Much ballyhoo has been made this summer about baseball changing. Instead of the big picture, it may be worth while to look at a thumbnail first.

Let me set the scene.

It's summertime 1980-something (they all blend together) and the Indians are on their way to - surprise - another losing season. Friday night. Municipal Stadium. Two thousand fans. Up-and-coming (and soon-to-be-leaving) farm-hand Rick Rodriguez on the mound.

To my right, my father. To my left, an older gentleman sitting alone with a weather-worn scorebook with every pitch of the home season inside. A small fire burns in the lights above the stadium, and you can buy a beer and a hot dog with a five and still get change for cracker jacks. The nice old guy makes small talk about players my father and I hadn't ever heard of.

And the smells. Below the stands is a mixture of urine-soaked concrete, stale beer, Stadium Mustard and cigarette smoke. You walk up a ramp to your $10 box seats and the horizon is a green explosion with white tracers. And the final smell - warm worn wood, cut grass and peanuts.

The Indians didn't win. Surprise again. But the 2,000 fans who went to the game got what they paid for - baseball - or a similar facsimile thereof.

Fast forward. It's summertime 1997 and the Indians are on their way to - surprise - another winning season. Friday night. Jacobs Field. Forty-three thousand fans. Up-and-coming (and who-knows-where he's going?) farm-hand Bartolo Colon on the mound.

To my right, my brother. To my left, a bubbly 20-something with a weather-worn purse containing all the cosmetics she's used since the beginning of the season. There's a blimp and a few planes flying over the stadium lights, and you can buy a beer and hot dog and get two bucks back from a 10. The woman makes small talk with her girlfriends.

And the smells. Below the stands is a mixture of Pine-Sol on concrete, imported beer, Stadium Mustard and oh-so trendy cigar smoke. You walk down the ramp to your $40 reserved seats and, luckily, the horizon is still a green explosion with white tracers. And the final smell - barbecued ribs, chicken sandwiches and buffalo wings.

The Indians didn't win - this time it really was a surprise. And the 43,000 fans on hand got what they paid for - a social event.

This is not to knock Indians fans who loyally fill their stadium years in advance, but rather to step back and look at the fans going to games today. The loyalty is still there, not in the box seats or loges, but in row ZZ in the upper section where my brother and I moved after two innings.

It's no fun watching baseball with people who don't know the players and get up every five minutes to answer a beeper call or get better cellular phone reception.

To continue, the night of that game my brother and I happened to procure "Terrace Club" tickets. After the attendant at the elevator told us which floors we weren't allowed on, he said we may go to the fourth floor, which is a swanky bar and grill. The first three floors are a ritzy restaurant.

Not knowing when I'd ever get back, I decided to splurge and buy a beverage. When I pulled out the cash - $3.50 - the waiter told me to put it away.

All right. Maybe this Terrace Club isn't so bad. Then he told me they only took credit cards. Like I said, I was in the mood to splurge so I caved and charged the beverage. We looked around in awe as we noticed more people there who couldn't give a wahoo about what was going on down on the field.

The waiter invited us to the $11 all-you-can-eat antipasta bar, but being Italian, we respectfully declined, knowing no one makes an antipasta worth $11 unless they happen to be related to you by virtue of being your father's mother.

The bar was diverse, of course. White men, older white men and white yuppies all from different tax brackets. Diverse enough, I'm sure, to make Jackie Robinson smile down from baseball heaven.

It wasn't enough to ruin my night, though, and as I walked out of the stadium I was glad that I caught a game. Then I thought about the old guy at Municipal Stadium. He was a true baseball fan. But the sport went the way of four-star "throwbacks" like Jacobs Field, Camden Yards and Coors Field - and I haven't seen him since.

Donatelli, a senior journalism major from Mayfield Hts., is managing editor of The Post. He remembers the days at Municipal when every third fan through the gate got to pitch in the sixth inning.