JOE MORGAN SUCKS

Originally written in 2007. In honor of the World Series, I’m reprinting it here.

Mr. Morgan was a great second baseman. Not so much a great play-by-play man. I am not wearing pants.

After lo these many years some of you may know me a little. You may not know what’s in my secret heart (hint: Teddy Bears and Whisky Fountains) but you know certain things: I like The Drink; I have three cats; I am frequently pantsless; I like baseball and no other sports, including sports which are not actually sports, like golf. It’s like we’re old friends, walking hand in hand along a moonlit beach.

So, you know about the baseball. As I write this, it’s early October, and that means it’s postseason time, which in turn means I’m pretty much parked in front of the television night after night, just like I have been for the past 25 years or so. There’s a lot of beer involved, a bit of screaming at the screen, and, naturally, some weeping. The weeping has nothing to do with local teams or anything—I think it’s neat when the Mets or Yankees make the playoffs, but I watched the entire 1991 series between the fucking Twins and the Braves, so I think it’s obvious I just like the damn game. I don’t know much, but I’ve learned a thing or two about baseball on TV over the years. Rule number one is, you’re better off listening to the radio. Rule number two is, Joe Morgan sucks.

THE HORROR OF JOE

Back in 1987 I listened to every single Mets game on AM radio. The year before, of course, the Mets had won 108 games and one hell of a World Series against Bill Buckner and the Red Sox, and as the ’87 season began I was 15 years old and convinced the Mets were going to kick some serious National League ass. I’d never listened to games on radio before, but I decided to give it a whirl since it was the only way I’d be able to experience every single game.

Bob Murphy was the Mets announcer back in those days—he’d been working Mets games since the team began back in 1962, and continued to do so until he retired in 2003—and Bob Murphy was what scientists call a Fucking Genius when it came to calling a baseball game. I can still hear his voice, and imagine myself lying in bed with earphones on, easily imagining the game as Bob spooled it out for me. Murphy was a master: He never openly rooted for his team, he called the game with a clear, easy-to-follow language that brought it all alive for you, and he never ever let bullshit or advertising get in the way of the game. I miss Bob Murphy.

These days, I don’t pay as much attention to baseball as I’d like. I check box scores every day and play a fantasy league every year like a good nerd, but I don’t watch as many games as I’d like, and I never listen to them on the radio for reasons I can’t even imagine or articulate. When I do watch baseball, however, especially during the playoffs, I am always dismayed by the men in the booth who call the games for us. There are exceptions—mainly the professional broadcasters who have never played the game in their lives—but for the most part every single baseball broadcaster on television makes me want to stick knitting needles in my ears so I’ll never have to hear them again. Ever.

It all starts with Joe Morgan.

Joe Morgan may be the worst baseball broadcaster to ever win an inexplicable Emmy award. He challenges my love of the game and my will to live every single time I watch a game he is working. He’s arrogant, misinformed, and often seems to forget that he’s calling a baseball game, preferring to bloviate on and on about whatever subject has come up. Now, modern-day baseball commentary on television is filled with bullshit, so it’s not all Joe’s fault. The networks like to work promos into their games, so the commentators spend half their time reminding you about upcoming shows. Every single aspect of the game is now sponsored—let’s go to the Viagra Pop-Up Counter, Chuck—so they have to spend the other half of their time shilling for other corporations. Plus, baseball is a slow, magnificent game (some people read slow, magnificent and think boring, and I weep for them) that doesn’t always lend itself to the Attention-Deficit-Disordered world of modern television, which feels like it has to have an all-singing, all-dancing parade of graphics, music, and digital wizardry just to make baseball watchable. Again, some people might agree with that statement, but really, if you feel that way, is any of this bullshit going to change your mind? Of course not, you evil bastards. You already hate baseball (and, by definition, thus you hate America, too).

So, no, it’s not entirely the broadcaster’s fault. It’s absolutely partly their fault, though, because so many of them suck for so many of the same reasons. Joe Morgan may be the Grand Master of Crappy Baseball Analysts, but not far below him is a long line of horrible, horrible people. There’s Tim McCarver, who hasn’t yet discovered a story from his own lengthy baseball career he can’t mine for wisdom during a game, no matter how minor. There’s Tom Seaver, who hasn’t met a game yet he can’t turn into a lecture on Why Tom Seaver Was Teh Greatest. There’s lesser lights like Al Leiter who isn’t so much evil as just really really uncomfortable on the air, making me feel sorry for him, which then mutates into rage because I am sitting there feeling sorry for fucking Al Leiter when I should be watching the game. Al Leiter may yet mature into a great broadcaster—who knows? Until then, I hates him, oh yes I do.

CLOWN COLLEGE

The other part of the problem here is that baseball, when watched—especially these days when modern television brings every aspect of the game up close and in detail—play-by-play isn’t really necessary. Sure, if you watch four games a year and can’t quite grasp the Infield Fly Rule, you might like some veteran explaining things to you, or telling you stories about when he played with Stan Musial. But if you know the game, you just don’t need some veteran explaining things to you. This leaves the broadcasters in a pickle: How do you continuously talk for four hours when everything you say is unnecessary for 95% of the people watching you?

Well, you can go the Phil Rizutto cannoli route and chat about what you had for breakfast and generally behave like you’re at the game as a fan with some friends rather than broadcasting it. That worked for Phil, though, because Phil was a genuinely likable guy and he was a local hero broadcasting for the Yankees. People found his strange behaviors—like leaving games early to beat traffic, treating shallow fly balls like Bonds’ 755th homer, and chatting endlessly about his dinner the night before while players were scampering around the bases—endearing.

Or, you can do what guys like Morgan and Seaver and McCarver do—which is to bloviate endlessly about their own experiences as Titans of Baseball. I can see why this works; your average baseball fan is the sort of guy who hero-worshiped players when he was nine and still has that shiny look in his eyes when it comes to baseball. So having someone like Tom Seaver sitting there telling you stories about when he pitched against Pete Rose is pretty entertaining, even if the fucking game you’re supposedly watching is quietly unspooling in the background, ignored.

All well and good—to each their own. What sets Joe Morgan apart from his fellow broadcasters is the simple fact that Joe has yet to have a moment of doubt in his entire life, as far as I can tell. Any situation that arises, Joe will have an opinion of it, and lord knows no amount of statistical evidence, personal testimony, or simple logic will sway Joe from what his vast experience tells him is The Truth. I think Joe hears a booming voice in his ear during every game, reminding him that he is Joe Fucking Morgan and god loves him. If you’d like some examples of Joe holding forth on The Truth despite clear evidence lined up against him, just Google “Joe Morgan” and “sucks” and you will get plenty of evidence, trust me.

I could, of course, turn the sound down, watch the game, and either have the radio on or just let my own vast experience of baseball—which includes several years of misjudging fly balls in Little League and being mocked mercilessly by more talented boys (which was all of them)—guide me. But retreating from televised baseball would mean the Terrorists—and Joe Morgan—win. I refuse. These colors don’t run.

So, I will continue to shout insults at the television every time I watch baseball games, and sarcastically thanking Tim McCarver out loud with a hearty “Thanks, Tim,” every time that bastard repeats something ridiculous, a habit which is quickly diving my wife The Duchess insane.