Written by Mike Miedema

Wednesday, 10 November 2004

For as long as I can remember, I have always loved sports, baseball in particular. From riding the bench in my little league days to collecting ball cards of the players of my choosing, I was hooked. Baseball was a boy’s game, and in the heart and mesh cap of this aging youngster, this sentiment was all too true. As time has gone on, my love for America’s Past time has, well, past over time. But now I have been able to sustain a remarkable tolerance for the game I once loved; I credit this to my naïve, adolescent appreciation for the sport.

Don’t get me wrong I still enjoy the game, just in small doses, really small doses. For instance, I enjoy watching the nightly SportsCenter as I trail off to bed. I don’t mind the baseball highlights so much because they are peppered in with more exciting sport clips, like soccer and golf.

The baseball clips usually leave a lot to be desired but I tolerate them for the overall satisfaction of the show. Much in the same way I enjoy chocolate chip raisin cookies. I love the mouth-watering chocolate chips and though I’m developing a serious allergic reaction to raisins, I eat them anyway for the satisfaction of the cookie as a whole. I would be met with great pain if I were to eat an entire bowl of raisins, pain along the same lines as watching an entire baseball game.

But from time to time I will endure an entire game, just as long as I can sneak in a nap with my viewing pleasure, a sneaky long nap. I think my nonchalant attitude towards the game coupled with my early love for the game would make me a prime candidate for being a good assistant coach of a minor league baseball team.

Let me make this perfectly clear, I am in no way looking to become a head coach. Head coaches have to deal with locker room fights, submit racially sensitive line-up cards to obtuse and obese home plate umpires, and talk to the obviously liberal-biased, local sports media figures. Being a head coach is a lot of responsibility, and that’s not what I’m after. I would be quite content with sitting on a wooden bench and attempting to rekindle some love for the game.

I would treat my role with masked sincerity. Every so often I would yell out words of encouragement to the ragtag gang, not too much though as to be overtly enthusiastic and put myself inline for a promotion to Head Honcho, but just enough to disguise a whim of interest. During the course of the long season, I will undoubtedly fall asleep at any given time while in uniform, but I will be as professional about it as possible. To play it off, when I’m about to snooze, I will tip my cap over my sun-beaten brow as a cover to my unsuspecting compadres. Should anyone catch my sleep stealing antics, I will save face by saying I pulled my cap over my face because I was disgusted with a particular element of the game, perhaps a bad call by the umpire or a lack of hustle or heart by one of our own players.

If I’m ever caught in my slumber, I will be curteous about it and offer to buy the first round of drinks that night. But if we start talking baseball at the bar, I will exhaust all plausible means in an effort to change the subject.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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