The last thing I want to do on this fine Saturday afternoon is give any more attention to bumspazz homophobe trainwreck Roger McDowell, but I am having problems dealing with the hate-induced rant that caused him to scream: “kids don’t belong in the (bleeping) ballpark!”
Sorry, McDowell. You are a bonafide jerkwad.
And a waste of our national pastime’s space.
Dude, kids ARE the ballpark.
And for me, thinking back to my childhood days… about the wonders of green astroturf lighting up my eyes on a breezy summer day, sharing a bag of roasted peanuts with my old man, reciting player tidbits I memorized from the backs of baseball cards… I smile now, just as big and just as bright as I did then.
Because life at home wasn’t always great.
My mom and dad didn’t love each other anymore. My sister and I were separated by 120 miles. And I had a penchant for being passive-aggressive… all quiet and bottled up until BOOM — someone got hurt.
At the ballpark — a magical otherworld where all of life’s problems were strictly prohibited — I could just be me.
I could just be a kid.
I could just be…
Hate me ‘cuz I make up words (sometimes), just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.