Major League Ennui

Chicago is just one of four municipalities (soon to be three) to host a pair of major league baseball teams. To cities without even a single franchise, this—at first blush—appears to be an enviable concentration of wealth.

And at first glance, it is. Doubles the chances of hosting a championship. Of having a contending team in a late-season pennant race. Two sets of athletes performing otherworldly feats in the rarefied strata of major league baseball.

Or so you'd think.

We've had a pair of baseball teams in town for a very, very long time. Way longer than Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Boston and the Bay Area (municipalities that, at one point or another, enjoyed the services of multiple MLB baseball teams). In fact, only New York City can compare. (But remember: the Yankees had NYC to themselves from the time the Giants and Dodgers departed for the West coast until the birth of the Mets in 1962.)

So, yeah. Chicago has been a two-MLB town longer than anybody.

But as any local baseball fan will admit, a lot of good it's done. From the end of World War One (November 11, 1918) through today (July 4, 2023), Chicago has celebrated just two World Series victories. Two. In what is nearly 105 years.

Sure, the White Sox ended the third-longest title drought in the history of professional sports in 2005. And the Cubs famously ended the longest back in 2016. But that's it. Put another way, it's as many as the Houston Astros have amassed since 2017.

As we know so well in Chicago, two teams doubles the odds. What we frequently forget is that it doubles the odds for everything. Good and bad. Not just of winning championships (although that would be nice), but of sucking. Being uncompetitive. Playing listless, uninspired ball in front of some of the most-expensive seats in Major League Baseball.

White Sox fans are in their second season of hair-shirt torment since the fall of the 2021 AL Central champions in the first round of the playoffs. To their fan's immeasurable relief, the team finally jettisoned Tony LaRussa, which helped not one iota. While he should be credited with keeping the team afloat despite the parade to the IL, his successors have fared no better.

However unwilling and disorganized the 2022 team appeared, the 2023 version is far worse. For the White Sox merely to equal last season's .500 mark, they will have to win 44 of their remaining 76 games, which equates to a 93-win pace over a full season.

Additionally, the parade to the IL has not stopped. Every week, another player suffers an injury that keeps him out for weeks, if not months. Those that remain more or less healthy underperform—spectacularly. Tim Anderson? Dylan Cease? Yoan Moncada? Michael Kopech? Eloy Jimenez? All were exceptionally-rated prospects. None have fulfilled their potential.

The team's leading light is Luis Robert, Jr. Named to the American League all-star squad last week, he appears on track to play in 100 games for the first time in his four-year career.

This is probably a good time to mention that the White Sox do lead the league in something, though. They have suffered the largest drop-off in average attendance in Major League Baseball.

The return of pre-pandemic congestion is partly to blame, I'm sure. As is the reconstruction of the Kennedy Expressway. But it appears White Sox fans know a bad thing when they see it.

Ever-hopeful Cub fans were anticipating this season as the team actually competed in the second half of 2022. With the return of arms like Kyle Hendricks, Marcus Stroman, Drew Smyly and Justin Steele and newly-added players like Dansby Swanson and Cody Bellinger, the Cubs just had to be better.

Didn't they?

Yes and no. Are we talking about the team that took two out of three from the Tampa Bay Rays in May? Or the team that has lost seven out of eight to the likes of St. Louis, Cleveland, Philadelphia and Milwaukee?

Like it or not, the Cubs are telling us who they are. We just need to listen.

TJ Maxx used to call itself “a new store everyday.” The Cubs could do likewise. They are the personification of 'win some, lose some.' But in the end, that means they're not very good. Not in the context of a 162-game MLB schedule, anyway.

Relief pitching has been, to be kind, inconsistent. When it functions as intended, the Cubs can make use of their starter's quality outings and post a save. When it doesn't, it sends the Cubs to agonizing losses. I haven't examined the data, but I'd wager next week's pay check the Cubs have surrendered more runs in innings six through nine than innings one through five.

In one and two run games, the Cubs are 11-21. In games in which they score between one and three runs, they're 8-26. Yet they possess the biggest run differential in the division. So they're either winning 7-2 or losing 3-2.

Free-agent starter Jameson Taillon has been a disaster. The Cubs are 2-12 in games he starts. His E.R.A. is 6.93. I mean, that kind of generosity belongs in a sleigh and a red velvet suit. On the rare occasion Taillon makes a quality start, the Cubs are 2-1. But with three quality starts in fourteen opportunities, well, not even Tom Ricketts has that kind of money.

