No Can Do

I just came across a rather sobering statistic concerning America’s former pastime. In baseball’s heyday in the 1970s and 1980s, the World Series commanded a total audience of almost twenty percent of the population. Conversely, the 2020 World Series garnered three percent. For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out...at the old ballgame. Actually, it’s mind boggling that this once mighty sport has fallen so far and so fast—yet the franchises still rake in the big bucks. One hundred and sixty-two regular season games that last on average over three hours a pop is—even with the diminished interest—a major money maker. Today, the average age of the devoted baseball fan is fifty-seven. The Millennials and the previous generation just aren’t interested in the once storied game.

Exhibit A: I see this young kid walking his dog every single day. And every single time—for the whole time—he is staring intently into his phone. I don’t suspect baseball is on his GPS. But, come on, it’s the summer for crying out loud! Check it out! You might like what you see. Or maybe not. It is 2021 after all.

While on the subject of 2021: The New York City mayoral race to succeed Bill de Blasio is finally set in stone. Honestly, if it’s going to take weeks to I declare a winner—as it did in the recent Democratic primary—perhaps ranked-choice voting isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Exactly three years ago, for what it's worth, I received this repeated Facebook message: “Tag Mayor de Blasio in your post so they’ll be more likely to see it.” I didn’t know then why I was seeing that, and I was baffled by they’ll when, I thought, it should have been he’ll. In 2018, ignorant me was blissfully unaware that it was intentional—the jettisoning of he and she so as not to offend who? I Don’t Know…third base!

Anyway, I’ll be happy to see the back of them—Mayor de Blasio—come January. Democratic nominee Eric Adams is likely to be the next mayor. Someone described him as a “bomb thrower.” He was, nevertheless, among my four choices. Alas, if Andrew Yang had done a little homework in preparation for “the second toughest job in America,” he could have made us proud. Or they could have made us proud.

Meanwhile, Curtis Sliwa, the Republican nominee for mayor, is a New York City character and radio talk show personality from way back. Nowadays, not too many New Yorkers sound like the loquacious Sliwa, who is prone to malaprop. It would be the upset of the century if he pulled it off, but I suspect he’ll get a considerably larger share of the vote than the last two Republican candidates who ran against them. I like Curtis. I can’t help but like him despite his somewhat buffoonish, blowhard personality. His Guardian Angels with their trademark red berets and red satin jackets have been around for decades. I remember feeling a little less anxious when riding with Guardian Angels in the same subway car during anxious times, which, by the way, have returned with a vengeance in 2021. In 1992, John Gotti Jr.—son of Gambino crime family boss John Gotti—put a hit out on Sliwa, who was shot at point-blank range and seriously wounded in an attempted kidnapping. And the guy rescues feral cats. That’s an interesting blend of strange New York pedigree. At the end of the day, we will be better off when the 6’5” they man has packed his bags and vacated Gracie Mansion.

So, should I feel optimistic about the future? It’s not so easy to with all the record-breaking temperatures, wildfires, and droughts, Major League Baseball’s meltdown, and diversity trainers preaching—among countless nutty utterances—that the can-do spirit is a white supremacist thing. More madness: Brandeis University cautioning teachers and students to avoid using words and phrases that “link to violence” like “rule of thumb,” “picnic,” “policeman,” and even “trigger warning,” a woke creation. Roy Rogers had a horse named Trigger. And despite it sometimes having a metallic green hue to it, I liked the man's roast beef. They were simpler times for sure when the rule of thumb was to enjoy the great outdoors and employ the can-do spirit in building a go-cart with the wheels of your mother’s—or, should I say, birthing person’s—shopping cart. I certainly was optimistic then and had reason to be—not so much anymore.