By Eric Maus
Friday, August 23rd, 2002
For the love of God, please let there be a baseball strike. I'm sitting here
with rosary beads in my hands, reciting Hail Mary's and Our Father's, praying
for this sport to go away. If my Hail Mary's and Our Father's don't work,
I'm going to follow them up with Novena's that will hopefully hear my call.
Good God, just make it go away.
My relationship with baseball has gone sour. My baseball libido is slowly
disappearing and unlike Rafael Palmeiro, there is no medication to
cure me. And the worst thing about my love for this game is that it's unrequited.
The sport couldn't care less about me.
Baseball owners and players will tell us they care about the fans. They'll
tell us this strike is not about money. They'll tell us anything and everything
they want us to believe because they think they are PR geniuses. And Nomar
Garciaparra will tell us something moronic like, "we have to strike to
protect the rights of Little Leaguers that will someday become Big Leaguers."
I'm sick of hearing about the new drug policy. I'm bored to tears with
contraction talk. And it doesn't phase me in the slightest that the owners
want a 50% tax on pay rolls over $102 million. Why not just play ball?
The sad thing is, I've spent so many hours of my life watching the National
Pastime. This year alone, if I put my time towards something more constructive,
I could have solved the national debt.
I've stayed up late to watch the West Coast games (I'm from Boston). I've
tried to be open-minded and tell people that the Yankees don't buy
championships. And I even convinced myself that the Cubs and Red
Sox would meet in the World Series. Boy, am I stupid.
I was stupid, that is, of course, until a few days ago. I was watching the
Red Sox lose yet another late season game like always and I had this epiphany
-- hey, there are other things to do in life than watch grown men play this
child's game. So, I got up off my couch, went for walk and realized just
how foolish myself and other sports fans have been.
Why argue over who is the best leadoff hitter in the game? Why worry about
Ken Griffey, Jr. having fallen off the face of the earth? And why
should I let the Red Sox contribute to my peptic ulcer? Guess what? This
stuff is all inconsequential.
We live in a world now that is vastly different. We've all been affected
by terrorism. Our economy is suffering. We have our friends and families
to worry about. So, I think it's time we all get our priorities straight.
Come August 30, I hope the players do go out on strike. Let these pompous
over-paid buffoons leave the game we love. Let them go home to their $6 million
mansions as we struggle to pay rent. Let them drive their Lamborghinis as
we race around in our Toyota Camrys. Let Manny Ramirez devote more
time to his hairdos. And more importantly, let them get out of my face so
I can lead a more productive life.
It's time we sever all ties with Major League Baseball. My relationship with
baseball is over -- and oh baby, I can't wait to be single again.