Bread and Circuses

It was late and I was thinking about Dizzy Dean.

Where did those guys go? The southern boys. The characters. The ones who loved the game, often times more than it loved them back. Who said the wrong thing at the right time. And laughed all the way home.

The short answer is they don’t exist. TV came along and gave the whole country Johnny Carson’s accent, which is to say no accent at all. Then came the modern media, then came the cynicism, then came the distance. And somewhere along the way it all became serious business practiced by serious men with serious faces. And agents.

And so we blog about these guys and magnify their failings. Oddly enough we don’t seem to magnify their successes the way previous generations turned Babe Ruth into a legend and Mickey Mantle into the idol of millions of young kids. Maybe it’s because we know better, maybe it’s because we know too much. There just aren’t that many illusions left to shatters.

Needles and pens. Players injecting HGH and sixteen syllable chemical compounds. And writers, and justice, slowly taking them down a notch.

What would old Diz’ think? Say you walked up to him in 34′ and let him see the future. A future where nobody much wins 20 games, even less 30. Where 30 wins would get you at least $20 million. Twenty-five if you sign up with Scott Boras. Thirty when you wave goodbye to Saint Louis and head for a free agent deal with the Yankees. Where there aren’t many nicknames and even fewer smiles.

If you gave Dizzy the chance to trade his $8,000 salary and his buddies on the Gas House Gang for a place in these modern times would he come back with you? I don’t think he would. And, despite his lack of education, I think that would be a pretty smart decision.

Think of what he would miss out on. Hanging out with Ducky Medwick and Pepper Martin and Frankie Frisch the Fordham Flash. Playing nothing but day games. Card games on the train trip to the next town. Little kids looking up to you and grown men wishing they were you. Having enough but not too much.

I bet nobody yelled “You s__k!” at Dizzy Dean. I doubt his salary was ever mentioned in the papers. He didn’t have to worry about some kids breaking into his house and shooting him for no better reason than envy, stupidity, and greed.

The pay was bad. African-American players couldn’t compete in the majors. Medical care was primitive at best. Most careers, like Dean’s, didn’t last long.

But I doubt Dizzy would take that ride to 2007. And I can’t say I’d blame him.

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