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With Everything Going On In My Life, the Last Thing I Need Right Now Is Bob Costas Telling Me Why Baseball Will Be Ruined By the New Rules
First, let me make one thing clear. I don’t disagree with anything Mr. Costas has to say on the new baseball rules nor do I even have any idea what his views are. As far as I can see, surprisingly, he has made no public announcements on the subject in the past month or two. I certainly don’t have the energy to speculate on what his thoughts are except to say they will be thorough and earnest…harkening back to the “good ol’ days” when baseball was timeless and the most important thing in the world. And no doubt, exhausting and insufferable.
My point is I’m just not emotionally equipped, at this time, for one of his eloquent diatribes “against the injustices of changing the perfect sport.” Perhaps later, but for now I already know Bob Costas is going to be inordinately concerned about how these rule changes will affect the pace of the game. Seemingly as oblivious as I am in making my point in this laborious, tedious manner as to what makes for an interesting read, only Bob Costas has the skills and verbal dexterity to create a two-hour, one-way argument that ironically makes the case that the deliberate nature of a 200 plus minute contest between two teams are 200 plus minutes for a father and son to bond at the ballpark. This assessment of his is always just a painful reminder that for many of us, we have no such memories. I never went to the ballpark with my dad. Neither of us has even ever seen Field of Dreams. My father worked under cars. Our front yard was littered with broken automobiles up on cinder blocks. Sports were not a part of our life and, somehow, we managed to get by without the pontifications of Mr. Bob Costas. We went to Jack in the Box.
It’s hard enough to worry about whether we, as a nation, are compromising the integrity of the national pastime by nudging pitchers to take less time in between pitches or increasing the size of the bases to couch cushions, especially when I am dealing with a small claims case with a woman I met in Starbucks who wants back rent because I crashed at her place for two months or that my license is revoked for outstanding driving tickets and without it I don’t have an official I.D. and can’t fly to the Scottish Writers Conference in May.
Granted, I have limited bandwidth. Whatever it is you want to say about these new baseball rules, I agree with…as long as I don’t have to hear about it. Let foul balls caught by fans count as outs. Make players wear old-timey knickers and funny vintage baseball caps. Bring the outfield fences in. Take them out. I don’t care. I have a strange rash on my ass and this morning, blood in my urine.
In closing, Mr. Costas, I sincerely hope you are well. I do hope you find some peace with the changes made to the sport you are so obviously passionate about. And most importantly, I hope in some way this small OpEd makes its way to you and convinces you not to tape a 2–hour segment on how the new rules this baseball season is the collapse of modern civilization as we know it. We know.
The opinions expressed in this editorial are without the written consent of Major League Baseball and are strictly prohibited.
