You could say it’s the end of an era, but in truth that era died on January 12, 1969, when the New York Jets beat the Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III. Joe Namath predicted it, and when it came true not only was he a hero in New York, but throughout the country. 

We didn’t pay attention to the rest of the globe. And people were just starting to play soccer in the U.S. We were so self-focused that the baseball championship was called the World Series, even though nobody else in the world competed.

But it was more than the Jets’ victory. It was Namath himself. The sixties had finally caught up with sports. Namath had facial hair, and a nightclub, he had trouble with authority, he resonated with both youngsters and oldsters, whereas baseball players…

But those on the diamond had their heyday. Kind of like rock and roll. It may be in bad shape now, but for decades it was EVERYTHING!

This is hard for those not alive in the fifties and sixties to understand. As for those conscious before that, not many of them are even left.

There are statistics, records, and we knew them, from the back of baseball cards if nothing else, but they could not convey the essence, the power of the game. You got that from watching, whether in the stadium or at home, in black and white.

It started with spring training and didn’t finish until the first week of October, with the end of the World Series. Baseball was a summer sport, but in the name of cash, no sport observes its natural limits anymore. Football is played in February, hockey and basketball in June, and the World Series is oftentimes played in November and it all runs together, but it didn’t used to be this way.

There were eight teams in each league, and then it spread to ten. This was a big deal, a very big deal. And the Yankees won almost every year. Which disappointed others, but their sheer dominance, their sheer talent, was akin to what Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods embodied in their heyday. But the Yankees and baseball had even further reach. You may not be able to name a song from the latest Taylor Swift album, but everybody knew that Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris were battling to beat Babe Ruth’s home run record in 1961.

And the uniforms! They were not double-knits, they were flannel, and heavy, and warm. And the stockings came up almost to the knee. There was tradition, the game was the same as it ever was. But then came the designated hitter and…

George Carlin’s breakthrough routine was about the difference between baseball and football. You can probably recite it in your head right now. Remember, football is played on a gridiron, baseball in a field…we don’t know when a game will end, it could go on FOREVER!

And ultimately that’s what happened. And it contributed to the demise of the sport’s popularity.

Along with night games. Baseball was a daylight game, played at night irregularly. You were glued to your transistor at work, the scores were passed by fans in school hallways. If you were lucky, your teacher would allow you to listen to the World Series on the public address system. And you rode your bike home fast to try and catch the last couple of innings.

And then there were the cards, and the annuals. Screw the gum, you needed the cards. Which you flipped and traded and they were seen as a momentary diversion until the boomers came of age and in a fit of nostalgia decided the cards were valuable, and oftentimes scarce, because like the rest of our childhood toys, they’d been thrown away.

But going to the game. The field was so green! It was the biggest public edifice you’d ever been in. It was special. And that feeling remains. But the tickets are no longer cheap. Anybody could afford to go to a baseball game, and many did.

Until they were all on TV. Then people stopped going. Baseball can be easier to comprehend on TV, especially football. But the NFL said the games couldn’t be televised locally unless they sold out. The NFL was based on scarcity, there were only a limited number of games, whereas baseball was played every day, like a job, it was immediate, it was part of your life, and you liked that.

By time the seventies rolled around hockey surged, with the success of the Bruins and the Islanders, who had rabid fans. And the NBA got a boost from Willis Reed and the rest of the Knicks, and there was an endless conveyor belt of phenoms. From Dr. J to Pistol Pete to… Baseball players started to fade into the background. They were two dimensional. Hard to relate to. They hadn’t been to college. They were oftentimes seen as hayseeds as opposed to denizens of the city.

Of course the seventies yielded Reggie Jackson. Namath with a bat. But his constant battles with Steinbrenner oftentimes undercut the show.

And Steinbrenner may have won, but he dissed Yogi Berra. And there were the shenanigans with Billy Martin.

And eventually there was the home run race of 1998, between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa, but it was ultimately tainted by steroids. Cocaine was one thing, illegal, but it didn’t enhance your ability. But if you’re cheating…

Mickey Mantle was no saint.

Then again, Willie Mays was.

Those were the two dominant players of their era. Of course there were supporting players, but we had Mickey in the American League and Willie in the National, they stood head and shoulders above the rest. They were the icons, and you never exactly knew when they’d deliver. Mickey would strike out, and then he come to bat in a clutch situation and wallop one over the wall.

Willie was more homespun. Willie didn’t need the spotlight, the spotlight found him, he was just that good.

But then Willie was exiled to San Francisco, and played in a park with such bad weather that it impacted his stats and he played three hours later than the teams on the east coast. But in 1962 he was in New York battling the Yankees in the World Series and it looked like the Giants might win, and then Bobby Richardson jumped to catch a blazing line drive and…

Then there was the famous catch. Backwards. Of Vic Wertz’s deep ball. And the throw thereafter. This was legendary, as well known as Woodstock years later. It was basic lore, it was in our DNA, it’s one thing to run and snare the ball, but BACKWARDS? In the deep center field of the Polo Grounds?

The parks were still old. And in some ways decrepit. There were no luxury boxes. We were all in it together.

But that was the fifties and sixties. Sure, there were flaws, engendering protests, rebellion, but seemingly everybody was middle class, there were no billionaires, and we saw it as our duty to raise the level of life for those in poverty.

I have these memories. They’re emblazoned in my brain.

Like the time I bought a biography of Willie on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. I think it was fifteen cents, maybe a quarter, back when paperbacks were cheap. I needed more. We all needed more.

And now there’s too much.

But the heroes of the past. Today’s generations have no idea how big they were.

And Willie Mays was one of the titans. We admired baseball players, we imitated them, we wanted to be them. Work at a bank? No, you’d rather play ball.

And then came rock and roll.