My Passion for the Best and Worst Era of Baseball
In a world where baseball rules and uniform quality change, where baseball cards rise or fall in value because of the color of the foil border, and where each team currently has a themed hat for every holiday and three for spring training, I’m impassioned by the nostalgia and simplicity of baseball through the 1970s, 80s, and early 90s. From the uniforms to the stadiums, I feel baseball saw no better or worse era.
Major League (1989), often quoted by friends in college, led to a distinct curiosity about the period, which quickly grew into an obsession for me. I passionately poured over programs, team yearbooks, and style guides to see the players clad in colorful uniforms in stadiums with green Astroturf, royal blue outfield walls, and red, yellow, or orange seats at Riverfront, Busch, Three Rivers, the Vet, Shea, and Fulton County. I'd compare it to Charlie Bucket entering Willie Wonka's chocolate factory for the first time to find everything was made of candy.
The late 80s saw Score and Upper Deck join Topps and Donruss in the card scene when the only panini was a sandwich and rare cards were misprinted.
The influence of neo-vintage fashion brought the resurrection of the Starter-branded dugout jacket in a collaboration with retailer Homage, which hinges their brand on the nostalgia felt by fans who remember the cookie-cutter “ashtray” stadia of the 80s long before Nike (and Fanatics) chose profits over fan satisfaction.
Bad uniforms are not necessarily a black mark on the franchise though the shorts worn by the White Sox in the late 1970s deserve neither recognition nor commendation for their attempt to change the game. Those that have drawn scrutiny, like the bold orange pullovers worn randomly by the Baltimore Orioles throughout the 1970s, the “Bumblebee” combinations frequently worn by the Pittsburgh Pirates from 1977 until 1985, and the “Rainbow” jerseys worn by the Astros from 1975 until 1987, were figure pieces of a time when baseball was not afraid to be bold.
Multi-purpose stadiums didn’t need bullpen beer gardens, dugout clubs with gourmet buffets, or hotels connected to them. Three Rivers Stadium never served an IPA, but why would you need one when you could have an I.C. Light? Looking to buy a game-used jersey at the ballpark? You might get one if you were lucky enough to sit that close to the dugout and bribe a bat boy near the end of the season. Sure, the park smelled like a rust-belt dive bar, but they were a reflection of the fans and the cities in which they were located, which brings me to one stadium to which nostalgia won’t be kind - Oakland-Alameda Coliseum - and I feel it’s unfair.
When the Oakland A’s turn into the Las Vegas whatevers, I predict that the Oakland faithful will cling to the glory days, before Al Davis expanded the seating, which ruined the view of the mountains, creating Mt. Davis, when Billy Martin donned a yellow pullover jersey as the manager. Despite choosing grass over Astroturf, Oakland-Alameda once had a charm about it. As we get closer to 2028 and it awaits a wrecking ball, it will likely sit a while, mirroring RFK Stadium in D.C., the fate of which is still to be determined as a bill enters the Senate which may allow for re-development.
Even when the A’s do move, I hope that they don’t do what so many franchises fall victim to: the creation and manufacturing of nostalgia. In my opinion, the type of manufactured nostalgia for the aforementioned era of baseball cheapens the authentic nostalgia to which superfans cling. I watched the Pirates make half-hearted attempts at grabbing fans with 80s and 90s-themed t-shirts along with modernized Nike throwback jerseys. When I witness those things, I’m left to feel that the front offices of those teams have placed no value on embracing those things that create fans. Embracing the history of a team does not require the team to have been successful, it merely requires a meaningful connection to the past. True fans will proudly represent the best and worst things born out of said era.
Last year I bought a piece of Three Rivers Stadium on eBay, a section of the padded outfield wall that hung from 1988 to 1990. At 64 square feet, It’s larger than nearly every wall of my parents’ home in Pittsburgh.
Next, I’m hoping to add a piece of the turf. A private collector has the Pirates’ batting circle, so in typical Major League fashion, there’s only one thing left to do. Reconstruct the entire home team dugout from the 1991 NLCS. All in the name of nostalgia.
By Rudy Devine