I'm waiting for Major League Baseball to reach down its own throat, grab itself by the balls, and give a good hard yank.

And then I'm going to laugh.

The only reason that I can find any sympathy for the overpaid steroid-popping players is the fact that they're opposed by colluding, greedy owners who've overpaid them. The whole shooting match is being run by a Commissioner with a political tin ear, the soul of a DMV clerk with a grudge, and a conflict of interest so big it deserves a league of its own.

I'm waiting for baseball to fail because I think it will make us a better, stronger nation. I think another baseball strike will show that anti-trust exemptions lead to trouble--that capitalism, unfettered, causes even more damage than collectivism--and will give further proof (as if the empty retirement funds across the nation weren't enough) that economic regulation has legitimate benefits. And it will probably make George W. Bush look worse, too, which doesn't exactly upset me.

This past June I attended my second Major League game ever. (In 1975, I saw a Braves/Reds game at Fulton County Stadium. I don't remember a thing about it, but I can at least say I saw Hank Aaron and Johnny Bench play.) I was in Pittsburgh for the Catholic Forensic League's national tournament, and managed to squeeze in a Friday night Pirates/Cardinals game. Understand that these are two of my favorite franchises ever--the black and yellow of Clemente, Stargell, Mazeroski and the Green Weenie set against the red of Brock, Musial, and Ozzie. I delighted in the bronze statues of Roberto and Pops outside PNC park, and settled back with joy to look at the Clemente Bridge out beyond the center-field wall, a pale yellow ghost in the summer night.

But the seats cost nearly thirty bucks each, and food ran me another fifteen. Plus programs. Plus five bucks a pop for the foam-rubber cutlasses I bought for the kids. I saw an estimate that the average--the average--cost for a Major League game is $44 a person. Compare that to the Savannah Sand Gnats game I saw last week; general admission was five bucks--less than half what I spent on a pretty luxurious ballpark dinner. And the Sand Gnats even had Human Hamster races between innings. Sure, the level of play was considerably lower than in the majors, and there was no view of Pittsburgh, and I didn't know any of the players, but...

Well, actually, even in Pittsburgh, I didn't know a soul on the field.

I know Clemente's, Stargell's and Smith's jersey numbers--21, 8, and 1, respectively--but other than Tino Martinez, who made his name wearing non-Cardinal colors, the guys I was watching were strangers to me. I can't blame the players for wanting the freedom to move from team to team--I wouldn't want to be stuck in a city I hated, either--but free agency has without question damaged my ability to enjoy the star-driven system of modern baseball. The owners aren't without sin in this area, either--if the Texas Rangers hadn't offered Alex Rodriguez ten thousand times the salary at which I started my teaching career, perhaps he wouldn't have felt compelled to switch teams.

So I'm waiting for the mouth to open, the hand to crawl down the throat, and the fist to close around the gonads.

And I'm going to laugh. Or maybe cry a bit.

And then I'm going to a minor-league game.

10:43 PM

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