Seeking Professional Help

The therapist was being kind but, what kind of business could a therapist do by being unkind? The kindness wasn’t helping my mood. I wanted someone to be ticked off with me. Things are just kind of getting me down. I mean, how could I be getting disillusioned at my age? Can’t be that but, damn it,what is it? The world  was fixed once, wasn’t it? Our parents and grandparents went through two world wars and the big Depression and they fixed everything. The bad guys lost. Hitler and Mussolini and that guy in Japan all got their asses kicked by the good guys from the U.S. and their colorful friends from Europe and Asia and whatever. It wasn’t easy but they got it done. Freedom won out over tyranny. Not only that, but the horrible effects of economic collapse were overcome by the hard work of tough labor organizers and strong people demanding equality with the help of FDR and the good hearted American people. After their fierce struggles, then we could have houses to live in, all of us, and food to eat, and long and low cars with sharp fins and television and movies and, well, just about everything. But now look. There is war everywhere and people living in tents and dying on the streets. What happened?

Larry (he lets me call him Larry) told me that it was indeed rough out there but maybe I should calm down.  Maybe we should talk about something else for a while. Like maybe baseball, he suggested. That didn’t help. I asked my therapist for another beverage. Look, I told him, it’s the same kind of story. Things had gotten bad in baseball right after WWI and the big flu thing but the good guys won again .  Babe Ruth and the home run ball got people back into it. Then, after WWII, the majors started signing players no matter what race they were and not only did the games get better and more fun but also a big blow was struck  for racial equality. Jackie Robinson, Larry Doby, Don Newcombe, Monte Irvin and others brought social progress and quality baseball along simultaneously. Again, it sure wasn’t easy, but by the time Curt Flood took a stand in 1970, black players were leading the way and dominating the game. Guys like Willie Mays and Hank Aaron and Frank Robinson and Bob Gibson and Joe Morgan absolutely fixed the game when it needed fixing.  The players won free agency and started getting paid what they were worth. But now look. Scandal after scandal. Cocaine. Steroids.Everybody making so much money that they’re all losing touch with what makes the game great, and the working people can’t afford to go to the ballpark anymore. Electronic invasion and stealing signs crushing the integrity of the game. Who’s a bad guy now?  Mike Fiers? Carlos Beltran? Alex Cora? Or what?

Larry the therapist grabbed himself a beverage. I admire the way he can make the bottle cap disappear and pour into the glass without making a sound, or so it seems.

“They’ve starting playing games now,” he said. “Yeah,” I answered. “But the Giants don’t have a fucking chance.” We tapped our glasses together and laughed.

For Pete’s Sake

There seem  to be  people who are able to argue that, since it has become apparent that  there is no longer any such thing as good and bad or right or wrong, and Huey Long has become president, we ought to all just tear up all of the rules and do whatever the hell we want to do. These days, it seems, the only bad thing to do is to be poor or disabled or to piss off the president and his amoral followers. This makes the time right, then, to allow Pete Rose back into baseball and hurry up and rush his ass into the Hall of Fame. Pete the peckerhead himself has been appointed the arbiter now of the Ten Commandments, the Constitution, and Robert’s Rules of Order.

Can I call again for Fay Vincent or should I perhaps just come out and say it? Okay, then. Bullshit.

