First of all, in Baseball Heaven no one spits. No seeds, no chew, none of those long streaming Niagara Falls you see every 30 seconds on TV these days -- in high definition, no less. This is why I paid two grand for my TV -- to watch millionaires spew like hillbillies?
Well, in Baseball Heaven, there is none of that. The players can adjust their privates publicly and wipe their mouths with both sleeves. After all, this is hardball, not the opera. It's just the ever increasing amount of spitting we detest.
But while we're building our Baseball Heaven -- the perfect park, the perfect day -- let's do away with artificial turf. As Richie Allen once said, "If a cow can't eat it, I don't want to play on it."
In fact, in Baseball Heaven, there are no indoor fields, certainly not a Tropicana Field. The turf at that awful Tampa Bay field looks like the outdoor carpet surrounding the ice machine at a cheap Southern motel. There is mold, I'm sure. You could wipe out the Taliban with the spores that have accumulated behind second base. That spot where everybody spits.
Yes, in Baseball Heaven every stadium is outdoors, with dry Dodger air and the rugged San Gabriels as the perfect purple backdrop.
And in Baseball Heaven, we have certain codes of conduct, strictly enforced, though all the players pretty much abide by them. The codes of conduct include bad haircuts and weird beards. For example, have you noticed the Rays' dugout? Like a gang of car thieves. You can't go purely by appearances, sure, but how else are we supposed to judge strangers? And they don't get much stranger than the Rays.
Of course, the Rays aren't the only team with image issues. In Baseball Heaven, no one gets to wear their pants like pajamas, curling beneath their cleats. No, in Baseball Heaven, all the players wear their knickers just below the knee, so the stirrups show in those great, bright baseball hues, colors reserved for baseball socks and national flags.
See, in Baseball Heaven, we're suckers for tradition. There is no designated hitter. No free agency till after you've played 12 years. If the fan behind home plate pulls out a cellphone and waves to the folks watching at home, he'll spontaneously combust.
In Baseball Heaven, we'll do away with those scoreboards that look like Vegas on acid. In Baseball Heaven, all fields are as green and lush and marvelously simple as Wrigley or Fenway. There's an ancient tavern down the block where Harry Caray, Bob Prince, Mel Allen, Red Smith and Jim Murray tend bar after each game. In Baseball Heaven, Vin Scully calls every inning. The faint scent of a good cigar drifts from the press box. Plaschke wears a bowler.
