you the day basketball and I met, but I know the day I fell in love with baseball, and I fell hard.

I went to the Metrodome, maybe the worst venue for playing and watching baseball in history. My dad, uncle, and I got in the building for five bucks each — or maybe it was four. We sat in the nosebleeds until about the fifth inning when my uncle sweetalked an usher into letting us go down to the lower level. It was 1994, and empty seats were plentiful, as the Minnesota Twins were coming off a 91-loss season two years after winning it all thanks to the heroics of one, Kirby Puckett.

It wasn’t Puckett alone who was responsible for the best and longest romantic relationship of my life, but he was the reason we were there. And in Minnesota in the middling mid-90s, he was the reason anyone was there. I loved how much he loved the game despite it being the game that loves you back the least. I wanted that love in my life. I also loved that he looked like I could be a ballplayer, which is something Jordan, Pippen, and Rodman never did for me since I figured I’d be lucky to hit six feet. I wasn’t.

Take a look at one of the best defensive plays ever made in a World Series and name another center fielder shaped like that. You don’t even have to name one who could potentially make the play. I don’t specifically remember watching this live. I was five years old. But this wasn’t the moment I fell in love with baseball, although I often say it is because the Metrodome making me weak in knees upon entering and lifting me off my feet upon exiting, both literally and figuratively, requires some explanation and ridiculous romanticizing. But that moment was indeed romantic.

To give you an idea of how deep my love for baseball was just a few years before the death of this MLB fan, I present an epic poem I hoped to publish as a children’s book. It’s about a baseball game played between Cleveland and Minnesota at Hiram Bithorn Stadium on April 18, 2018, in San Juan, Puerto Rico. The area was still experiencing power outages in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria. I’ll regret not going to that game everyday of my life, and I’ll regret not visiting Puerto Rico until I do and am able to finish this epic poem. I attempted to channel that regret into a love letter to baseball. It’s entitled Safe at Home.

The Ballpark: Hiram Bithorn Stadium

“Where are we, Papi? What is this place?” 

Mia asks, a surprised look on her face.

She spies dancing flags atop a tall wall.

“This is the ballpark, Mia, where they play baseball.”

Juan and Mia approach a gate.

Mia grows nervous as they wait.

She holds her dad’s hand as the line disperses,

And uniformed men check bags and purses.

“Go ahead, Mia. You can walk through,

Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.”

Mia covers her eyes and walks through the gate,

Other guests smile while they watch and wait.

The smell of popcorn and candy fills Mia’s nose,

And a slight breeze cools her sandaled toes.

She peeks through her fingers and gets a good look

At a man wearing the hat of a cook.

“Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs here,” the man yells

As Mia steps on broken peanut shells.

Her father’s shadow blankets her face,

Safe to finally have a look at the place.

Mia again peeks through her fingers slightly,

Revealing a woman guiding people politely.

She points to a staircase where people go down,

Giving Mia a glimpse of an adult playground.

The dirt somehow shined as if it were silk,

Divided by chalk lines pure white like milk.

The greenest grass ever there was,

Surrounded by thousands of people abuzz,

Packed into grandstands reaching the sky.

Mia couldn’t help but utter, “Oh my.”

Juan smiles, enjoying Mia’s surprise,

And remembering that familiar look in her eyes,

Surprised himself all things considered.

Not long before fallen trees littered

The field and stands, and the lights weren’t on.

Just down the street power was still gone.

“Have you ever seen grass so green?

Or dirt so perfect it looked clean?”

Mia struggles to respond,

Lost in the checkerboard pattern of the lawn.

“How do they do it?” she wonders, “and why?”

“Could we do it at home? Is it just dye?”

Questions flood Mia’s mind,

But the words she can’t find.

Papi leans down and whispers in her ear,

“Relax. There’s plenty of time for questions, dear.

Just ask them as they come to you,

But for now just enjoy the view.

Seeing you makes me recall

My first game with your grandpa.

