Probably Not This Year

Poops out in a sap-filled last paragraph, as so many of these essentially bourgeois take-your-lickings-from-your-betters-shut-up-&-give-in typists & their pieces do, but it wouldn't be late March in these United Snakes w/o some pseudo-academic dippo cranking one out on the old ball game as metaphor for America & so on & so forth, every single fucking year since the dawn of time (the 1950s, in our case) & long before.

When you’re in purgatory, as baseball and the country are, the arrival of a new season is not a cause for celebration but rather an unsettling reminder of how little has changed, and how stuck you are. The new season is not new enough. After all the fraud and failure, why does everything look so familiar? Wall Street remains all powerful, unchastened. The New York Yankees still have baseball’s largest payroll. The drug cheat Alex Rodriguez is still hitting home runs, making $30 million a year, and dating Cameron Diaz. The divorce of the McCourts, the couple who own the Dodgers, is hardly the change we can believe in.

Some of us are angry, and shocked, and hurt by all of this. But should we be? After all, the rich and the powerful and the famous and the talented have been awful disappointments to the rest of us only since the beginning of recorded time. Might the problem be with our expectations, our belief that contests should be fair and honest and that the winners should be the deserving?

Yeah, maybe.