In case you missed it because you were busy  worrying about the corona virus or Syria or the Iowa caucus or some other trivial pursuit, Mr. Rose  has still not mellowed at age 79. Like most criminals, Rose doesn’t speak for himself. His mouthpieces said, “The time has come to recognize that Mr. Rose’s penalty has  become grossly disproportionate relative to Major league Baseball’s treatment of severe wrongdoing by ownership, management, and players,” . What they were referring to was the lifetime ban  from baseball that Rose agreed to in 1989 just before  Commissioner Bart Giamatti died. John Dowd‘s investigation had found that Rose had bet on his team to win from 1985 to 1987 while playing for and managing the Cincinnati Reds. They go on to say that what Rose did was not giving his team a competitive advantage over other teams whereas using steroids or other performance enhancing drugs and using electronic methods to steal signs for the calling of pitches certainly, or at least probably, did. Now, these days it is not as easy as it was in 1919 to make arguments about the dangers of gambling  with sports. We have MLB sponsored by and really in partnership with businesses who fleece people  who bet daily on the performances of players if not teams and we have legal gambling seemingly on every street corner and we even have professional sports teams right there in Las Vegas, although the Raiders barely qualify. Nevertheless, the reasons why  betting  was outlawed remain real and valid. Some people, perhaps Rose included, become addicted. Some gamble foolishly and often and fall into debt. When betting was illegal, the schemes were operated by people who used  often harsh methods to collect their debts.  If boxers and other athletes could be tempted or coerced into losing on purpose, the credibility of the game and the integrity of its results were irreparably damaged. So, what Rose is saying is equivalent to the little schoolboy yelling, “Teacher, teacher, Johnny cheated on his test so it’s okay that I stole Annie’s lunch money!”

I will admit to some bias. Pete Rose is a generally disgusting character who took out Ray Fosse in an exhibition game  and that irritated  me immensely because he was almost universally hailed as a heroic Charlie Hustle for doing so. For a long time I fantasized being the catcher at home plate with him rounding third and saying,”Come get me.” That was not a good fantasy and chances are he would have knocked me up into the cheap seats as well. And what Carlos Beltran and Alex Cora and the others participated in was dead wrong. What the admitted steroid users like Mark McGwire and the not admitted ones like Barry Bonds did was also wrong. However, I hold out hope that one day most of them will apologize and come clean. With Rose, it doesn’t look like he will ever have remorse. So stay away Pete. Meanwhile, welcome back, Dusty Baker.

Time For a Change

The other day I was in the mood to listen to some good tunes and so I put on Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. Frankie Valli was not part of the band. It was great to hear this wonderful piece but I had the same problem with it that I have for the rest of life–Autumn came too soon.

Usually it is about this time of the year that I begin to feel the stirrings like a bear coming out of hibernation in anticipation of the coming of spring training for baseball players. That feeling isn’t there yet; in fact, it has been replaced with  apprehension for what the 2020 season will bring. The big deal now, of course, is the revelations of sign stealing on the part the World Champions of 2017 and 2018. It’s not just that, however. There is a bit of sour taste about many things having to do with where the game seems to be headed and where it has recently been. I’m bummed.

Mike Fiers did the right thing. Traditionally, in our win at all costs culture, that means that he is due for some shunning and name calling and retaliatory actions. There are also many in the game who will support him and be thankful that the ugliness has been exposed, but maybe not enough. So I think it’s time for a change. I don’t know if he is healthy enough at age 82, or if he is willing enough after all that he has been through, but I’d like to see our old friend Fay Vincent become the commissioner of baseball again.

What we need is to totally ban all electronics on the field, in the dugouts, and in the clubhouses during the games. Clay Bellinger can see how Madison Bumgarner  struck him out  between games, not during them. Pat Neshek can watch Manny Machado take him deep tomorrow, not today. While we are at it, give those monstrous scoreboards a rest too, as well as those incredibly stupid electronic ribbons around the park suggesting where we can get heartburn after the game and all of that other useless information.

Look, if a pitcher takes his cap off and scratches behind his left ear  every time he is going to throw a breaking ball, a smart player or coach will pick up on that and use it. Fine. There needs to be room for intelligence in the game. The kind of stuff that the Red Sox and Astros  have been busted for is way too much though. And let us not kid ourselves for a split second that they have been the only teams to participate.

