Baseball’s back? Not for this fan
Chris Schreiber
It had been my plan for about two years to move to Chicago this
summer. Find a place in Wrigleyville, become a regular at the Cubby
Bear, drink Old Style. Sunbathe in the bleachers, start using the
prefix "Da."
Then the owners tighten their purse strings, the players moan,
the fans get screwed.
So I decided to strike back. No baseball this season. No Royals,
no Red Sox, no Giants. No stats, no red vines, no Luis
Polonia/high-school-prom-date jokes.
But now the highlights are on ESPN, the double-play breaking
slides and brushback pitches, the inside-the-parkers and the
stand-up doubles. Boycotting baseball this season will be hard for
me to do. I don’t want to be a baseball-whipped tramp who runs back
to the game no matter how it treats me. This kicked cat ain’t
coming back. But I want to.
I won’t be moving to Chicago. I won’t be emptying bottles across
the street from Wrigley. There won’t be a place for me where
everybody knows my name. Nope, this is my endless summer, a summer
with no baseball. No Thursday night Dodger games, just Seinfeld
reruns and heart-aching highlight-watching.
So just how will I pass my time in a summer where basketball
gets old by June and football is too early in August? There will be
ways, but none of them will have to do with baseball. Among the
things I won’t be doing …
* One thing I won’t be doing: Joining the umpire picket lines. I
haven’t spent 15 years of my life calling the fat guys in pads
blind, no-good, stupid, easily distracted bums with bowel-filled
skulls. Stand next to them on a picket line? No thanks.
But see, I can’t get away from strikers. Between hockey,
baseball, umpires and now SAGE, my life has become one
strike-filled blur. I started wondering whether or not Bobby
Bonilla would call on me in the back of the room with a picket bat,
until I realized that none of the Richie Rich millionaire baseball
players ever picketed anything.
No, I won’t be joining the SAGE picket lines either. My
apologies to past, present and future TAs, because I am
sympathetic. But after being accosted by some long, blond-haired
Jimmy Hoffa-wanna be on my way to work, I was a little turned
off.
"I’m just going to work, man. No class. I’m not a scab student
(because 9 a.m. was a little early today). I support you guys."
"Get off the campus, man. Why you gotta come on campus? If you
supported us, you wouldn’t be here."
"Look, friend, the university may work because you do, but my
name isn’t university. I don’t work because you do, and I don’t get
paid because you do. And unless I’m mistakin’, it wasn’t you who’s
been doing my job the last four years. So unless you wanna slap on
a jacket and clock in, shush."
* I will not get involved in Daryl Strawberry bashing. The
10-time loser without a team is a perfect example of what has gone
wrong with baseball. A stupid, thoughtless, waste of potential. An
example of how dumb Daryl is? Rumor had it that he was set to rat
out former Met teammates to reduce his prison sentence for a tax
evasion conviction. Likely conversation (we’ll give Daryl the
multi-syllabic benefit of the doubt):
"So if I tell you about Howard Johnson’s failure to report
appearance fees, and Keith Hernandez’s unclaimed endorsement
revenue, then you’ll let me off the hook?"
"Nevermind, Daryl, deal’s off. But thanks for the info."
* I will not believe it if the San Diego Padres win the National
League West. Wasn’t this place on fire last year? Didn’t they sell
the farm? And wasn’t the farm a bunch of sows? What will they tell
me next? Tony Gwynn isn’t the best-hitting fat guy on the
continent?
* I will not cheer for John Kruk and his friendless
testicle.
* And I will not follow the standings and check the box
scores.
No, no baseball for me. And soon they’ll learn. Hell hath no
fury like a baseball fan scorned.