In Major League Baseball’s 133-year history, 17,056 players have come and gone. From that, only 229 of those players are in the Hall of Fame (about 1 of every 74.5).
Boston baseball fans will tell you they have a sixth sense about their brethren. They’ll tell you they have inside information of their beloved team and the players connected to it that is otherwise unavailable to those foreign to Red Sox Nation. They’ll tell you they patiently waited out David Ortiz‘s horrific spring slump without boos or jeers because they knew – they just knew – Papi would turn it around. Without telling you that they know more than you, Sawx fans will tell you they know more than you.
Now that the bombshell mildly notable item that Sammy Sosa juiced has soaked into the core of your being, it’s time to start hunting for witches.
Admit it, you’ve been at a game and thought, “I wonder if I could throw the rest of this soft pretzel far enough for it to land on the court” or “I bet I can hop this right field wall and sprint to the left field wall before security runs me down” or even “the next goal David Beckham bends, I’m hopping this railing and I’m kissing him. I don’t care, I’m kissing him.” Don’t pretend that you haven’t wondered how much of a disturbance you can be at some sporting event. I know you have.
Any movie fan following Hollywood’s ever-increasing downward spiral of original ideas can’t be all that jazzed about this summer’s lineup Aside from Pixar’s “Up” and frat-friendly “The Hangover” most of the remaining blockbusters are sequels and remakes. Transformers, Harry Potters, Terminators, Da Vinci decoders, X-Men, Nights at Museums, Trekkies, Pelham-takers, Ice Agers, Sandra Bullock being clumsy. We’ve all danced this dance before.
I feel for you moviegoers, I do. What’s happening more and more in Hollywood is the same erosion I’ve seen in another great art form: sports nicknames.