At first, I stopped and stared just like you are now,

Wondering why the grass was checkered, and how.

“It’s beautiful,” is all Mia can say.

“That’s exactly what Grandpa said that day.

Beauty is reason enough

To do a whole bunch of stuff—

Even cutting grass to the perfect height,

Bent in a direction to catch sunlight.

“They really built all this to play a game?”

“Not any game. The best game,” Papi claimed.

“What makes it the best?”

“It’s just better than the rest.

You play it outside,

And if the game ends up tied,

The game doesn’t end

Until either team scores and stays ahead.

Every ballpark is unique,

Some are even antique. 

Some are bigger,

Some are smaller,

Some have tall walls,

Some have short walls,

But they all have the same smell.

It always feels like you’re under a spell,

When the ball’s hit deep everyone stands up

And cheers like kids who never grew up.”

“Come on, Mia, let’s get something to eat,

Then go to our section and take a seat.”

Lost in the past, Juan slows his pace,

But Mia is eager to search the place. 

Before Juan even reads the menu,

Mia is pulling him someplace new,

Attracted to cotton candy no doubt.

But Mia stops when she smells sauerkraut.

Papi says, “We’ll get cotton candy later.

But for now I want you to eat some dinner.”

They approach a concessions stand

With a sign marketing a hot dog brand.

“Well, what’ll it be?”

Papi asks inquisitively.

“Nachos? Chicken wings?

Mini donuts? Onion rings?

Hot pretzel? Pizza?

A hot dog? Hamburger? Mug of soda?

Chips? Popcorn or peanuts?

They even have cold cuts.

Since it’s your first,

I’d recommend

A grilled bratwurst

It’s tradition.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Papi admits. 

“But I think there’s something about this place

That just magically improves the taste.”

“Okay, I’ll try one,” Mia says.

“But no sauerkraut or onions.”

“Two brats and two colas,” Juan relays

To a friendly attendant whom he pays.

Mia and Papi then make for the condiments,

Where ketchup and mustard and relish complement

Their bratwursts and buns, and napkins will keep hands

Clean for applauding their players from the stands. 

The two meet an usher atop their section,

Who checks their tickets and gives them direction.

Juan leads Mia to their seats,

Where they sit and finish their eats.

Then stunned by an echoing voice,

As the crowd stands to rejoice,

Mia covers her ears at the eruption of sound,

As cheers rain down from the stands abound.

Juan stands and cheers along with the crowd.

Mia’s never heard her father this loud.

She watches in awe as Papi whistles and claps,

Then stands on her chair to see over ballcaps.

Onto the field players run,

As if eager to get some sun.

A man with a stick steps up to a box

Outlined in chalk and free of all rocks.

In the middle of the diamond made by the bases,

A player stands on a tall mound of dirt and paces.

He positions himself over a strip of white,

Kicks his leg in the air and throws with all his might

A ball to a man covered in armor and a mask,

Who catches the ball with a glove and tosses it back.

The men play catch until a man in black gives the call.

The players ready themselves, and it’s time to play ball.

Mia counts nine men taking the field

With little more than leather gloves to yield.

They scatter themselves about

Pretty evenly throughout

The area inside the white, chalked lines

Alongside which coaches give signs

To the man swinging the stick

With a width that starts thin and gets thick.

“Is that a tree branch he’s swinging?” Mia asks.

“It was, but now it’s a baseball bat,” he laughs.

“He’ll try to hit the pitched ball with the bat

And run around the bases counterclockwise after that.

Everything begins and ends at home plate,

Over which the pitcher tries to locate

The ball thrown from atop the mound of dirt

Between the knees and letters on the shirt

Of the opponent trying to reach base.

The pitcher pitches using spin and pace.

Pitched balls in the zone are called strikes, as are

Pitched balls swung on and missed by the batter.

Three strikes and you’re out; three outs and your team

Must take the field before it can scheme

A way to score, 

For which three outs more

Must be got

For another shot

At hitting

The next half inning.

