BALTIMORE — The season is still less than 30 games old, there is still a lifetime of games left, still a half-dozen mysteries disguised as pennant races lurking out there, still a whole summer to look forward to, a whole September to fret over, a whole October to thrill to. There is, in the parlance of the game, a whole lot of ballgame left.
And yet even at this early date, so far before the quarter-pole, we can declare a definitive winner in this baseball season:
You.
The fan.
The customer, the client, the folks with invisible targets on your back, the fish that the greed-blinded men and women who operate sports franchises had mistaken for ATMs with arms and legs, the faithful, loyal, quick-to-forgive and slow-to-anger masses without whom professional sports would die quicker than a bumblebee in December.
You have gouged the eyes out of the gougers, and God bless you for it.
I have to be honest with you: You were a bigger underdog than the ’69 Mets, the ’68 Jets, Hickory High School and Mine That Bird put together. I wouldn’t have put my money on you putting your money where your mouth is. No way. Fans always talk a tough game. They have complained forever about the high cost of rooting, griped about tickets and parking and programs and hot dogs and beer. And you have had every reason to complain ever since the day Harry M. Stevens realized it cost about seven cents to craft a hot dog he could sell for a quarter, a buck, and beyond.
In the end, though . . . well, you’re a fan. You lead with your heart, which way too often means leading with your wallet, too. You pay what you’re told to pay.
Just not now.
Just not this year.
Those empty seats at Yankee Stadium? They are your trophies, thousands of them every day, every night, statements replete with exclamation points that echo the wonderful words of Howard Beale: “I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!”
The over-stuffed customer complaint lines at Citi Field? Those are the plaques you take home with you in recognition of a job well done. You can’t see left field from your seat? Lines are too long? The ushers in their Phillies garb tick you off? No Mets paraphernalia? On and on and on? Good. Count ’em up. Keep calling. Keep writing. Keep complaining. At these prices, more than ever, the people who run baseball teams in our town should be held accountable, and more than ever should be reminded that the customer is always right.
Oh, you will hear that the economy helped push you into this defiant stance, but that’s like a sore-loser coach who says, after getting swept in a four-game series, “I still think we’re the better team.” Did the economy push you a little? Maybe. So maybe common sense had a little to do with it. But I believe common decency gets just as much credit. You demand that now. You expect that now. Or you will stay home. In droves.
Good for you.
Great for you.
It isn’t just the baseball teams feeling your wrath, either, which tells me you might be looking to build the kind of dynasty we used to see in The Bronx a few years ago. If you are a Jets season-ticket holder — meaning you have stubbornly retained that fealty despite having the team step on your neck time and again across the decades — and you didn’t fall for their PSL shell game, then you recently were notified that you must submit a $500 deposit for your 2010 tickets — fully 18 months in advance. The nerve of the Jets knows no bounds, and neither does the team’s shame. But your outrage was palpable, and it was righteous. Outstanding work.
If you are a Giants ticket holder, you know better than anyone that you weren’t able to avoid the PSL plague. And if you have been one of the approximately 8 million people on the most famous waiting list in sports, you also know that — because chances are you have been called in recent weeks, seeing if you wanted to fill unoccupied seats. The Giants aren’t like the Jets; generally, they do everything right, especially when it comes to their fans. And it doesn’t matter. Right is right. And mad is mad.
Think of what you have done, fans. In the last few months, you have shrunk the most intimidating list in all of fandom to practically nothing. And you have left tens of thousands of seats unoccupied at Yankees-Red Sox games. Even a year ago, both feats would have been as unthinkable as the same hitter batting .400 and swatting 75 homers in the same year.
But you did it. You have done it. You have cleared your throats and demanded to be heard. If the clubs are smart, they will start listening to you and stop looting you. If not? Well, I humbly offer you a chant to serve as the most fitting tribute I can provide:
“M! V! P!”
“M! V! P!”
“M! V! P!”
Mike Vaccaro’s e-mail address is michael.vaccaro@nypost.com. His next book, “The First Fall Classic,” will be released in October, and for a daily dose of Vac’sWhacks, click on blogs.nypost.com/sports/Vaccaro
VAC’S WHACKS
Watching Jerry Manuel argue with umps and get ejected from games makes you think about how Gandhi might have reacted if his cable box went out.
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Johnny Damon may be the best one-handed hitter since Pete Gray.
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Everything the NBA hopes LeBron-Kobe would be in the Finals, the NHL has gotten with Crosby-Ovechkin. Just a few weeks too early.
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I don’t believe I ever will grow weary of the new Dos Equis commercials. Stay thirsty, my friends.