But the Cubs' woes extend far beyond Taillon.

The Cubs have a big problem hitting with men on base. Or more specifically, with runners in scoring position. And they have for a while. Their .225 batting average ranks 28^th. Their .300 on-base percentage ranks 25^th. Their 14 home runs rank 26^th.

See a picture forming?

While otherwise respectably talented, the Cubs morph into the Oakland A's with runners in scoring position. They get really nervous. They mostly crumble. In a game where scoring more runs than the opposition is fairly critical to the outcome, is it any wonder the Cubs are 38 – 45?

Would a regimen of Viagra fix that? How about Shohei Ohtani?

Exacerbating local fan's sense of doom is that both Chicago entries play in the worst division in their respective league. This generates questions. Questions like “If the _____________ can't compete in the weakest division in the _________________ League, how bad are they really?”

At least in the case of the White Sox, I suspect we don't want to know. The Cubs? Depends on the day. They give 'unpredictable' a bad name.

Worse, management doesn't seem to have a clue. Sox GM Rick Hahn doesn't appear to be in any hurry to move on from their failed prospects, whatever their underachievement. But it's hard to know for sure because he's been very, very quiet.

Across town, Cubs' president Jed Hoyer appears as flummoxed as the rest of us when queried about whether the Cubs will be buyers or sellers come August 1^st. I'll say this: it's fairly difficult to imagine them embarking on the kind of run that would position them as a contender.

While Chicagoans can blame the wildfires burning in Ontario and Quebec for the poor air quality and visibility, our baseball teams have no such option. They're likely wishing the smoke was a little thicker.

 

Our Media-Induced Day of Mourning

Let it commence. Let the horror and the sadness and the outrage congeal. Let them seep through our bodies at will. Let us wallow in the unjustness and the horror of it all. Let us question the uncaring and selfish God who allowed this to happen.

Yes, the Los Angeles Lakers have been swept and summarily dismissed from the NBA post-season.

As inconceivable as it seems, the undefeated Lakers were swept by a godless, eighth-seeded team not from Los Angeles, who went 41 – 41 or something. (I don't know—and who cares, anyway?) But they are most certainly not the Lakers. Their shorts aren't even yellow!

The Lakers' 2022/23 campaign was a wire-to-wire thrill ride as they demolished one opponent after another. They constituted a league all by themselves! They deigned to play in the NBA only because a more-celestial option wasn't available.

If you contest any of these facts, you need only to consult the media reports. The Lakers were pre-ordained for greatness. As illustrated by their undefeated season, they had no competition! LeBron James could play with four third-graders and win a title by himself!

And then the post-season began. After slaughtering the Memphis Grizzlies and the Golden State Warriors in consecutive four-game sweeps, they faced off against the legacy-free team not from Los Angeles.

Only four games left until the NBA Finals!

The media remained agog as the Lakers triumphed over both their previous opponents, decisively triumphing in what now amounted to ninety consecutive games! 'Unprecedented' hardly seemed sufficient.

Given their dominance, it wasn't long before the conspiracy theories began. The Lakers were using fans to referee their games. The Lakers supplied unknown substances to the opposition's best players, rendering them unable to play. On and on they went.

The media attempted to refute these groundless accusations. They repeated their mantra endlessly. “They're the Lakers! They're the Lakers! They're the Lakers! They are the face of destiny!”

They went on to name all five starters to the All-NBA Team. Likewise the All-Defensive team. They attempted to name each Laker Rookie of the Year, but for unknown reasons this was not allowed to proceed.

Yes, more indisputable proof that everyone hates the Lakers.

Then the Lakers lost game one of the Western Conference Finals. The outrage was tangible. The media cried and cried. “They would have won that game except for...” I don't believe anyone with a grain or two of sentience would call it journalism.

Collectively, these reports were a rant from a spoiled child. A child upset that, despite their pronouncements, the Lakers could lose. In particular to a rag tag bunch of heathens not from Los Angeles. Oh, the indignity!

And then it happened after game two. And again after game three. Depending on the account, it was sometimes difficult to ascertain who the Lakers' opponent was. The media's wailing over their beloved Lakers was insufferable.

And after last night, you can well imagine. While it is difficult to confirm who will be representing the Western Conference in the NBA Finals, finding out who will not is easier than spending money. In other words, win or lose—the story is the Lakers.

I wear my disdain for them (and their fans) with everlasting pride.