The current regime of bosses in the big leagues is not up to the task. We need someone who actually loves the game to boss the bosses. We don’t need Rob Manfred or Bud Selig  or somebody like them who calls the game a product. We don’t need a typical CEO type like those cockroaches from Apple or Google or Microsoft who like to hire PR slobs to bullshit the public. No, we need Fay Vincent. He succeeded Bart Giamatti, who died from a heart attack while dealing with the Pete Rose mess. Vincent was such a good commissioner that he got sacked. Giamatti died September 1, 1989. Vincent took office right before the big Loma Prieta earthquake  that interrupted the World Series between Oakland and San Francisco. Fay Vincent did away with Ford Frick’s ruling that put Babe Ruth and Roger Maris side by side as single season home run  record holders and left Maris alone at the top until all that stuff Bud Selig doesn’t want to talk about even today. Fay Vincent wanted to shitcan the DH. That alone is good enough for me. He also pleased many right thinking citizens by banning George Steinbrenner from baseball for life after George paid a low life 40grand to dig up dirt on Dave Winfield. Winfield was suing George at the time because Steinbrenner reneged on a contractual agreement  to fund Winfield’s foundation. All of these good acts had to be rewarded so the owners , led by Peter O’Malley, Jerry Reinsdorf and Bud Selig, gave Vincent a no confidence vote by 18-9 and he resigned in 1992.

Come back, Fay. Or, if he can’t, maybe Bob Costas. Somebody with integrity. Please.

For the Love of Money

Like any man with rocks in his head, I can take a punch. The side effect is that it sometimes takes a while for things to sink in.  Ever so slowly but surely, like the erosion of educational opportunities across the land, the term for big numbers has become billion rather than  million  when economists and other dealers in shock therapy and junk science speak and write. As these words are being written, trillion is making its way into the parlance of the day.  When million was the big deal, none of this mattered  at the beer thirty hour when we kicked off our shoes and had ourselves a cold one as we tossed the ghastly news of the front pages aside and got down to what we really cared about, that being the sports pages.

Now sports, particularly professional sports, are being sucked into that same black hole of pain and despair. It was all good and cheery when athletes broke out of  the chains of the “reserve clause” and other  shackles and won free agency and organized themselves . They, not the owners, are the ones that people identified with and were willing to spend their hard earned bucks  to see perform. Something has been lost over the last three decades, though. The average player in major league baseball gets paid four million plus dollars a season now. Considering the fact that they actually do something to earn it, I don’t resent that. While some of the players might be accused of greed, however, it is nothing when compared to the nameless faceless ownership groups that have been filling their secret coffers with receipts from television contracts, sales of “gear” and whatever else can be monetized from that simple game so many of us love.  Meanwhile, ticket sales have dropped. Revenue, the sacred cow of all things, is endangered. They are even plotting to take away minor league baseball. I don’t know about you, but I truly wish that there was a minor league team close enough that I could go and watch. One that had on its roster young players getting ready for the big time and perhaps others who may never make it but love to play and some old timers or injured players trying to work their way back. Big league tickets have priced a lot of us out of the game, especially when you add in transportation, parking, meals and the rest. The sad truth is that fewer and fewer people are playing the game and, as well, fewer people are able to witness it in person after they can’t play any longer. Like too many other things,  sports has become just another television show, competing with Trump’s wrestling circuses.

Here at Baseball Anarchy, we like to investigate things. A quick call to the commissioner’s office on our hotline yielded an assistant who agreed to speak with us on condition of anonymity since his Check Engine light was on. We politely asked, what can be done?   His answer was puzzling. “We here at MLB are always at work to further the interests of our devoted fans, which is why the rule changes we expect to advance in the coming months  are aimed at speeding up the games without affecting concessions.” Okay.

We then thought it would be more interesting to talk with one of the owners from back in the days before free agency in order to get his perspective.  We were able to reach Charles O. Finley, the former Kansas City and Oakland  boss.  We caught up with him at his exclusive suite in Purgatory, where he was binge watching the World Series of 1972 through 1974. The cell reception wasn’t top notch. “Mr. Finley—can I call you Chuck?—what do you think about the evolution of the game over the last several decades?” we asked. The answer wasn’t clear enough over the shaky connection but there seemed to be a consistent flow of profanity along with names like Bowie Kuhn, Sal Bando and Catfish Hunter. Perhaps Reggie Jackson was included, but I can’t be certain. At any rate, Mr. Finley did not sound happy.

