I'm with you all the way here, Bob: never have I needed the comforting rhythms of spring -- the crack of bat-on-ball, the percussive pop of ball-in-glove -- more than in this year of living dangerously. The Giants are my drug of choice, although having been born and raised in the SF Bay Area, "choice" is the wrong word. We are fans by dint of birth, and having returned home after four decades of toil in the salt mines of Hollywood -- much as a bloated red salmon swims back upstream for his last gasping days of life -- I now await the daily radio game broadcasts like a dope-sick junkie craving the needle that will once again make everything all right.
I'm not such a fan of the hot stove season, mostly because the Giants keep torturing me with false hope (although really, is there any other kind?) -- "We're going after Judge, we're going after Ohtani, we're going after Yamamoto, we're going after Sasaki" -- and then after all that sturm und drang, the big free agent always goes down the drain to LA and the hated Dodger$.
But hope, futile though it may be, springs eternal, and there's nothing quite like the clean slate optimism of late winter as the teams gather to prepare for opening day. Baseball is all I have left of sports at this point. My years of fanatical boxing fandom faded to black after seeing what the not-so-sweet science did to Ali and so many other ring warriors, and my football fandom was always of the fair-weather variety. Sure, I watched and cheered the Raiders back in the days of John Madden, Ken Stabler, and Fred Belitnikoff, and did the same for the Joe Montana 49ers ... but then came the growing awareness of CTE -- the same brain-killing malady that ruined the lives of so many boxers -- so I now limit my NFL intake to the annual rite of the Super Bowl, which I believe is required viewing (or will be soon) for all American males who wish to retain their citizenship and avoid being shipped to Gitmo.
And on that note, congratulations for your Phillies' well-deserved pummeling of the Chiefs! The good guys finally won.
I never complain that an employee gets paid too much. In baseball and all sports, if the players didn't get the money, the billionaire owners would just keep that revenue. Ticket prices wouldn't fall, beer prices wouldn't fall, hot dog prices wouldn't fall because each club's owner is charging prices he knows fans will pay, at least enough of them to maximize revenue.
I shared your passion for baseball for many years. As a kid I was a very, very good shortstop ... who couldn't hit a curve. I grew up going to Indians games at Lakefront stadium, a venue that accomodated more than 70,000 fans. Football fans. Indians games, day games when I was a kid and when the Indians sucked eggs, drew 5,000 if you included the pigeons and the rats. I'd have my own coke guy and hot dog guy. Later I followed the Braves when Bobby Cox managed one of the best pitching crews in history. A Smoltz-signed baseball sits on a shelf in my office. So does a "game ball" from the World Series that wasn't. And that did it for me. Owners and players who deserved each other. Fans who deserved better from both. Fuck 'em. I've never watched another pro game.
I'm with you all the way here, Bob: never have I needed the comforting rhythms of spring -- the crack of bat-on-ball, the percussive pop of ball-in-glove -- more than in this year of living dangerously. The Giants are my drug of choice, although having been born and raised in the SF Bay Area, "choice" is the wrong word. We are fans by dint of birth, and having returned home after four decades of toil in the salt mines of Hollywood -- much as a bloated red salmon swims back upstream for his last gasping days of life -- I now await the daily radio game broadcasts like a dope-sick junkie craving the needle that will once again make everything all right.
I'm not such a fan of the hot stove season, mostly because the Giants keep torturing me with false hope (although really, is there any other kind?) -- "We're going after Judge, we're going after Ohtani, we're going after Yamamoto, we're going after Sasaki" -- and then after all that sturm und drang, the big free agent always goes down the drain to LA and the hated Dodger$.
But hope, futile though it may be, springs eternal, and there's nothing quite like the clean slate optimism of late winter as the teams gather to prepare for opening day. Baseball is all I have left of sports at this point. My years of fanatical boxing fandom faded to black after seeing what the not-so-sweet science did to Ali and so many other ring warriors, and my football fandom was always of the fair-weather variety. Sure, I watched and cheered the Raiders back in the days of John Madden, Ken Stabler, and Fred Belitnikoff, and did the same for the Joe Montana 49ers ... but then came the growing awareness of CTE -- the same brain-killing malady that ruined the lives of so many boxers -- so I now limit my NFL intake to the annual rite of the Super Bowl, which I believe is required viewing (or will be soon) for all American males who wish to retain their citizenship and avoid being shipped to Gitmo.
And on that note, congratulations for your Phillies' well-deserved pummeling of the Chiefs! The good guys finally won.
Onward, into the mist...
I never complain that an employee gets paid too much. In baseball and all sports, if the players didn't get the money, the billionaire owners would just keep that revenue. Ticket prices wouldn't fall, beer prices wouldn't fall, hot dog prices wouldn't fall because each club's owner is charging prices he knows fans will pay, at least enough of them to maximize revenue.
I shared your passion for baseball for many years. As a kid I was a very, very good shortstop ... who couldn't hit a curve. I grew up going to Indians games at Lakefront stadium, a venue that accomodated more than 70,000 fans. Football fans. Indians games, day games when I was a kid and when the Indians sucked eggs, drew 5,000 if you included the pigeons and the rats. I'd have my own coke guy and hot dog guy. Later I followed the Braves when Bobby Cox managed one of the best pitching crews in history. A Smoltz-signed baseball sits on a shelf in my office. So does a "game ball" from the World Series that wasn't. And that did it for me. Owners and players who deserved each other. Fans who deserved better from both. Fuck 'em. I've never watched another pro game.
What’s the most likely impact of the tariffs at the ballpark? No more guac for the nachos?
Go Phils!
I think?
Bob, you hit it out of the ballpark! Excellent -