This post originated from an RSS feed registered with Ruby Buzz
by Obie Fernandez.
Original Post: OT: Die, Baseball, Die
Feed Title: Obie On Rails (Has It Been 9 Years Already?)
Feed URL: http://jroller.com/obie/feed/entries/rss
Feed Description: Obie Fernandez talks about life as a technologist, mostly as ramblings about software development and consulting. Nowadays it's pretty much all about Ruby and Ruby on Rails.
I was really into baseball as a kid. I played stickball in the park with my friends and watched Yankee games religiously (hey I grew up in North NJ, gimme a break!) I was really proud of my baseball card collection, and of my mom's cousin that played pro ball for the Phillies.
Then throughout the nineties my interest started waning, quite a bit. I can't remember the last time I watched a regular season game. At some point my mom sold my baseball card collection at a garage sale without asking me. I shrugged when she told me. The Yankees, well, you know... are frustrating, to say the least.
Until recently I had attributed my degraded interest in "having better things to occupy my time", but the current scandal makes me wonder if there's more to it than that:
The sport should have been dead for years, and if the Mitchell report surprises anyone, then you, anyone, should be relegated to the salt mines along with people who like Family Guy and those who don’t use their turn signals in traffic. OMG, people are suddenly just so much bigger now in like a year! If this shocked anyone after years of stats and norms being established with interminable death-march 162 game seasons…we mean, it would have marked a spurt not just in baseball’s evolution, but humanity’s. Sammy Sosa should have had Waterworld gills. Mark McGwire should have been telekinetic, and Albert Pujols should have had the ability to levitate (over the border! To Mexico! For illegal steroids!).
In conclusion, we were going to say die, baseball, die, but considering it’s been dead for decades anyway, there’s no reason to send a duplicate death certificate around. Instead: Baudrillard, fingernails, corpse. There’s your snapshot there. No one mourns the moa, no one misses the Edsel, and when we’re eighty or so, no one will really mourn football since by then it’ll all be flying robots with chainsaws farting balls out of their shiny titanium rectums and sodomizing each other after whatever constitutes a goal occurs while the crowd roars for Beef Supreme to enter the arena. (Personally, we can’t wait for this. If brains in jars are involved, we’re already looking forward to it, and it doesn’t even exist yet.)
Previous Topic