Balls outside the strike zone are called just that

When they don’t receive a swing of the bat.

Four of those and the batter gets to walk

To first base, down the right field line of chalk.

A ball put in play

Is another way

To get on base

If hit to space

Where it can’t be caught or thrown to a bag

To get you out on a force or a tag.

It’ll be easier to explain as they play.

But we couldn’t have asked for a better day.

The key, whether in the field or at bat,

Is to keep eyes on the ball like a cat

Would a ball of string,

So when you do take a swing

The ball hits the spot

Of the bat that’s thick and got

The power to send

The ball over fielders’ heads and ascend 

Into the stands of fans

Ruining the best-laid plans

Of the pitcher,

And the catcher,

The coaches, and the other team’s fans.

Inning 1: Maria Steals Home

Almost six months ago,

Maria took Juan’s “techo.”

But he wasn’t the only one.

In Yabucoa, she spared none,

Robbing everyone of everything,

The mattress, frame, and the box spring,

Sofa, chairs, and the TV—

Even electricity.

Wondering how she stole power?

The same way she stole the shower,

The toilet, and kitchen sink—

Even the water to drink.

For this was no thief,

But a bringer of grief,

In the terrifying form

Of a tropical storm

With winds so strong

Concrete homes are gone,

Blown down in a heap

And then flooded deep

Under giant waves

And relentless rains

That forced Juan’s family

To pack small bags and flee

Their home, far from waterproof,

‘Cuz “techo” is Spanish for roof.

At first, Mia, Juan’s daughter of five years

Was too confused to overcome her fears.

Buttoned up in a raincoat,

She watched her toys start to float.

The water lifting them off the floor

And then carrying them out the door.

“Mami, my toys are floating away!”

“Leave them be. We’ll get new ones someday,”

Isabel said as she packed a suitcase

To hastily evacuate the place.

Mia didn’t hear mother over the thunder,

Grabbing toys on the water and under, 

Stuffing the big pockets of her raincoat

With soggy stuffed animals and dolls afloat. 

Mia rescued toys she preferred first,

Collecting the best before the worst.

But so few of her toys could she see,

Some sinking in the water surely.

But floating in the hall 

Was a white ball

With stitches rojo

That caught her ojo.

Not one of her toys,

Probably a boy’s,

From a casa nearby

Where agua got too high

Too fast to save 

Toys from the waves.

But from what she could see,

Mia had pocket space free,

At least until

Something better was found to fill 

Mia’s bolsillos—

Something for niñas, not niños.

Wading through water just below her knees,

Arms out for balance like on a trapeze,

Mia chased the ball

Floating down the hall

And into the cocina

Where Papi packed comida,

Stuffing pockets with cans of sardines,

Wondering where to pack the saltines. 

With no place left for the crackers,

Juan seeks help from fellow packers. 

He turns around, discovering,

His drenched daughter, hovering

Over a béisbol that found its way

Into Juan’s home on the waves that day.

As Mia grabs and examines the ball,

The icebox floats away from the wall,

Leaning over and ready to fall,

On top of Mia, ice cubes and all.

But just before the freezer door

Could pin poor Mia to the floor,

Juan launched his daughter

Out of the water

Like they used to play

In the ocean back in the day.

The sudden move made Mia drop the ball,

Just before the refrigerator’s fall.

Hugging his Mia, Juan shed a tear,

Saying, “You must be more careful, my dear.”

Isabel enters and asks, “Something wrong?”

“No,” Juan replies solemnly. “Let’s get gone.”

The family walks

Out the front door, no one talks.

All take one last look

At the home Maria took.

Surely nothing would

Survive, but they’d rebuild with stronger wood, 

Storm windows and storm doors,

Maybe install tile floors.

But to replace

An entire place

And everything

Seems quite daunting, 

All you need is what you’ve got

When those who love you are within earshot.

You can’t rebuild a home without the hearts 

That make it, and they had all those parts.