Business Ethics, 2023 Version

Once upon a time, we used to make stuff. Manufacturing employed engineers and machine operators and truck drivers and office clerks and accountants. It was a Gibraltar-sized chunk of American middle-class stability.

But then we got smart. Really smart.

We sent our manufacturing infrastructure to Asia and outsourced the distribution. That freed-up a great many employees, who were unceremoniously terminated. As stock prices soared, we looked for still more things to divest ourselves of.

It wasn't long before we were little more than a post office box on the Isle of Man, a leased boardroom in a Manhattan skyscraper and plants scattered throughout Asia. We were Forbes magazine's business of the future.

A model of ruthless efficiency.

Business could now milk a cow and receive an urn full of cream in return.

But as profits and their margins spiral upwards in an unbroken trajectory, who is paying for this? Who's going to get the bill?

Someone must be, surely.

As employer's profit margins explode, businesses are enjoying the succulent fruit that comes from being let off the leash of regulation and oversight. The Citizen's United decision remains the high-water mark of this cancerous trend.

(Unless we're counting Donald Trump's three-billion-dollar bribe to the nation's billionaires and their companies, of course.)

This is the environment in which Moderna CEO Stephane Bancel, after having created one of three vaccines that successfully resisted COVID, decided to increase the cost per dose from the $26.36 the U.S. government was paying to $130.

Fair enough, right? His people did the work and spent the time to figure this thing out. They should rightfully profit for their work.

Shouldn't they?

Yes, Bancel's employees did a good bit of heavy lifting. But let's not forget they received an enormous amount of money from people completely unrelated to Moderna.

Depending on your level of cynicism, you may already know where this is going. For the rest of you, I'll lay it bare here: You paid for the COVID vaccine's research and development. One point seven billion dollars of American taxpayer money was handed over to Moderna (and Pifzer) to devise such a thing.

That's right. It was on your dime.

But those nineteen-billion-dollars in profit? Oh, yeah. About that. Um, that's not for you. That's for us because we “made” it. You just paid for it.

Public expense for private profit. I wonder what will our next great idea will be.

This is how far off the rails we are. This is a new low in exploitation and ghoulishness. And let me guess—these firms feel they should get a tax-break on those profits for their unwavering commitment to the American people, too.

Anyone have an air-sickness bag?

But with a conservative Supreme Court and a Republican majority in the House, feeling this monstrosity develop and take shape is quite easily done. Even while Republicans seek to gut Social Security and Medicare (that's right Marjorie Taylor-Greene!) as excessive entitlements, the American public can, in essence, be put to work for a behemoth like Moderna without so much as a cent in compensation.

Failing that, is expecting Moderna to return the funds that subsidized their research hoping for too much?

Given one party's affinity for labeling the policies of another as “creeping socialism”, I wonder how we can possibly compare something like social security or MediCare to a nineteen-billion-dollar private slush fund.

They don't fit in the same universe much less a shared government building.

Use the term 'business ethics' in a conversation and you're as likely to encounter a blank expression as one weary with disappointment and resignation. Can you choose which person is better informed?

I can.

 

Da Bulls

Ah. The agony of being a sports fan. The agony of trades not made. Under-performing athletes. The spectre of career-ending injuries. And the simple fact of athletes whose playing style does not mesh.

So much can—and does—go wrong.

When Bulls' president of operations Arturas Karnisovas and general manager Marc Eversley teamed up to extract the Bulls from the pit of manure left by the disastrous regime of John Paxson and Garfield Forman, Bulls fans were made glad.

No more Jim Boylens, right?

The duo certainly got off to a great start, hiring a proven winner in coach Billy Donovan. They made a decisive trade, unloading injury-prone Wendell Carter Jr. for the established (and talented) Nikola Vucevic.

Finally, Zach LaVine had a co-scorer on the court with him. This was truly disturbing.

Over the summer of 2021, they signed free-agent DeMar DeRozan. Signed gritty free-agent point guard Alex Caruso. And traded for another point guard, the do everything Lonzo Ball.

All of a sudden, the Bulls were a legitimate NBA team. For the first-half of the 2021/22 season, the Bulls were number-one in the Eastern Conference. While the element of surprise no doubt aided their cause, they were legitimate. They won.

But then Ball injured his knee in mid-January. And he hasn't played since. Reports are scarce, but Ball can't even run at full-speed. He has trouble climbing stairs. An injury so common that it didn't set off a single alarm now appears to be the end of a very promising career.

I can't claim to have been aware of his critical importance to that team at that point, but without him the Bulls disappeared. They floundered. It is apparent he was the motor that made everything happen.

