Rain-out Theater
Here’s a telling headline from nypost.com: “NYC Black Lives Matter marches can continue despite large-event ban, de Blasio says.” Ye olde double standard. Leave it to Red Billy.
Set the crocodile tears rolling, cry me a river. Headline at foxnews.com: “Robert De Niro’s lawyer says coronavirus has caused the actor financial strain.” In the accompanying article, she says: “… he is going to be lucky if he makes $7.5 million this year.” Boo-hoo. True, DeNiro’s restaurants are taking a big hit, but he once admitted to a net worth of $500 million. If that amount fell to a million, I might have some sympathy for him. On the list of those suffering financial hardship, he is near the bottom. Millions of Americans are out of work, facing bankruptcy, struggling to feed their families. They received crumbs. DeNiro got millions from the government.
Stop the presses — actually some great news from a headline at FN: “Conjoined twins with fused skulls successfully separated at Vatican hospital.”
I was once a sports fanatic. I spent a lot of hours watching events. I don’t look back at it as time wasted, as something compelled me to sit in front of the TV. These days a glance at Yahoo Sports’ info suffices. The NBA was the first to get my ax. MLB followed when it adopted the wild card playoff format. I dropped the NHL, even though I have great respect for its players. I can’t even motivate myself to view the Stanley Cup finals, almost always a great show. I lost interest in college football when it evolved from crisp games that were less than three hours to four hour marathons. NCAA basketball and its one-and-done travesty of fake students completely turns me off. The NFL is a league dominated by creeps. I watch only game highlights at youtube. I now tune in only the back nine of the final round of PGA majors, except the British Open, which airs as I’m out selling books. It may all have to do with being 70, the end drawing nearer, no time to burn anymore. These days I try not to let negative instincts rule me, but I find myself hoping none of the major pro sports return in 2020. Maybe a season on the sideline will have the athletes realize how privileged they are. So many are ingrates. I feel sorry only for college seniors who may be denied their last round up. I’ll feel even sorrier for high school football seniors if seasons are cancelled. Most will never don pads again after their last game. In 1966 our Lafayette High School team was sky high for our finale. It rained that Saturday morning. The field was wet. Brooklyn Tech had played the previous Tuesday. The all-boys powerhouse had scheduled a quick turnaround game against an opponent that had previously been a PSAL doormat. Its old hardline coach, Adam Cirillo, saw a way out. He refused to play, citing safety concerns, and wanted to reschedule. Our coach, Murray “Ace” Adler refused, rightly, I believed. Anyway, the loss of that single game was devastating. Imagine what the loss of an entire season would be.
The floating book shop was rained out today. Gazing out my window, the sun has suddenly poked through the clouds.
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