Walnut Creek, Calif. ? A newspaper photograph of actress Uma Thurman sparked a heated debate in the Fenway Park press box before Game 4 of the 2003 Division Series.

A veteran sports writer maintained that Thurman did not rank among past or present beauties. Several younger writers disagreed.

She wasn’t a September call-up, he was overheard to say, but she wasn’t a future Hall of Famer, either. “She’s .265, 14 and 64,” he concluded, and immediately, everybody within earshot understood precisely what one cranky scribe thought of Uma Thurman, natural beauty.

Numbers always have been the official language of baseball. For years, if you said .265, 14 and 64, a baseball fan would know you were talking about.

That’s why we can only hope that those numbers, as distorted and bloated as they have become during the Steroid Era, return to normal.

It’s not just because it makes it easier to compare players from different eras or even to protect the integrity of baseball’s most coveted records. Baseball was simply a better game before the steroid-fueled home run orgy, no matter what commissioner Bud Selig or anybody else tells you. Home runs were more exciting when they didn’t happen with such alarming frequency.

That’s not to say that Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa chasing Roger Maris’ single-season record didn’t re-energize the game, even if it turns out that it was bogus. That’s not to say that Barry Bonds breaking McGwire’s record three years later wasn’t compelling, even if it turns out that was bogus, too.

The game gained a lot from all those balls screaming over all those outfield fences, but people rarely talk about what the game has lost. The long ball became so paramount that it overshadowed the more subtle pleasures.

The philosophy of former Orioles manager Earl Weaver — wait for the three-run homer — became a leaguewide mantra. There were no more contrasting styles because virtually every team approached offense the same way.

The stolen base, the well-executed hit-and-run and bunting for a base hit were disappearing. Rarely did a base runner distract a pitcher by taking a big lead. Less and less frequently did a third baseman have to make a barehanded play — one of the toughest and most graceful plays in sports. Fundamentals eroded. It seemed fewer players were able to consistently get down a bunt. Any flaw was overlooked as long as you could hit an occasional ball out of the yard.

The home run isn’t the only exciting play in baseball. Is there anything more thrilling than a timely steal of home? Or a well-executed squeeze play?

Teams became increasingly plodding and one-dimensional. Waiting for the three-run homer was beginning to feel like just that — waiting, with players standing on the bags examining their cuticles. And with every home run that flew out of the park, the impact of the home run was diminished.

It’s as simple as the law of supply and demand. The fewer home runs there are, the more memorable they are and the more impact they have.