So what is next? Only time will tell, and pitchers and catchers report in thirty days. I just hope we can start reading and hearing more about wins and losses and  batting and pitching and running and catching and throwing and less about contracts and no trade clauses and all that financial page crap. Agreed?

Goo Goo Gulewski

I am missing my yoga partner.  She was demure, quiet, never one to impose.  Now she doesn’t show up, even though I haven’t changed the time or place. Carla doesn’t do yoga anymore.

She would always wait until I had already started. Then, suddenly, she would just lie down next to my mat and stretch out. Carla was never one to impose, but she had the kind of self assurance that one apparently gains from being born beautiful and always loved and admired. She was always welcome. If I was lying flat on my back I could usually reach over and give her a rub at the same time. Then, if I needed to turn my back to her for a different position, she would just casually walk around to the other side of me and give me a gentle nudge with her paw. If it took me a while to respond, she would give me another nudge, perhaps not so gentle. I don’t know what all the gurus would say, but to my mind it was perfectly okay to interrupt a yoga session to play with a basset hound. In fact, I would recommend it. After a short session that might involve belly rubbing , ear scratching, or, if I was feeling brave, some dewlap dawdling, Carla would give a contented snort and hoist herself up to the futon and leave me to the rest of my session. She was never an in your face, look at me, needy kind of dog, but she always wanted  company and not to be left alone.  These last few days, as she began to lose the ability to follow us around the house, she began barking for us to come and be with her, until at last even barking was too much work.

Carla came to us at the end of June in 2007 because a very nice man named Carlos  had to  find her at home. His small family loved her very much  but dogs were not allowed at the migrant worker housing  that they lived in and it is very hard to hide a basset hound anywhere. They are the cutest puppies imaginable, all soft and cuddly little fur balls, but once they get growing  they remain forever cute but otherwise problematic. They howl for one thing and, for another, they tend to wander, following their very adept noses. Thus, when we adopted Carla, she had been trained to very quiet and she did not bark for the longest time.

Despite her great beauty, Carla had flaws. Somewhere along the way, she developed back problems, which is not uncommon among the long and low hounds. Also, she was a bit lop sided, so that when she ran or danced she frequently followed a path that was unusual even for a basset hound, sort of a series of semi-circles. It was hilarious and the sound of our laughter fueled her excitement until suddenly she would stop and look at us like we were crazy.

Oftentimes, she would bark and bark and bark for what seemed to the casual human observer to be no reason at all. She’s daft, I would think. Over time, though, we began to realize that there was a reason, such as an animal or human approaching that mere humans could not so easily detect. Carla was a good hunter and a good protector. Never, however, has a more gentle soul lived, unless of course you were another dog making the mistake of approaching her food dish. She seemed to prefer murky water to clean water, but over the past  recent months she began to drink more and more water, which should have been our clue Her kidneys stopped working until, finally, on Beethoven’s birthday, renal failure did her in.

Dog owners give their dogs names, of course. We named Carla after the man we got her from, and it was a good name. Over the years, though, nicknames and other affectionate terms develop. Sometimes she was Squishy. Sometimes it was silly, like making the first letter of her name a B and calling her Barla. For me, I couldn’t stop talking to her throughout any walk, short or long. So it became good girl, which eventually became , “That’s a goo!” and then  goo goo until it finally became Goo Goo Gulewski. Now I have to do yoga without her. I don’t like that at all/


What We Learned From A Fun Series

As predicted, the 2019 baseball season ended with a really entertaining and interesting seven game World Series. The Houston Astros and the Washington Nationals were evenly matched and each game provided their rooters with the excitement that comes from knowing that you are never out of it. We who watched on television learned a lot this time around.

