I come from England where the men play football (soccer) in the winter and cricket (when it’s not raining) in the summer. Soccer is a man’s game played by psychopaths and hooligans. Cricket is a gentleman’s game played by amateurs for the enjoyment of the open air but by professionals (or people from northern England) like a Jihad with attitude.
I only mention this in passing because the other day I had the dubious pleasure of watching my grandsons playing baseball. We didn’t have baseball in England – the closest comparison is a game called “rounders” played by high school girls. This observation is not intended as a comparison, merely to put my viewpoint into context.
My wife and I pulled in the parking lot alongside the playing field and parked our modest Japanese compact car amongst the huge trucks and SUVs that dominated the car park. “Is there a gas guzzler convention here as well?” I inquired of my beloved, “No.” she replied, a little tersely I thought, “They have to bring all the equipment as well as the boys.”
I considered this quietly, on the basis that this might be a safer option. I was already sensing an increased level of unexplained tension as we approached what appeared to be a gladiators’ arena.
As we drew closer I became aware of raucous shouting and piles of very expensive looking “stuff”. Running around in what looked like a large animal pen, were vast numbers of identically armor-plated young boys all of whom had stern countenances. Some of the more aggressive combatants would occasionally spit. They must have been practicing this “voiding of rheum”, because they were frighteningly adept at it. I tried to see the tell-tale shape of a “Copenhagen” can in their pockets but was unable to establish any positive identification.
I had been expecting a gentle game of ball with many rules relaxed and much leeway granted in consideration of these physically undeveloped youngsters. I was in error! These games are played with a determination and a fierceness that would give credit (or discredit) to any clash of the Boston Blue-Bras and the New York Wankees.
Coaches were screaming at their players and at the officials while the young players were checking the boundaries of acceptable expletives. They need not have worried for the many parents and other relatives (or perhaps kin) were too busy screaming encouragement and vindictive vilification at (mostly) the players to notice any subtlety of language elsewhere. The gamesmanship deserves a mention here. I saw a diminutive catcher twice hit encroaching players with the ball, both of whom then completed their runs off the ricochet – one crying tears of pain – what dedication!
I was truly shocked; I hadn’t seen this level of violence since watching parents trying to park close to school to pick up their children; or since last Christmas watching late shoppers fight for the carts at the grocery store.
Fellers, it’s only a game – it’s not worth dying for. You are supposed to enjoy the actual playing of the sport, not indulge in it as a vehicle to humiliate some other boys while crowing about how good you are. Where are your ideas of man’s humanity to man?
I only mention this in passing because the other day I had the dubious pleasure of watching my grandsons playing baseball. We didn’t have baseball in England – the closest comparison is a game called “rounders” played by high school girls. This observation is not intended as a comparison, merely to put my viewpoint into context.
My wife and I pulled in the parking lot alongside the playing field and parked our modest Japanese compact car amongst the huge trucks and SUVs that dominated the car park. “Is there a gas guzzler convention here as well?” I inquired of my beloved, “No.” she replied, a little tersely I thought, “They have to bring all the equipment as well as the boys.”
I considered this quietly, on the basis that this might be a safer option. I was already sensing an increased level of unexplained tension as we approached what appeared to be a gladiators’ arena.
As we drew closer I became aware of raucous shouting and piles of very expensive looking “stuff”. Running around in what looked like a large animal pen, were vast numbers of identically armor-plated young boys all of whom had stern countenances. Some of the more aggressive combatants would occasionally spit. They must have been practicing this “voiding of rheum”, because they were frighteningly adept at it. I tried to see the tell-tale shape of a “Copenhagen” can in their pockets but was unable to establish any positive identification.
I had been expecting a gentle game of ball with many rules relaxed and much leeway granted in consideration of these physically undeveloped youngsters. I was in error! These games are played with a determination and a fierceness that would give credit (or discredit) to any clash of the Boston Blue-Bras and the New York Wankees.
Coaches were screaming at their players and at the officials while the young players were checking the boundaries of acceptable expletives. They need not have worried for the many parents and other relatives (or perhaps kin) were too busy screaming encouragement and vindictive vilification at (mostly) the players to notice any subtlety of language elsewhere. The gamesmanship deserves a mention here. I saw a diminutive catcher twice hit encroaching players with the ball, both of whom then completed their runs off the ricochet – one crying tears of pain – what dedication!
I was truly shocked; I hadn’t seen this level of violence since watching parents trying to park close to school to pick up their children; or since last Christmas watching late shoppers fight for the carts at the grocery store.
Fellers, it’s only a game – it’s not worth dying for. You are supposed to enjoy the actual playing of the sport, not indulge in it as a vehicle to humiliate some other boys while crowing about how good you are. Where are your ideas of man’s humanity to man?
“What’s that, my love? Oh, okay – Way to go Guys!”
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