Baseball Purist… Not! Cheerleaders and Bad Music Killing Game

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FORT WORTH, TX – It’s baseball season here and this past Sunday, the Doc was at beautiful Lupton Field to watch the #3 Horned Frogs of TCU complete a sweep of the Wichita State Shockers.  85 degrees.  Sunny.  Kinda humid.  Perfect baseball weather.

Well, ‘cept for a couple of things that got on my nerves.

Numero uno… cheerleaders.

duct tape....it's the difference between "no, no, no" and " uh, uh, uh"...

Duct tape… it’s the difference between “no, no, no” and “uh, uh, uh”…

Now, I’m a regular good ol’ red blooded pervert just like the next guy, and can certainly appreciate the gyrations of scantily clad females in the proper context. Like at football games.  And basketball games.  Jersey shore bar bikini contests.  The storied strip joints on Northwest Highway over in Big D.  In my living room with a crazy drunk ginger haired girl.

Showgirls.  Showin' what mama gave em'

Showgirls. Showin’ what mama gave em’

But at a baseball game? Nope.  But there they were, the TCU “showgirls”, bumping and grinding to a crappy ass hip hop tune at the end of the 3rd, 5th and 8th innings.

For those of you unfamiliar with college cheer-leading these days, there are actually two squads.  One consist of the “real” cheerleaders, who get a varsity letter and do a bunch of acrobatic tricks that would make an Olympic gymnast envious. The day of simple cheers.Rif, Ram, Bah, Zooo – are over. This is more like the Flying Walendas with a peachy clean complexion.

So  what if I slept with one of my high school students...hey, like the song says, hot for teacher...

So what if I slept with one of my high school students… like the song says, hot for teacher!

Then there are the pom-pom squads… which here in Froggy Land are called the “showgirls.”  Patterned after the NFL version (sex sells, sex sells, sex sells) their routines consist of bump and grind and pelvic thrust… wash, rinse, repeat.  Seeing them on a baseball field? Well, it was just a little surreal.  I mean, they’re hotter than a Louisiana summer night… but just don’t fit on a baseball field. Leave the bumpin’ and grindin’ to the professionals. Like the girls at the New Orleans Club or the Cincinnati Bengals cheer squad.

What really put a damper on the baseball spirit, however, was a phenom that has invaded all sporting events over the last few years.  Really crappy, really loud, really old rock music.  Played whenever there is a break in the action that last more than a frigging millisecond.

Want to converse with your buds? Fuhgettaboutit.  Instead, you get Bon Jovi, or Journey or some other cruddy 70’s hair rock band – bands that back when you were in you’re teens, you avoided because they were so dang LAME – pounded out at maximum volume.

Why, oh why do they do this?  So you buy more crap – that’s why. If  you’re not talking, you’re eating and drinking and the marketing masterminds behind the sport scenes found out a while back that the average ring per person goes way, way up when they blast the music.  And they do not even have the decency to put good stuff on. Just the cheese.

It's too loud to talk...I'm thinkin' a drinkin'

It’s too loud to talk…I’m thinkin’ a drinkin’

Sure, t’s bad in hockey and hoops – what with the enclosed arena and the noise reverberating like an angry housewife in a mid life crisis. But at least it does not change the essence of the game.  In baseball… it does. It just takes away from the relaxation aspect.

Up in Chi-town, the Cubbies can’t play the music too loud due to city noise restrictions.  Because of this… and also in keeping with the historic confines of Wrigley thematic that works so well for them – the organ is still usually played between innings at a ball game there. And let me tell you, it makes a huge difference.  The atmosphere is pure pleasure. Baseball like it was meant to be.

ahh....relaxing with a smoke and a brew....which I need after listening to that hip hop crap all game

Relaxing with a smoke and a brew – which I need after listening to that hip hop crap all game

But instead, I got me bumpin’ and grindin’ to the old biker tune Welcome to the Jungle. Yuk. Hey, least it didn’t snow like it did on you poor bastards up North.

I guess everything changes and I’m getting to the point where I don’t think it is all for the better. Play ball… not crap.

Now, for those music fans out there who do not want to hear the eighty ninth rendition of Heart or other 70’s and 80’s bands, here’s some stuff getting some air play in the heartland that may, [ahem], resonate with some our our readers and their recreational habits.  Till next time.

I remember how it started..after that it’s just a blur…..is it a Sunday or a Monday, am I supposed to be at work...it’s fuzzy..like a tennis ball on my tongue….

Different Matt, tomorrow.

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About the Author ()

Doc Diz resides in Fort Worth, Texas for the past 15 years. When not playing old boys rugby or skiing, he is known for sampling Maker's Mark for its medicinal qualities. A native of Connecticut, the Doc has managed to move around enough to have lived in all four US time zones, which has allowed him to get a little perspective from west of the Hudson where guns, drilling for oil and gas and Big Gulp soda pops are still legal.

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