In my case, I learned a lot about the two teams and a lot of the players from watching each game while  I also learned a lot about life from watching the ceaseless and repetitive, to say the least, commercial advertisements.

For instance,  my suspicions were confirmed that Anthony Rendon, Carlos Correa, Jose Altuve, Max Scherzer, Michael BrantleyTrea Turner, Alex Bregman, and Kurt Suzuki are all hard nosed, highly competitive ballplayers. I already knew about Justin Verlander.

Also, I learned that there is one absolute certainty about the 2020 presidential race in the U.S. If he just makes one move, Donald Trump is in. All that he needs to do is to reject the evil banality of Michael Pence as his running mate and choose between either Jim Beam or Jack Daniels. That’s a lock.

Despite my earlier impression of Dave Martinez, he does seem to have a bit of a temper. What Joe Torre said may have been correct on that call at first base in Game Six. The umpire made the right call, perhaps, but it was a call that should not have been made. Too Mickey Mouse for the World Series. And look, the catcher on a play like that needs to make his throw right through the runner’s neck if we are going to be anal about interference. So the safety call is no call and Joe, I’ll bet you secretly agree.

After seeing that ludicrous Hankook tire ad 14,612 times since April, I’m here to tell you that I will never buy a Hankook tire for the rest of my life even if I have to walk to work. And isn’t it wonderful to see all of the advances made by women, like how now they can make the same kind of pseudo macho booze commercials that were once limited to males. Wow.  Another  eye opener is that never in my life previously did I realize that the purpose for having insurance companies is so that they can provide clever humor between and sometimes during innings. It’s nice to know that our hard  won premium dollars go to such a worthy cause.

Both managers were splendid examples of intelligence, sportsmanship, and respect for the game. Their teams showed character and resilience, a couple of overworked words that actually ring true in this case.

One team has to win and one team has to lose. Grousing should be at a minimum, even in Milwaukee, where they were just a few outs away from winning that wild card game despite Christian Yelich being sidelined. There remain good feelings about baseball now despite controversies like the ball being jet propelled and the dominance of money.

It’s different in many ways these days and not all bad like geezers like me think. I know that more and more citizens are safely using marijuana now. Otherwise, how could things like chicken wings and  toasted cheddar chalupas not only get sold but also delivered? Happy off season everybody.

This Should Be Fun

The annual Fall/Winter baseball classic is here and this one looks like great fun. It’s especially fun for those of us who cringed in horror all season long at the thought of a Yankees versus Dodgers World Series. There is no doubt that these two teams, Washington and Houston, are the best to survive the regular season and playoffs. It’s also fair to say that Los Angeles had the best team in the National League during most of the season, but that’s not how you get here. Some people will say “What’s up with you, hating the Dodgers and Yankees? That’s not rational. Their fans deserve some fun too, don’t they?” Well, no they don’t. It’s good for the rest of us to see them have to go off to their beach houses or casinos or whatever and wank away while we enjoy the post season. All you rational people out there can go ahead and feel superior but you’re not having as much fun as I am right now, admit it.

Just as it was for the Cardinals-Nationals series, it is quite enjoyable to not have a personal favorite here in World Series. It’s really hard not to like the Nationals in the Post Harper era. Dave Martinez is smart and sincere and has the ticker trouble to prove it. Anthony Rendon is finally getting some well deserved recognition. The Ryan Zimmerman story is having a pleasant chapter. It is always encouraging to see those involved in an astute assembly of capable athletes reaping rewards for their efforts. Trea Turner is another who will be displaying his talent and efforts for a national audience. New stars Victor Robles and Juan Soto are welcomed to the biggest stage. Veteran pitchers Stephen Strasburg, Patrick Corbin and, especially, Max Scherzer will hope to avoid the necessity of a somewhat shaky bullpen. Howie Kendrick will be at first, second, or wherever needed . This is a fine, worthy ball club.

