I don’t care about baseball any more

Tony Kubek, Gil McDougald, Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Bill Skowron, Elston Howard, Bobby Richardson.

It’s the lineup of the 1960 Yankees. I still remember it now. I worshipped it then.

Growing up, particularly in the Bronx, baseball was my religion (so much better than bar mitzvah lessons). I lived and died with the Yankees, and—although it may seem contradictory—a few years later, a little bit with the Mets, too.

I read each morning’s box scores assiduously.  I went to bed each night with my transistor radio tucked under my pillow so I could listen to Mel Allen broadcast night games, sometimes even from as far away as Kansas City.

I checked regularly to see how many home runs Mantle had hit and modeled my little league batting stance, such as it was, on his (the left-handed stance because I was lefty all the way and Mantle, of course, was a switch hitter).

I knew other teams, too, knew which pitchers to fear (always hoping the Yankees, on their next road trip, wouldn’t have to face the Tigers’ Frank Lary, the renowned Yankee killer) and which hitters were impressive even if they played for other teams. I could recite the averages of the top batters in either league and which pitcher was leading the league in strikeouts and how many games behind the White Sox were and other assorted baseball esoterica.  

And then it all pretty much stopped.

Today, I’m lucky if I could identify a couple of Yankee starting pitchers or if I know the first name of their new left fielder. I have absolutely no idea who’s playing for the Kansas City Royals or the name of the Minnesota Twins manager or what Mike Trout, universally acknowledged as one of the best players in the game, looks like. I almost never look at box scores and I can’t remember the last time I actually watched a game, in person or on television.

Somehow, I lost interest in baseball. And I’m not sure when it happened.

Maybe it was back when I was a sportswriter, covering both the Yankees and the Mets, and finding out that these heroes I had worshipped were, for the most part, pretty uninteresting people who had spent most of their young lives perfecting their curve balls or learning how to hit to the opposite field—and not taking piano lessor or reading books or doing the other things I was interested in.

It could have been when I moved abroad, pre-internet, when I couldn’t study the box scores every morning, and I started to lose track of who was on what team and who was hitting well or pitching badly. I began to realize that life would go on, and even offer flaky croissants, without knowing who was leading the league in complete games.

Then again, maybe it was more recently, when arcane analytics (or at least they seem arcane to me) took over the game and RBIs and ERAs weren’t enough to determine who was really good at baseball. What is OPS+? What’s a “quality start” and how is exit velocity determined? And don’t get me started on WAR or range factor.

I know I probably sound like just an old guy complaining that they don’t make ‘em like they used to and all this new stuff is ruining the game and spewing other you-kids-get-off-my-lawn complaints. But the reality is that, no matter the reason, I really just don’t much care about baseball anymore.

Or for that matter any sport, now that I think about it. It’s not like I’ve replaced my baseball investment with the NFL or the NBA or mixed martial arts or, just to seem younger and hipper, English Premier League soccer. I can’t really bring myself to get interested in how Man City or the gunners of Arsenal are doing on the pitch.

And, I may as well admit, I didn’t watch a minute of the World Cup. Or the Super Bowl. Or the World Series, the NBA playoffs, the Stanley Cup Playoffs or Wimbledon, the Masters or any other major—or even more minor—sporting event. Even college basketball, which is the official religion of where I now live, only slightly piques my interest anymore.

I am, but only occasionally, envious of friends who still follow their favorite teams avidly, who still can immerse themselves in the fortunes of the Yankees or the Knicks or Ohio State football. And who can feel exhilaration when their teams succeed, and are devastated when their teams don’t win. I do occasionally wonder: Is something missing from my life now, having lost that ability to muster such care and focus, to dote on something that has no direct benefit to me, no direct connection to me?

Truly, the answer is no. I’ve mostly left baseball (and other sports) behind and there’s no turning back. My life seems full enough without box scores. Though maybe I should consider taking piano lessons.