I very often have a hard time thinking of anything to say.
It's stupid, really. I can talk and talk and talk. In fact, some might say that's the only thing I'm really good at. Other than a tendency to speak too fast, I'm a good talker. (I'm trying to cram as much into a sentence as I can, so I speed through it and end up having to repeat myself anyway.) And yet, when I sit in front of the blank screen, something magically stupid happens. The words just seem to dry up.
I think it may be a wierd form of anxiety. Subconciously, I doubt that anyone gives a rat's nusticles about anything I have to say. So, when it comes time to say it, I clam up.
On the other hand, maybe I'm just not motivated enough. When somebody says "hey write about this," I rarely have trouble coming up with something. But when it's my turn to get an idea, I find it's like dragging a dead hippo through knee-deep mud.
Tuesday, August 20, 2002
I sincerely hope that the Major League Baseball players union decides to walk off the job on August 30th.
Why am I rooting for baseball's ninth work stoppage in 30 years? Because there seems to be a chance, however slim, that a walkout by the players union will finally push the fans too far, and they will abandon the sport altogether.
Let me ask you this. Do you have any sympathy at all for a group of people who make, on average, $2.3 million dollars a year? I don't have a drop of it for grown men getting paid millions, or even hundreds of thousands, to play the same game that I played at recess in middle school. Yes, they're playing at a level that is exponentially higher than I could ever attain. And yes, their performances generate revenue, through ticket sales and broadcasting rights and merchandising. Based on public interest alone, their lives are worth far more than mine. I don't begrudge them being famous, nor do I begrudge their attempt to bargain for a better deal. But the threat of a strike is an implicit threat to hold their fans hostage to the negotiations.
Sure, a strike will hurt the owners' wallets. It will likely hurt the players' wallets too. But I can't imagine that the fiscal hit these men will endure will be anything like the emotional letdown that the fans will feel if the players walk off the job on August 30th. It will prove that, unlike the people who endure ever-increasing ticket prices to see their heroes play, the players care less about the game than they do about the money.
It is my firm hope that, if the players go on strike, the fans will turn their collective back on these people who have sneered at their devotion for so long. But, maybe I'm a bit naive. Perhaps baseball will linger forever, as the crack of the bat and the sheen of the Astro-Turf(c) seduce young and old alike into paying ten bucks for a beer and a hot dog, so they can convince themselves that they've been a part of something magical. Maybe we'll continue to talk about great ballplayers in the same hushed, reverential tones reserved for speaking of war veterans or long-dead saints. Maybe the Yankess will continue to win World Series after World Series, because they can basically afford to buy any player from any team, soul and all. But a small part of me hopes that baseball's fans will finally get so disgusted with the antics of these overpaid crybabies that they stage their own walkout, and remind both the players and the owners whose hard earned money really keeps the whole thing humming along. Imagine an entire season in which the league didn't sell enough tickets to make their stadium lease payments? How fast do you think the players would rush back to the table, begging for drug testing? Probably just as fast as the owners would re-write their revenue sharing plans.
In fact, if you want to help avert a strike, you can do so by simply doing nothing at all. Don't go to a game. Don't watch one on TV. If every seat in every stadium is empty on August 29th, you can rest assured that an agreement will be reached by midnight. Neither the players nor the owners care very much about us, but they're very fond of our money. By simply withholding it, we have the power to make our feelings known. We just have to have enough pride in ourselves enough to let go of the game if the people who profit from it don't treat us with the respect we deserve.
Why am I rooting for baseball's ninth work stoppage in 30 years? Because there seems to be a chance, however slim, that a walkout by the players union will finally push the fans too far, and they will abandon the sport altogether.
Let me ask you this. Do you have any sympathy at all for a group of people who make, on average, $2.3 million dollars a year? I don't have a drop of it for grown men getting paid millions, or even hundreds of thousands, to play the same game that I played at recess in middle school. Yes, they're playing at a level that is exponentially higher than I could ever attain. And yes, their performances generate revenue, through ticket sales and broadcasting rights and merchandising. Based on public interest alone, their lives are worth far more than mine. I don't begrudge them being famous, nor do I begrudge their attempt to bargain for a better deal. But the threat of a strike is an implicit threat to hold their fans hostage to the negotiations.
Sure, a strike will hurt the owners' wallets. It will likely hurt the players' wallets too. But I can't imagine that the fiscal hit these men will endure will be anything like the emotional letdown that the fans will feel if the players walk off the job on August 30th. It will prove that, unlike the people who endure ever-increasing ticket prices to see their heroes play, the players care less about the game than they do about the money.
It is my firm hope that, if the players go on strike, the fans will turn their collective back on these people who have sneered at their devotion for so long. But, maybe I'm a bit naive. Perhaps baseball will linger forever, as the crack of the bat and the sheen of the Astro-Turf(c) seduce young and old alike into paying ten bucks for a beer and a hot dog, so they can convince themselves that they've been a part of something magical. Maybe we'll continue to talk about great ballplayers in the same hushed, reverential tones reserved for speaking of war veterans or long-dead saints. Maybe the Yankess will continue to win World Series after World Series, because they can basically afford to buy any player from any team, soul and all. But a small part of me hopes that baseball's fans will finally get so disgusted with the antics of these overpaid crybabies that they stage their own walkout, and remind both the players and the owners whose hard earned money really keeps the whole thing humming along. Imagine an entire season in which the league didn't sell enough tickets to make their stadium lease payments? How fast do you think the players would rush back to the table, begging for drug testing? Probably just as fast as the owners would re-write their revenue sharing plans.
In fact, if you want to help avert a strike, you can do so by simply doing nothing at all. Don't go to a game. Don't watch one on TV. If every seat in every stadium is empty on August 29th, you can rest assured that an agreement will be reached by midnight. Neither the players nor the owners care very much about us, but they're very fond of our money. By simply withholding it, we have the power to make our feelings known. We just have to have enough pride in ourselves enough to let go of the game if the people who profit from it don't treat us with the respect we deserve.
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