On the other, probably favored, side, The Astros are also a very well constructed baseball organization. Go right up the middle for the main reason–Carlos Correa and Jose Altuve. Alex Bregman has been getting all of the MVP chants but those two have been and will be the very foundation of it all—offensively, defensively, and emotionally. This team lost Charlie Morton and Dallas Keuchel but they still have the three headed monster of Gerrit Cole, Justin Verlander, and Zack Greinke for starters. The relief corps is a shade better than Washington’s but Roberto Osuna is anything but a sure thing late in the game . I kind of like the idea that neither team has the so called “lights out” closer. You know, like Kenley Jansen or Aroldis Chapman.

As for those two aforementioned other teams, an extremely close friend of mine likes to dismiss Clayton Kershaw, who never orders the Grand Slam at Denny’s, as one who chokes in the post season, and there is plenty of evidence to confirm that. I still don’t agree, however. I think it’s just that most of his regular season starts at his advanced age have been coming against the mediocre to destitute likes of San Francisco, Arizona, Colorado, and San Diego. Also, many very good players and people have donned the Yankees pinstripes. It’s the organization that I can’t stand. So, what’s up with Spike Lee? I thought he was kind of like a man of the people. Yet there he is wearing that ugly cap.

Vindication Day

Happy Birthday Kolten Wong and a happy day indeed for anyone not connected emotionally or otherwise to the Atlanta Braves or the Los Angeles Dodgers. It is vindication day for those of us who are so glad that the St. Louis Cardinals finally have a manager who realized that Wong was the best choice available to play second base. He was always the best option defensively and now, playing regularly, he has become a potent offensive weapon as well. I found the Cardinals-Braves series particularly enjoyable because I could root for both teams. We had the fiery and tough seasoned veteran Yadier Molina, the stalwart steady veteran pitcher Adam Wainwright and the all around superb first baseman Paul Goldschmidt for St. Louis versus the talented young men like Ozzie Albies, Ronald Acuna,Mike Foltynewicz and Mike Soroka for the Braves with veteran stars like Freddie Freeman and Brian McCann. Despite the lopsided final game, the series made for some great theater.

Of course, all of the well paid pundits had the winner of that series pegged to be sacrificial lambs as the Los Angeles Dodgers launch angled their way to the World Series that they finally would win. Oops. The teams that made what were considered the most important winter free agent acquisitions, Bryce Harper and Manny Machado finished fourth (Phillies) and fifth (Padres). Those two can probably be highly paid big fish in winless ponds for a while, but looky here! The Nationals versus Cardinals will play to advance to the World Series in another match that enables me to root for both teams. Anthony Rendon has been the best Washington has had for a good while now and it’s good to see him on the big stage. Max Scherzer, like Wainwright and Justin Verlander, is the kind of gutsy, tough, shrewd hurler we won’t be seeing much of if things in baseball stay the way they are now. And special congratulations to Trea Turner, Howie Kendrick,and Adam Eaton, gamers who have what it takes to win.

Today we will see if the Houston Astros or the Tampa Bay Rays qualify for the chance to knock off the Yankees. There will be many fun moments ahead.

What’s Your Hurry? Here’s Your Hat

Okay, let’s get this miserable thing over with. They are ready for hockey in Pittsburgh. The San Diego Padres did what all bright, far sighted management teams have always done. They broomed their field boss. The home run and strikeout totals are farcical beyond even the so called Steroid Era. The commissioner has become so adept at spinning caca la baca that he could be a White House press secretary. Detroit and Baltimore have been relegated to the International League. The San Francisco Giants used 13 pitchers in one game the other day.