Over a year later, the largely unchanged team has a gaping hole at point guard. Their interior defense is softer than room temperature butter. And rugged strong forward Javonte Green hasn't played in a month.

They routinely get out shot at the three-point line and find ways to lose, even when the opposition's best player (or players) are on the bench. Or are no longer with the team, as evidenced by the Bulls' gruesome eleven-point loss to the Brooklyn Nets, who were without two guys named Kyrie Irving and Kevin Durant.

Yep. They did that. And have been all season long.

It is clear to all within the city that the Bulls' talent as individuals outweighs their talent as a group. They don't jibe. There is very little flow. And that pesky absence of defense doesn't go away.

Which is why frustrated Bulls fans looked forward to the recent NBA trading deadline. It was a chance to address the yawning holes on this team. But as one of just two teams not to make a single move, it is clear that Karnisovas and Eversley don't see anything wrong.

Perhaps they look at the NBA standings upside-down?

With an expiring contract, Vucevic is free to walk in free-agency. And their sole chance to recoup something from his acquisition walks along with him. Other players with sizeable trade value also remain with the team.

Why?

I don't have a bone with any player on the Bulls. My view is that they're a solid group of individuals who largely act like grown-ups. Taken by themselves, they're all talented basketball players. But they just

don't.

Fit.

Kudos to Karnisovas and Eversley for single-handedly lifting the Bulls from the malaise of the GarPax era. But they should also be able to see this team isn't working. They need to swallow their pride and admit as much and make the tough decisions that could restore this team to contention.

But they did nothing. N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

There's a hoary old cliche which says sometimes the best trades are the ones you don't make. But that doesn't apply here. Not even close.

Just a year ago the Bulls' future looked shiny. Today? Well, the Cubs and White Sox spring training camps open in just a few weeks.

Hope springs eternal.

Loss

The most morose example of change being the only constant I can offer is death. Yes, death. And as the features of my mortality become ever-clearer, it's only natural that I take note of those taking their leave. Particularly those who, by virtue of their work as a musician, actor or as a writer, indelibly shaped my life and attitudes.

Musicians seem to have been particularly hard-hit lately, with music-makers known and sadly unknown having passed. Loretta Lynn. Mimi Parker. Jeff Beck. Tom Verlaine. Jerry Lee Lewis. Christine McVie. David Crosby. Hamish Kilgour.

I can't say I was a giant fan of all of them, but as with any good work, their talents survived both fashion and time. Not an easy thing to do.

Take Christine McVie. Amid the 24/7 drama surrounding Fleetwood Mac in the late-seventies, McVie seemed a low-key and fairly grounded personality in the maelstrom that surrounded the band. Yet her singing and keyboard work were essential ingredients in their success.

Next to the vocal histrionics of band-mate Stevie Nicks, her plaintive, erstwhile vocals took on a powerful appeal. She reminded me of the teammate you didn't know you missed until they were gone.

Parker and Kilgour weren't huge stars, but each contributed immeasurably to their band's sound. Imagine “Words” (my favorite Low song) without her. Or “Anything Could Happen” without Hamish. It's difficult.

Tom Verlaine wasn't a star, either. Like Parker and Kilgour, he tended towards the cult artist end of things. While critically renowned, Television wasn't on everyone's lips, even in the musical hot bed of 1977. But those who knew, knew. His knotted, asymmetrical guitar work contrasted brilliantly with band mate Richard Lloyd, and their music was merely unforgettable.

After Television imploded, he went on to a solo career and recorded much that is deserving of your time.

I came to Loretta Lynn late, even having seen Coal Miner's Daughter back in the day. In the nineteen-sixties, she was scoring hits by recording feminist anthems before the vast majority of us even knew what feminism was. Even more miraculously, she was having them on country and western radio.

Yep. To paraphrase an old Panasonic tagline, Lynn was just slightly ahead of her time.

(For a lighthearted counter-weight to that weighty significance, check the duet she sang with Conway Twitty “You're the Reason Our Kids are Ugly”)

I was aware of David Crosby before I knew who he was. The Byrds had a great run of singles in the mid-sixties, and “Eight Miles High” was a ground breaker. And Crosby, just entering the zenith of his career, played a large part in it.

But the first-generation Byrds were splintering, and there didn't seem to be a part for Crosby in the new C&W edition.

Timing is everything goes a popular expression. And Crosby served as proof, encountering two other blokes also in-between-bands. Graham Nash, ex-of the Hollies and Stephen Stills, a former Buffalo Springfield, needed gigs.