I have seven more pages of notes I won’t include here, but it’s supposed to be nine parts. You might be asking yourself how a love so strong could ever die. Well, loving a murderous mistress often ends in death. Playing baseball is really hard, and hitting a baseball is the hardest thing to do in sports. Just ask Tim Kurkjian. If you’re one of those fans who played 13U and thinks they could lay down a sacrifice bunt in the bigs, you’re delusional. That fear of the baseball you shook off as a 10-year-old after being hit by a pitch comes back in full force when Jacob DeGrom starts a 94-mile-per-hour slider on your hip that catches the inside corner. But you’d never know because you’ll be spinning like a top, not to get the bat out of the zone and abandon the bunt, but to prevent yet another death of a Major League Baseball fan.

Puckett might have made it look as though the game was accessible to most, but most of us can’t hit .318 for a career. Hell, most players now will never hit .318 for a season, and I’m not saying batting average matters. It doesn’t in terms of determining value. But I’ve been writing about baseball’s lack of action problem for years, and declining batting averages contributes greatly to that problem. What’s changed since I fell in love with a game whose playing surface doubles as a code for intimacy? The same thing that’s happened to the entire world: technology.

Pitchers have a new substance to put on the ball that allows for better control and higher spin rates, making it even harder for hitters to identify pitches, which is why they so often look foolish at the dish. I’ve written that a good place to start fixing MLB’s lack of action problem is starting each game with the same strike zone in place instead of employing a subjective strike zone that changes with every umpire and evolves or devolves during the game. Hitters are dealing with different rules on a day-to-day basis, so much so that plate umpires are part of the daily scouting report. We have the technology to steal signs and cheat our way to championships, but MLB drags its feet on developing the technology to adapt the game to the modern age. MLB has dug the grave for my fandom by perpetually dragging its feet.

Baseball has always been the gamesmanship Goliath of the sports world. Much of that trickled down from the top, with owners doing their damnedest to take advantage of players and players responding by, say, throwing the 1919 World Series, or using performance enhancing drugs, to make more money. Baseball is the sport most representative of American capitalism, because “if you ain’t cheatin’ you ain’t tryin’.” And they’re all trying. The Astros just did it better than the rest.

Baseball is simply being baseball. Despite defensive shifts, three true outcomes, record-setting strikeout numbers annually, and attendance declines spanning decades, baseball is still baseball. It’s beautiful at times, although less often and in different ways, as is the case with any lover of many years. It’s stubborn, an ugly look, but unavoidable in its old age. And it’s boring, but more boring everyday. That’s not just baseball, that’s life. But sometimes life ain’t worth watching. You don’t have to buy the ticket and take the ride when the ride sucks.

The last game I watched on my own volition was the last game of the World Series last year, and I watched because I found Tampa Bay’s defensive shifts to be the most interesting thing in the game, despite Fox not providing a graphic to let us know where players were positioned. My favorite moments were when the lone Rays’ fielder on one side of the infield caught a line drive because he was perfectly positioned. I happen to think no one has ever done baseball better than the Rays did baseball last year, but they’ve been doing this for years. No team in MLB pays less than the Rays do for a win, and that’s been the case since 2008 (subscription required).

I was a Minnesota Twins season ticket holder for years and didn’t renew after 2019, when they set the record for home runs by a team in a single season. That’s despite seeing arguably the greatest baseball game ever played that very season. Why? Not because I’m almost certain they were cheating (along with every other team), but because the instances of something — anything — happening in most games were so few and far between, the time spent watching nothing finally became unbearable. And this is coming from someone who willfully and happily watched nothing happen for almost two hours at least 140 times each year on average from 2006 through 2019. That’s the amount of time you spend watching commercials combined with the amount of time between pitches in a nine-inning game. But when someone is on base, you’re never watching nothing. So who’s responsible for the death of this Major League Baseball fan? Who’s on first? Everyone else is guilty.