Alright already, there have been some good things. Out of all the names of outfielders that Farhan Zaidi pulled out of his hat to audition for the Giants this season, one of them, Mike Yastrzemski, was a good one. It was truly heart warming to see the 28 year old rookie walking the field in Boston with his grandpa and Carl Yastrzemski made a damned good honorary first pitch. Of course, the Giants also brought back a couple of early rejects after September 1, Mike Gerber and Chris Shaw, so their fans could watch them strike out a few more times, but it’s been that kind of a year. It’s also been good to see the Atlanta Braves develop into a strong team again, a great mixture of youth and Josh Donaldson and Freddie Freeman and Nick Markakis. They still need to lose the “chop” before they start building another stadium, though. Minnesota surprised the hell out of a lot of people, especially me, and new success is always enjoyable to witness. If the Twins advance in the playoffs, will all those balls still be leaving the yard as winter approaches? Terry Francona won’t let anyone drive a wooden stake through Cleveland’s chances very easily, but losing Jose Rivera might have been fatal. I do appreciate the St. Louis Cardinals. As is normal under Bob Melvin, the Oakland Athletics are admirable.

Once the playoffs start, I’ll be likely to regain some enthusiasm as the dismal dark hours of no ball at all threaten to darken the sky. This has, however, been a tough slog. I will need to find a team to root for. It won’t be the Dodgers or the Yankees. I do appreciate Aaron Boone, though.

I’m A Loser

Why do we care? What does it matter whether or not one team wins or loses? What makes one team our team and another team the hated enemy and several other teams ones that we are completely indifferent about as far as success or failure? It’s not logical.

There is geography, of course. There is an ocean of red visible in the stands at every St. Louis Cardinals game that makes it obvious that the locals love their Redbirds, even when they had Mark McGwire. Just recently, Albert Pujols returned to St. Louis  for an inter-league game as a Garden Grove Angel and  the reception for him was warm and wonderful. That’s a good thing and it comes close to being logical. We are constantly reminded by player agents and team bosses, however, that professional sports are businesses so that a certain coldhearted  detachment is advised.  We loved you yesterday, but what are you going to do for us tomorrow? Willie Mays, the greatest ever, got traded. The Dodgers left town, etc.

As a young lad, I was about as provincial as could be. I was absolutely positive that I lived in the best house on the best street in the best city of the best state in the damned best country on the best planet in the universe, which was also likely in the higher echelon of universes.  Long before All Star game voting reached the ridiculous level it has these days, there were  ballots printed in newspapers for fans to select their favorites at each position. I believed in the integrity of the game et cetera but, since I lived in western Pennsylvania, I tended to be prejudiced in favor  of Cleveland and Pittsburgh  players when casting my vote (not plural). The Indians  came through and ousted the Yankees in 1954 and that got me really interested even though  the (then hated) Giants  swept them in the World Series.  When the Pirates won it all in 1960 the world had finally begun spinning the way it was supposed to spin.  Come on, though, that’s kid stuff, right?

It’s never going to happen, but I’ve always fantasized that the ideal  setup for pro sports would be to have a variation of the way they did it in Green Bay, Wisconsin. For each geographical location there would be local ownership, not by big money interests alone but by people who were truly “fans” vested in local things. Do you think  that the Packers would still be in Green Bay  if the likes of Donald Trump owned them? No, and the real fans in Oakland  or Miami or Pittsburgh would not be getting regularly hosed, either. Okay, enough of that, we’re adults, right?

There are other factors that make us, as more sophisticated, worldly adults, root for various teams too. There is the “underdog” factor, which before 2016 made so many of us root for those lovable Cubbies, right? Trump just tweeted “Losers!” to the thought of  wishing an underdog well. Or we might be rooting for individual players to do well for one reason or another. Ernie Banks deserved to play in a World series. Mike Trout  should have chosen a better team to receive large paychecks from so, if the Angels got close, maybe. Or we might just want a certain team to win just to keep the competitive juices flowing. Or we might want a few teams to get beat just for a change. The worst possible reason, albeit one that I fear occurs frequently, to root for a team is that we have bet money on it. The president would approve of that, I’m sure.

Whatever tribal or intellectual or sentimental motivations we may have, it’s still fun. Usually.