By Roger Wallenstein
I couldn’t care less whether there’s a 2020 baseball season.
There, I’ve said it.
This despite the fact that I love going to a ballgame. I accept the sappy descriptions about the smell of cut grass of the rich verdant greensward, the awakening of my taste buds from a sizzling red hot smothered in mustard and onions, the beauty of a shortstop going into the hole and throwing a perfect strike to nab the runner by a half-step, and the late-inning home run that puts the home team ahead.
However, with all the other truly horrible and unthinkable events that currently grip our existence, the idea that the baseball lords and their employees can’t come together, support one another, and make arrangements to play a simple baseball game if and when it is safe to do so, is beyond my patience.
Posted on May 30, 2020