This past Sunday as I was eating a delicious doughnut from a certain bakery on Regent Street and trying to dance to the videos on the MTV jams channel, I came across the epiphany that baseball had in fact not gone on strike. Upon further investigation not only had baseball not gone on strike but they had decided to not go on strike a week and a half earlier. I'm a lot of things but one trait I do not exhibit is casual aloofness. A jerk? Yes. Aloof? Never. How could I have missed the fact that baseball did not go on strike?
Then it dawned on me: I do not care about baseball. I do not care about baseball at all. Not in St. Paul nor in the fall. I do not think it's me alone that wants Bud Selig hit with a stone. Barry Bonds may hit a home run but my question is how many 'roids has he done? I once cheered for the team Tigers out of Detroit but their lack of success and talent has left them and me maladroit. The MLB players disagree about everything except their pockets full of \bling."" While Sosa lets balls sail; Strawberry, Daryll sits in jail. The Yankees win year after year and all I say is another beer... to the bartender as I sit wishing they just would quit.
I apologize to the gentle readers for that bit of Seussian writing; in the future I will warn said readers of approaching rhymes. I'll put it simply: instead of it being mid-September, I long for the days of late November when the hockey teams hit the ice and baseball is months away. When the only way I'll be able to see Peter Gammons is on ESPN Classic and the only way I'll see a baseball stadium is by driving through Chicago and spying an empty Comiskey Field off of Interstate 90-94 on my way home for Thanksgiving.
So there you have it, a weak attempt at rhyming and bashing the hacks that swing pieces of wood for a living.
