One Hand Clapping

Recently my classic rock station had another ‘80’s rock weekend promotion. It’s kind of ironic since the 80’s saw a lot of great music—Madonna’s pop, Police’s new wave, and Prince’s…well however you define him. Aside from sandwiching Van Halen and Guns ‘n Roses at each end of the decade, it was not a time for the next Stones, Who, or Beatles. The station was really announcing that it was cheating on its musical roots but the listeners were going to like it anyway. So a quartet of folky female voices wafted through the speakers before a Gibson guitar screamed and a pounding high tom announced the Bangles’ “Hazy Shade of Winter.” As part of the soundtrack for the coke-fueled ‘80’s film Less Than Zero, this cover of the otherwise forgotten Simon and Garfunkel piece was an appropriate choice. But while the decade of decadence featured drugs, sex, and money as their own kind of sport, the actual sports world is now the Sounds of Silence.

Some leagues have made a few returning moves, but mostly with things using four means of propulsion. NASCAR was first to roar back, turning laps in front of empty stands. As a television event, it wasn’t so different because the crowd noise always gets drowned out by the over-revved car engines.

The sport of kings dipped its hoof onto the track, and it showed how much fans are part of the entire experience. Now I’ve been by the rail of Saratoga’s backstretch when they start a race. 30,000 fans are opposite me, but only if the wind is right can you hear their distance shouts. The starting gate opens and the magnificent beasts hurtle past you in a mostly chestnut blur. The only sound is the pounding of horseshoes on sandy turf, a muffled puff, puff, puff from each horse, and a contrast to the power generated by nearly a ton of horse going 25 miles an hour.

As demonstrated at Belmont Park a few weekends ago, it all makes for boring television. There should be 100,000 people screaming for a triple crown, literally shaking the stands and TV cameras. I’ve been on the rail by the finish for that. I’ve been in the stands for that. I’ve watched it on TV at home and would do so again. Except for street bookies hustling for any kind of betting action, it was a mediocre two minutes of fleeting interest after months in a new broadcast content vacuum.

Basketball promises to return, again without fans in the stands. What’s the point of watching without a couple of guys in the seats, one with a large “D” and the other with a white fence cutout, with the organ pounding away as the crowd sings “De-fense”? I saw the Michael Jordan documentary and enjoyed watching the ’92 Olympic scrimmages and his comeback practices. How the NBA is going to top the squeaking sneakers and occasional profanity of those clips is, at best, unclear to me.

All of which brings us to our nation’s summer game, baseball. It should be the summer game, but neither the players nor owners could figure out how to play in front of empty stands to kick off the Fourth of July weekend. It’s not that I look forward to the crack of the bat and an announcer frantically calling a dribbling ground out to short as the greatest athletic feat ever performed. I’m not looking forward to endless commentary about social distancing precautions as the outfield camera pans across players far enough away from each other to constitute their own countries. What I am really not looking forward to is the fact there isn’t a season. 60 games? College teams put that together while driving to their own world series. Joltin’ Joe’s hit streak would have encompassed 93% of this “season.”

Sports is now a temptress, the Mrs. Robinson of TV trying to seduce us with false promise. Indeed, where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? It seems that in trying to come back, the thrill of sports has left and gone away.

© 2020 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.