Category Archives: Life

Why I’m not a fan of baseball, and what I propose to do about it.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Well, it’s that time of the year again. “Boring sports time.”

Just to be clear, there are two reasons why I’m not a fan of baseball. For one thing, with rare exceptions, my hometown team sucks. Year in and year out, they have struggled, and often failed to achieve even a barely winning season. The other reason is that I find baseball tedious. Even the highlights on the evening news fail to excite.

It is a sport dominated by a few big budget teams who are, for the most part, perennial champions, but I’m about to change all that… as if anyone pays attention to anything I say.

What I propose – and I’m serious about this – is just one teeny, tiny change in the rules. Are you ready? Are you sitting down? Do you have fresh underwear standing by??

It’s simple. If it was up to me, I would put the pitcher on the side of the team that’s up to bat.

In one fell swoop, I have changed the polarity of the sport. No longer will the pitcher be trying to prevent the batter from hitting. Now, it’s the other way around.

Give each batter a maximum of, let’s say, four pitches to hit the ball in fair territory, or he’s out. (I was thinking three to five, and spit the difference.)

Who will be the best pitchers? The ones who know their batters and who can throw the perfect pitch that helps that batter get precisely the hit he needs to get on base or drive in a run.

Think it’s easy? Think all the pitcher has to do is lob one in there to produce homerun after homerun? On a major league diamond, the distance from the rubber on the mound and home plate is 60.5’. That’s a huge distance. Slow pitches, “lobs” aren’t going to make it with any degree of accuracy. Some significant speed on the ball is going to be essential to encourage a precision and/or long distance hit. Keep trying for the homerun? The pitcher has only four chances, too few to waste.

As for the batters, shear power – natural or artificially enhanced – will be less important. Precision hitting, more so. Communication, chemistry with the pitcher now replaces anticipation.

What difference will it make? Well, my version of the game will be much faster, almost certainly higher scoring, with far more hitting and fielding. Who knows, stadium and TV fans might actually have to pay attention for fear of missing the action.

And watch what happens to attendance if I’m right, and my change in the rules makes even traditional losers more competitive, and more exciting to watch.

-wf


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Bubba and the Other Tomatoes

The other tomatoes never felt comfortable around Bubba because of his size, and were often cruel to him with their comments… until he was drafted by the NFL and given a multi-million dollar contract, while the rest of them went on to be salad.

-wf


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Exhausted (or “Dead Tired,” depending upon the ending)

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, March 21, 2010

Emma Warner got off late from work that evening and went directly to the mall, to shop, to pick up a watch she’d left off for repair a week ago, the expensive one she wears to weddings, and because it was worth it to put off going home to an empty house. Pushing hard on the outer door, Emma looked around. It was dark. She’d parked as close as she could to the front of that one department store that was particularly well lit, but she still had a way to go and the lot wasn’t as full, wasn’t as busy as it had been when she arrived.

Her cell phone rang just as she was stepping off the curb, a distraction she didn’t need. “Hello? ..Oh, hi. …Yeah, I’m fine, really. ..I’m just leaving the mall. ……………Are you sure it’s him? ……I see. ..So you think tonight’s the night? ..Me, too. …..Yeah, those cookies are good. …Alright. …..Yeah, okay. ..Bye.” Sliding her phone back into her coat pocket, she reached below it to grab her keys, pressing the open button to flash the taillights of her car and to make sure the door was already unlocked when she got there. Opening the door, she shoved her shopping bags across her seat, over the gearshift, sat down quickly and locked her doors.
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The Ripple Effect

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Monday, March 15, 2010

“Hey. My name is Daryl. Ever since I was a little kid, my parents have known I was special. Somehow, I was born with a natural sense of how people and events relate to each other, with an overview and a sense of anticipation that are uncanny for their accuracy, and flat out spooky in the way they enabled me to manipulate other kids and my parents. (Sorry Mom and Dad. I love you, but I am what I am.)”

“As it turns out, I’m even better working with perfect strangers. It’s not so much deception that I practice… Anyone can lie. .. as it is the patience and skill with which I come at a problem, from a distance. In fact, so remarkable are my abilities, the things I do and the way I do them have become known as…

Ripple, in case you haven’t guessed, is my family name. Need help? Ask around. No one does word-of-mouth better than me.”

