The Curse of Sports Talk Media

Last season, I was taking in a Met’s game, when the third inning started with a close play at first. The Mets’ first baseman ranged far to his right, away from the bag, to field a sharply hit grounder. He tossed it to pitch who had run over to cover first. The throw was off target, so the pitcher had to stretch to make the catch, badly tearing his hamstrings.

As he lay on the ground being tended to by teammates and the team trainer, I turn to the guy sitting next to me and say, “What a great play, I hope he’s alright. Looks like he injured himself.“

“He gets paid to make that play,” grunted my fellow fan, exhibiting all the empathy of a hyena dispatching an antelope.

I was shocked. The injured pitcher laying in the dirt was a Met. He was one of us!!! And the fan in question was so out of shape, that it was clear that the last time he stretched for anything it was for his fifth, or many tenth, Budweiser from the back of the fridge.

The rest of the fans around me weren’t much better. I was in the center of a sea of invective, criticism, condensation, and ultimately despair. Defeated Gladiators were given better support from the crowd.

To men of my father’s generation, sports were as an escape from the world of work, not another source of agita. They had more significant concerns, like putting food on the table and defeating the Nazis. Since I was a child, sports has always been something to be enjoyed and then forgotten. It has no real effect on my life — I don’t get a check if they win, or a bill if they lose.

So why are today’s Sports Fans so angry?

I believe the road to madness started with the creation of WFAN — the first 24/7 Sports Talk Radio Station. An innovative concept with two obvious problems.

The first one was obvious. There wasn’t 24 hours worth of sports news out there—even with the pre-game, game time, post game, post, post game, getting ready for the next game programs — there still was a lot of dead air to fill.

Then some evil genius had a seemingly innocent idea. Let the fans call-in and supply the programming. Soon the air was full of calls from Joey from the Bronx, Eddie form Rockaway, and the occasional Lucile form Staten Island, dissecting every player, play, coach, manager, minute, inning, period, quarter of every game, everywhere, all the time.

But now that the WFAN was dependent on a steady stream of fans calling-in with their own bones to pick. How do you keep up them calling? Especially late at night?

The answer was to “feed the beast.” Rile up the fans, stir up controversy, inflame every rivalry, jump on every flaw, question every decision, call, or strategy.

Like bad parents, they only notice faults, and anyone who doesn’t win the Cup, Ring, Trophy, or Title, is a “LOSER.” People who can’t tell you who won WWII, call in obsessing about arm slots, pitch counts, draft positions, or blocking schemes.  They may not know the name of their    Congressman, but they know their team’s third-string point guard, and whether or not he should start, and in extreme cases, be allowed to live.

Things got worse with the arrival of ESPN, the first 24 Hour Sports Channel.

ESPN has access to a limitless supply of ready-made content on videotape. Not only games, but, also every highlight and low light—every home run, TD, and three-pointers, every error, fumble and foul. Every facet is scrutinized, obsessed over, sliced and diced. This in-depth analysis ultimately saddled all sports with obscure statistics—WAR, Exit Velocity, Yards after Catch—all, that is except Hockey. Nobody cares about Hockey.

The final nail in the coffin of stadium civility was the rise of “The Sports Commentators.” The sole job of the Sports Commentator was to argue, beating other Sports Commentators over the head with the aforementioned stats—creating and then tearing down heroes, endlessly ridiculing any poor bastard who made a mistake or lost a game.

All of this agitation has made some fans insufferable. The stands are full of Mike Francesa (WFAN), and Stephen A. Smith (ESPN) wannabees, loudly “broadcasting” their opinions to no one in particular.

Case in point, at the same game I referenced at the start of this article, I heard:

• Two older gentlemen behind me spend the entire time scrutinizing on every play—for some reason they were proponents of bunting at all times—to the point where I expected them to run down on the field and conduct player interviews.

• Another “fan” loudly questioning the home team manager’s intelligence, grooming habits, moral fiber, parentage, quality of his genitalia and sexual preference — in addition to his general fitness for the job.

• Groups of young men and women distributed throughout the crowd who just booed everything. Occasionally one of them would stand up and shout “You suck” in the general direction of the field.

Amid this sea of negativity, my mind took me back to a simpler time—to my childhood when I fell in love with, baseball.

I thought of my Uncle Johnny, the man introduced me to the game. Several times during the season he would take me, my brother and his son, my cousin to Yankee Stadium. He was very knowledgable and was great at explaining things, but for him, the game was mostly an excuse to get away from my Aunt for a few hours and to drink a ridiculous amount of beer. No Exit Velocity, no On-Base Percentages, no WAR—still not sure what that one is — just a guy out with the boys, enjoying the game, the sunshine while consuming a seemingly endless supply of Ballentine.

I miss those days.