Baseball season has started.

Whoop-de-freakin’-doo.

I never thought it could happen but for once, I really do not care.  Way to go, Major League Baseball.  You turned a once-rabid fan into an apathetic slug.

It’s not because my San Diego Padres will be battling for the cellar this season.  I told everyone who would listen, and a few who wouldn’t, my team would suck.  But I’m used to that. 

Winning has never been a requirement for me to enjoy baseball which is rather fortunate.  Since the Padres were born in 1969, rescued in 1974 by Ray Kroc and run into the ground by recent ownership there has not been a whole lot of winning.

The Padres have had many more bad years than good years.  The best was in 1984 when they won their first pennant.  Colonel Jerry Coleman called it:

We liked that a lot, Jerry.  There’s nothing like the first time.

When I moved to Oregon, I heard more than once, “Now you’re going to be rooting for the Mariners, right?” 

I mean no disrespect to the Seattle Mariners and their fine organization but: why?  Why would I care about the Mariners?

The response was since the Mariners were the closest team geographically I would naturally follow them since Bend, Oregon is ever so close to Seattle, Washington.  You know, with 338 miles being only a hop, skip and a jump away.

I know for a lot of you who don’t live here, you think the Pacific Northwest is some vague territory populated by a bunch of espresso-sipping, tree-hugging, flannel-clad aging hippies who are all employed by Microsoft.  This stereotype could not be further from the truth.

Some of us prefer to drink tea.

There’s no way I could ever not be a San Diego Padres fan.  True sports fans know you must follow the team of your home town and your only excuse to like another team is if there is no team close and/or you live in Chicago. 

I spent my first 34 years in San Diego so I am doomed to walk the Earth as a Padres fan for the rest of my days until I finally die of an attack of severe aggravation. 

Thankfully, I can always go back to the memory of those 20 seasons I had the great pleasure and honor of watching a true baseball player: Mr. Tony Gwynn.  But now, what is there?

I’m not the only one.  The recession has been blamed for a drop in season-ticket sales but for a lot of fans, the magic is gone.

If baseball is to be saved, it has to become more like football.

To some baseball purists, football is just a bunch of oversized gorillas slamming into each other.  But there are several reasons football is now more popular than baseball despite the absence of visible necks.

Random drug testing is essential.  Those who dope in the National Football League are not allowed to play.  What a concept. 

“But,” baseball insists, “fans want to see home runs.  The players have to bulk up to hit more home runs.”

Tony Gwynn had a lifetime average of .388 and only hit 135 home runs.  Yet, any time you watched a highlight reel, there he was.  He was either on base or at bat getting ready to get a key single or to sacrifice himself to move the base runner.  They don’t just give away eight batting titles.  He was on target for fly ball after fly ball because he studied the pitchers and hitters and knew where the hit ball was likely to end up earning him five Gold Gloves.  All of this was done cleanly. 

If the baseball players don’t want to submit to drug testing, they could have a head check.  The manager measures the player’s head before he goes up to bat.  If the hat size changes, he’s suspended.

Parity is the name of the game in the NFL.  Revenue sharing and salary caps have leveled the playing field so potentially, truly anyone can win on any given Sunday (or Monday night, Thursday night, sometimes Saturdays and Thanksgiving.) 

Baseball should also let the managers wear regular clothes and drop the DH because it is stupid.  Also, if they are not willing to give the umpires guide dogs, they should insist on a consistent strike zone and put in some form of instant replay.

Until then, play ball all you want.  I’m going to read a book.