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The Commute

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Wednesday, March 10, 2010

“Hey! Get a lane of you own, buddy. …Unbelievable. They’ll let just about anybody drive.”

“Hmm.” Dead stop. “..Beep, beeeeeeppp!!” John was never reluctant to sit on his horn, however obnoxious. He didn’t care. He was going from A to B, and everyone else was just getting in his way. Behind the wheel of his faded, once electric red two-seater, he had the selfish independence of a… of a three year old. It was all about him.
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Lot Boy

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, March 7, 2010

“Okay, before we get out…”

Mindy’s father released his seatbelt, slid forward and turned to talk to his daughter through space between their bucket seats, while her mother just sat there, staring straight ahead impatiently, both hands on her pocketbook in her lap, waiting for her husband to make the obligatory parental… No, strike that. …his obligatory fatherly remarks. If it was up to her, the mother, she’d have been out of the car and bought one already. Mindy, one hand on the door handle, did her best to be attentive and to take her father seriously, pushing her glasses up on her nose with the forefinger of her left hand.

“…You’ve done great in school, really great.” Mindy smiled at the pride she shared with her “Daddy,” which was what she still called him, most of the time, unless there were other people around. Your mother and I were going to wait until you graduated next year, …”
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Silent Partners

A Valentine’s Day Story for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, February 14, 2010

“Hand me another napkin, Honey,” Henry thought to himself, referring to Elaine, his wife of 52 years. He didn’t bother to take his eyes off the article he was reading in the technology section of the paper. The napkin holder had been shoved to her corner of the table, behind the packages of sugar, the ketchup and the salt and pepper shakers, when the waiter/busboy had dropped and slid their plates on the old Formica table at their favorite booth, the one where they had a late breakfast every Sunday morning. They liked that particular booth at the noisy corner deli because of the view it had of people coming and going through the park across the street and the way the sun came through the glass walls even on a cloudy day.

Elaine finished the last few lines of the article she was reading about agri-product futures, and refolded the business section. Henry liked to hold the entire paper in front of him. She used to ride the subway to work and had become very skilled at folding and refolding the paper in quarters which she did to find the rest of the piece on an interior page. Reaching to the napkin holder, she pulled the first one out, which tore because they always do, and then two more. “Here,” she handed them to her husband, accompanied by a voice only he could hear. “Anything interesting?”

“Well, that young couple at the counter keeps staring at us.”
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Broken Rose

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, February 7, 2010

It was two hours, forty-two minutes after they had met at the mid-life crisis pickup bar down the street. He was the married father of two children. She, so it appeared to him, was a single woman, in town for a few days on business, looking for someone at the end of a long day. Or maybe she was a call girl. He didn’t really care as long as he could afford to pay her without his wife finding out. He wasn’t bad looking. She used to be beautiful, and would have been now were it not for something about her eyes that would have caused a more careful man to think twice about taking her to bed.

In the hotel room he’d paid for in cash – his wife at their home in the suburbs thinking, because he told her, that he was working late, hoping, but not really believing that he was telling the truth – Ed was sitting up in bed, propped up against two overly soft pillows, his hands curled too tightly over the sheet and blanket he’d pulled up to his waist, his eyes looking straight ahead at nothing. Rose, the name she had given him, was sitting naked on the edge of the bed, facing the open room, pressing with her hands on the top of her legs to extend her chest, her eyes closing for just a moment.
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My Summer Job

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, January 23, 2010

“Hey, Mom!”

“Hi, honey. You sound like you’re in your car.”

“Yeah, we’re on the road again.”

“Hey, Mrs. Nunzio!”

“Jessie says ‘Hello,’ Mom.”

“Sure. I heard her screaming.”

“Where’s Dad?”
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The Speed Date

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, January 17, 2009

Late Saturday afternoon in the small ballroom of a downtown hotel. Twenty men and women, 25 to 29 years old, are having 5 minute dates. Never married. No children. No religious preference.

Twelve mutually disappointing interviews into the afternoon, “He” pulls out the chair on his side of the circle of small square tables, trying to make eye contact and smiling politely as “She,” the young woman with the small yellow pad and pen sitting across from him, turns over a fresh page.

“What are you drinking?” She thought she would begin with a meaningless question just to make sure her voice was still working.

“Water. ..What about you?” he asked, looking at the pineapple shell on her side of the table. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a drink with that many umbrellas.”
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