Michael, my grandson and I went to a Rays game yesterday. It has been forever since I went to a game. I forgot how really boring they are. Excitement is dimmed in me when I realize that these kids and they are kids are making mucho bucks for doing a game. Big deal. Sports is beyond me. We pay someone millions to pitch a ball, sink a hoop, or roll a ball into a hole. This is not saving the earth, teaching, or medicine. This is the world of boring entertainment.
So there is the batter, big man with muscles and he strikes out. He failed to hit and they still pay him. The poor guy at MacDonalds drops a burger and the boss goes ballastic and makes him pay for the wasted meat. They probably dust it off and wash it and put it on a bun.
Come late and be penalized. Be a ball player who has a high batting age and it is excused.
The world of privilege floors me, says me, Wax. I have been simonized, polished off and stood on.
But if I could hit a ball four hundred feet, I can get away with all sorts of stuff.
Evan hit a home run and the Rays lost the game anyway. In the scheme of the world it means nothing. But being with my grandson was worth a million bucks.
Am I crazy? I can no longer buy into the plastic of Disney or some robot talking programmed language. But if I am with my grandson or granddaughter it will be a pleasure to me.