The War on Baseball Socks

On a lighter note, a topic of constant discussion in my household is echoed by Op-Ed contributor Paul Lukas in today's New York Times. Mr Lukas observes (with tongue drifting nimbly toward cheek):

If you think baseball hosiery isn't important, think again. Back in the early days, when uniform pants were essentially knickers, stockings were the primary way for a team to show its colors. Note that we don't have teams called the Blue Caps or the White Pants - we have the White Sox and the Red Sox. And during the McCarthy era, when the Cincinnati Reds were concerned that their team name might be associated with Communism, the team's owners officially changed the club's name to the Redlegs - a name that wouldn't work today because not a single Red exposes his hose...

Nothing is dumpier than today's baggy, full-length pants, which look like footie pajamas. While there are still a few high-pants holdouts, they've become increasingly rare, in part because of peer pressure. Mets third baseman David Wright wrote in his blog in May that the team's veteran players gave him "a hard time" when he experimented with high pants for one game...

But don't blame the players. The real fault lies with Major League Baseball's higher-ups, who are legendarily persnickety about everything from sleeve lengths (must be standardized within a given team) to handwritten cap inscriptions (forbidden under any circumstances) but have allowed pant cuffs to migrate southward with nary a peep, with disastrous results for the game's hosiery heritage.

Scoff if you will, kids. And, yes of course, there've been numerous fashion "rebellions" in baseball through decades past, from colorful mesh or satin shirts to long hair and handlebar moustaches. So the sweatpant look, in a spirit of Liberal fairness, deserved its shot as well.

But even as a mere fashion statement, the look of today's Major League ballplayers is an embarrassing failure - and a slovenly example that our Little Leaguers too often follow to the letter. When our young and handsome and obscenely-paid heroes on the diamond so closely resemble the motley, nationwide brotherhood of middle-aged men - myself included - patrolling our Little League coaches' boxes in sagging, chuckle-inducing, baggy jeans, then something just ain't right with the world.

And besides, at $25 a ticket, we've the right to expect a little bit more than that.