Somewhere along the line, the trio realized “Why not create our own gig?” And so Crosby, Stills & Nash were born. Decry their politics, their embrace of the hippie ethos or the epic, ego-driven battles they suffered, some great music came out of those three.

Jeff Beck first excited my hormones way back in the nineteen-sixties via his work in the Yardbirds. I wasn't privy to the internal politics going on within the band, but his work on songs like “Over Under Sideways Down” left an indelible impression.

As I grew and learned more about the music quickly becoming an obsession, I discovered the Clapton-Beck-Page succession that happened within the Yardbirds. Furthermore, the guy who really moved me was a guy named Jeff Beck.

And just as I was learning a re-appreciation of his work, his was embarking on a solo career that would yield the most-definitive work of his career.

Blow By Blow and Wired remain two of my favorite examples of fusion, a genre that has sadly fallen on hard times and even suffered critical dismissal. But I point our that musicians as esteemed as Herbie Hancock and Miles Davis weren't too proud to investigate it, recording some of the best, most invigorating music of their careers.

So there.

What can one say about Jerry Lee Lewis in 2023? He was one of rock and roll's most- dangerous personalities at a time when rock and roll itself was considered a viable societal threat. Yes, the tightly-wound conformity of the nineteen-fifties was deeply afraid.

Not that Jerry Lee couldn't play. Au contraire, my friend. Mr. Lewis could play the ivory out of a piano's keys without breaking a sweat. In that first storm of rock and roll, he was a force of nature.

As were all of them.

The Shitshow of Online Dating

Like you, I have been told repeatedly that the way to meet people these days is online. Everybody's doing it. Knowing as I do that social media is stuffed with fakes, frauds and trolls, I wasn't eager to participate.

But more-desperate than I cared to admit, I enrolled with three different sites over the past eight months (not simultaneously). Their names have been withheld to protect the guilty.

My first bit of advice is that if you are male, run away.

Run away in the opposite direction as quickly as your central nervous system will allow. This because if you are a male on a dating site, you are one of three things: a child molester, a serial rapist or a gigolo expert in defrauding lonely divorcees and widows of their assets.

Guilty until proven innocent is a good start.

More to the point, you should consider this: the Puritans believed the best way to determine whether a woman was a witch was to tie her up, weigh her body down with stones and then cast her into a body of water.

If she undid her bindings and rose up out of the water, she must be tied up (again!) and burned at the stake. And if she remained under water? She was not a witch.

Yeah.

And that's with the women presumably seeking a partner.

Then there are the attention whores.

There are attractive women at every age. Some are especially attractive. If their personality profiles seemed a good fit with mine, I would contact them as well.

But just as people in the early days of Facebook would work to accumulate the biggest number of followers as opposed to actual friends, many of these women seek only the greatest number of responses from men.

But know this—that is the end of their interest in you. You are merely a notch on their cyber bed post.

Naturally, these critiques inevitably invoke questions. Questions like “Ever consider they just weren't interested in you?”

Of course.

In any gathering of people, you are going to be liked by some, disliked by others and might fail to even register an impression either way with others. It's a dynamic we encounter everywhere, everyday.

I get it.

I never, ever expected to become “Man of the Month” on any of these sites. But I did possess a realistic expectation that I would encourage some interest. That there would be a woman, somewhere, who would be interested. Or at least curious.

Nope.

Let me say that I am a decent looking guy. I have all my teeth. I have just one nose, correctly positioned in the middle of my face. Ten fingers, ten toes. I am self-supporting. Healthy. I don't possess a record. I own my own home. And genuinely like women.

I am kind. Respectful. Responsible. And like you, I'm not adverse to a good time. I love to dance. Eat. Watch movies, read books and listen to music. Volunteer. I love listening to people's stories. I love getting to know them.

Oh, that's right. I am also a predator, a rapist and a swine. (I keep forgetting.)

So if you're a man looking for a partner, this is the landscape you'll encounter. Good luck. Given my experience, if this is the way people are meeting today, loneliness will become a growth stock. Invest now. 

And what of birth control devices?

“Cancel!”

The crowning blow came from a woman who asked me if I'd had any dates. I told her I hadn't even had a conversation. An actual date was very, very hard to imagine.

She went on to detail the dates she'd had with three different men. It was not nice. It teetered into a full-blown rant as she described them as users, bitter divorcees and men who needed someone to maintain or entertain them until the ideal victim presented herself.

