The Beat of Baseball
If you’re not a fan of baseball, you’re probably equally confused by the new rules.
Wait. I guess that’s obvious.
When I don’t know what people are talking about, I always feel better when someone starts laughing. Laughing along is the best way I know to fake it.
Hey, sounds like my honeymoon.
But is there anything funny about screwing with the timing of baseball?
I just enjoyed my 52nd birthday. I like the pace of middle age. Obviously the management of the MLB doesn’t because there’s a new “pacing” paradigm in the big leagues that threatens to turn a relaxing afternoon into a frantic Twitter tweet.
The big change? Inning breaks are reduced to a max of 2 min/45 sec.
How am I supposed to catch a nap? Hell, it takes me longer than that to get to the bathroom and back. Every inning.
In addition, an official representative attending each game will operate the timers. And fines will be imposed. Will they also cite me for drooling? Would that photo-op compete with People of Walmart because something has to?
Another rule is batters can’t step outside the box between pitches.
I’d like management to stand at the plate and take an Aroldis Chapman 106 mph fastball high and inside and let me know if they need to step back for a breather. Or a stiff drink. Or to change their underwear.
My eyesight has its own motto: "items in mirror are closer -- or not -- than they appear." I’m a 52 that now spins like a 45 with special insoles and bunions. There is no hi-def in my future. My eyes can’t possibly keep up with the speed of balls in play. I go to the game to enjoy the comradery, the scenery and the posing at the plate.
For Pete’s sake this is Chase Utley’s last season. Give an old woman time to focus her binoculars. Hell, I’ll forgot where I was the moment I hit the parking lot. What’s a few more minutes between friends? All that manly muscle may just be worth the wait.
Stand behind me. Or behind Chase. It's a much better view.