For all things Tooks, and some things, er, relating to other people. As well as to other things. You get the picture.

28 February 2006

A broadly belligerent blog:

Well, not that belligerent. But call it a particularly peeved post.

The cause for my peevosity? Er, peevociousness? Er, peevedom? That the World Baseball Classic will, like so many other revolutions, not be televised.

(Here's a FAQ for those not in the hardball know about the WBC:

Granted, strictly speaking, it will be televised--at 3:00 a.m. on Sunday night on ESPN Deportes. Or, worse, ESPN2. The Deuce. C'mon, people! The first-ever truly World Series, and I have to either stay up all night and deal with over-excited Spanish-language broadcasters waxing philosophical about "el bunt," or endure three hours of commercials for Mountain Dew and Nissan X-Terra's. As my girlfriend would say, searing pain!

I wouldn't complain so much if there were at least radio coverage. As any true baseball fan knows, and he knows it because his dad taught him, there's something very special about listening to a baseball game on the radio. A long, hot summer afternoon, the distant sounds of lawnmowers and kids riding bikes, a cold beer and a blt with extra mayo, the endless moments between pitches filled with languid prattle about players' on-base percentage and hometowns, punctuated by the sharp percussion of the ball off the bat all those thousands of miles away (or, if you're lucky, only those miles between Wormtown and Fenway.) It's up to you to visualize the players, the field, the crowd, the action. Or not. Sometimes, the pleasure is in lying back and just letting the game drift in one ear and out the other. (No comments from the mom gallery--I'll take out the garbage after this inning, I swear.) You listen a little, nap a little, swat a little fly, and wait for dinner--can't you smell the burgers on the grill, and the corn on the stove? Gershwin, my boy, when you're right, you're right: the livin' is easy.

I hope you haven't enjoyed this little rememberie with me too much, because you'll be completely shut out of such joy for the World Baseball Classic. You'll have to content yourself with box scores and Sportscenter. Good thing Kenny Mayne is so witty. Sigh. Searing pain. Searing, searing pain.

Lament the sad state of "el bunt" with me,


P.S. This rant has officially ended, but let the record show that I'm also outraged that some American teams are discouraging their marquee players from representing their countries in the WBC because of the possibility of injury. Let them play, for baseball's sake.


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