Baseball

I’ve been promoted to sports editor. This is an area where I have the least amount of knowledge since I equate any exposure to organized sporting events to exposure to asbestos/lead. I suffer the same symptoms from both: headaches, nausea, vomiting…
Having just said that I full-heartedly accept the challenge. Warning: True fanatics and crazed followers stop reading now as nothing below this sentence will be favorable.

I would like to start with baseball, the biggest snooze fest on the planet. Having had the pleasure of sitting through a full game I can honestly say that I’m surprised I made it. What doesn’t kill you certainly does make you stronger so I’d like to think I gained strength in some part of my body which was lacking. I learned many things as I baked in the sun. First of all there is a lot of hype and fake excitement surrounding the whole spectacle. In reality there isn’t much going on. Right away I inquired when half-time was, only to be laughed at by all the hot dog-eating, beer-drinking persons around me. Apparently there is no half-time. I’ve figured out precisely why. There is absolutely nothing happening throughout the duration of the whole game! You are free to come and go as you please. You may get up and drink/eat yourself into oblivion (which is what 99.9% of people there do) and return when you’re tired of strolling around the stadium. On an off chance that something does occur, the abnormally large screen (presumably for those who failed every eye exam they ever had) will show you what you missed about five times and in slow motion (that is some serious underestimation of my brain power because I got it the first time). Hence, there is NO WAY that you can miss a thing. I must’ve spent more time walking, eating, spraying suntan lotion on myself and others, and taking bathroom breaks than actually sitting and watching whatever madness was ensuing down below. I have to mention that we were so high up that whatever the ants did was of no consequence. Thank God for the large all-knowing screen the size of half the stadium.
So since the game itself is boredom taken to the extreme, the brains behind the operation figured out how to keep even the most uninterested occupied. Every ten minutes or so a motivational song comes on (‘We will we will rock you’ being the all-time favorite) and everyone proceeds to jump, clap and scream as if at a rock concert. I can assure you that Queen was not present; nobody scored a home run; the sun did not go behind the clouds (out of sheer tedium) and save us all from the scorching heat. Basically this is done to ensure that all the sleepyheads out there get their asses up and start cheering and all the fanatics’ eyes bulge even further out of their heads in anticipation of victory (when it doesn’t even smell like their team has a chance in hell). Not wanting to be left behind I jumped and clapped with such ardor that you’d think half-time was approaching. I was singing louder than anyone at the top of my lungs. However, as soon as the music died down I’d shrivel up into a ball and sit in the corner with my cap over my eyes trying to shield myself from all the commotion in the air-coming from the fans of course and certainly not the players. The most entertaining part of all was when the camera captured people at random and their pretzel-stuffed faces appeared on the Almighty Screen. They’d pretend like they have no clue, followed by feigning surprise, and ending Act I with an uncontrollable flailing of the arms (again I stress that this was done for no particular reason other than two seconds of fame by being shown in the most unattractive light imaginable).

The players strolled around the field picking things up, swinging their bats, having bouts of spitting and leisurely resting on the bleachers. Certainly reminded me of high school gym class. Actually it reminded me of any other job. Why should Andy Pettitte work any harder just because he gets paid the big bucks? At the average office, workers do the same thing. They lounge around until someone lights a fire under their bum and then pretend to work for a whole ten minutes when the boss is watching. No difference in baseball. The hot shots do not overstress themselves. They indulge in the activities I’ve described above, until “We Will Rock You” comes on and all eyes are on them, so there is an obligation to hit the damn ball or finally make a catch. Yes, I was miserable but I did buy myself a hat and now I do know that in New York we support the Yankees and sometimes Mets (to switch it up) and there is definitely, unfortunately, and excruciatingly no half-time at a baseball game.