I told her I was sorry for these experiences and meant it. But I soon became aware of another truth. With the assumption that this women had provided accurate descriptions of these men, character deficits notwithstanding, they were getting dates.

I was home.

What's wrong with this picture?

I became angry. I wanted to write her back and say “Good for you. Your obviously unassailable character assessments have led to multiple dates with men who left you feeling bereft and used. Well played!

But you know what the real tragedy is? That would have been if you engaged in conversation with me. Or—gasp—we'd actually gone on a date. It's too unspeakable to even acknowledge. Oh, the horror!”

With this new realization in mind, I at last understood what an endless expanse of waste dating web sites are. (Unless of course you are mentally ill or harbor a need for masochism, in which case I would urge you to enroll in as many sites as you can manage.)

And as badly I feel for the woman who texted me about her dates, I wonder if she is someone prone to unconsciously picking men who seemed familiar to her—like exes. Studies show that we frequently will opt for something uncomfortable-yet-familiar as opposed to something completely different and unfamiliar.

It is entirely possible she continues to date her exes. No wonder the dates don't go well.

But that isn't my problem, is it? What I'm left with is the fact I reached out to something like three-dozen women and had one tepid response. (And no, that doesn't include the ranter.) Not great odds. 

In the end, these sites are for attention whores and former spouses seeking revenge on the opposite sex. And I, unfortunately, am neither.

Goodbye. 

 

The Curious Case of Carlos Corrrea

 From my vantage point, Carlos Correa is a highly-talented ballplayer. Distinguished? A deserving all-star? Definitely Can't imagine the team who wouldn't welcome him into their locker room.

Correa plays shortstop, a position demanding extraordinary flexibility, balance, quickness and a throwing arm that is both powerful and accurate. Correa is no slouch at the plate, either. Correa sports a lifetime batting average of .279 and an OPS of .836. His calculated WAR over a 162 game schedule is 7.2.

All are well above average.

So in a free-agent market, it stands that Correa—at age 28—is certainly going to attract attention.

Which he has.

But however talented a two-way player he is, there are questions about his durability. Over his eight-year career, he has played in just 888 games. That's an average of 111 games a year, or about two-thirds of the MLB schedule.

Expected to be offered a Grade-A ginormous contract, Correa landed one. The San Francisco Giants offered him a thirteen-year contract for 350 million-dollars. Translated, that means he'd be earning 26.9 million-dollars per season through the age of forty.

I should clarify that I have no bone to pick with Correa. He has become a significant player at a very difficult position. And as pointed out earlier, he can field and hit. And if Giants owner Charles Johnson wants to drop 771,617 pounds of dollar bills into Correa's lap, Correa would be a fool to refuse it.

But then something happened.

In contrast to the dozens of MLB owners who mindlessly dispense decades-long contracts for hundreds of millions of dollars, the Giants paused and activated their brains. And if that isn't shocking enough, know the Giants backed out of the deal, stating there were medical issues that prohibited them from moving forward.

Ignoring the lack of precedent, Correa's agent (the insufferable Scott Boras) immediately dialed up the free-spending owner of the New York Mets. Informed of the newly-available Correa, owner Steve Cohen immediately offered Correa a nearly identical contract.

And then something happened—again.

While perusing Correa's medical record, the Mets happened upon the same issue that stopped the Giants in their tracks. And their offer remains unsigned as well. I'm sure Correa and Boras are very, very frustrated.

I'm an old guy. Been following baseball for over half-a-century. While initially excited by free-agency, salaries have become an absurd joke. And while neophytes might wonder how these teams pay these enormous salaries, the answer is they don't.

You do.

And as a result, baseball (like other sports) has become increasingly inaccessible to the people at the core of its fandom.

So I'm heartened to see owners engaging their brains before rubber-stamping contracts that are—at best—questionable. And before you label me as anti-labor, know that the era of grossly underpaid professional athlete ended roughly forty-years ago.

Yes, theoretically baseball players ought to be able to make any amount of money possible—just like you. And yes, baseball owners ought to be able to pay their employees whatever amount the market will bear.

The problem is that baseball remains a consumer product, dependent on millions and millions of fans being able to consume it. And the more out of reach the game becomes, the harder it will be to locate the legions of followers required for its survival.

I hope this contract re-think is only the first of many to come. And if my views upset Correa and Boras, please remind them that if I regularly showed up for work just two-thirds of the time, I wouldn't be negotiating a thirteen-year, 350 million-dollar contract.

I'd be unemployed.