A confession: for almost two decades I hated baseball (well, not exactly
hated, more like couldn’t care less). The game—in the Bigs, at least—was
virtually unrecognizable to me, what with the “errors” that are astronomical
salaries, cookie-cutter stadiums, and free agency. Take, for example,
the designated hitter rule: it is, frankly, a sin, venial at a minimum. If
you’re a ballplayer, friends, then pick up the lumber and go to work with
the rest of the fellows in sanitaries. And while you’re at it, take George
Steinbrenner, the Daddy Warbucks of the sport.