Baseball is the national game. Or so I had thought. I also assumed that it would constitute a unifying social adhesive for these fractionated, parlous times. Wrong again. It now appears as though it will merely be another truncated series of selfish spats, egos on display for purely private needs.
Without continuity, there are no comparisons. Without complete seasons, statistics mean nothing. I suppose I should have seen this coming with the advent of designated hitters and game-shortening rules.
The owners and the players have forgotten the magical beauty of a five-year-oldβs first trip downtown to the emerald cavern of his teamβs stadiumβ¦. forgotten the joy of impersonating Mickey Mantle on the sandlots of our adolescence.
Everything is sullied with trivial disagreements and perverse pride. Piece by cork-filled piece, the sport is falling apart.
So, who is the designated shitter now?
Rise up, my fellow fans, and communicate your deep disappointments, or lose this beautiful game forever.
David Buus
East side
Disclaimer: As submitted to the Arizona Daily Star.
