Not sure why but it's still in my car.

I was 4 foot something when I got my first baseball mitt.   It was a tad large for my hand but I didn’t care, the leather felt good and I could instantly imagine myself making the saving catch out in left field.  In my life as a little guy that was a very important deal, it made me feel like I could be a part of something much bigger than myself.   It was one of those things that my parents could not afford but bought for me anyway. That only added to the rich feel of the glove which I always treasured.

 

            I never did belong to a baseball team; in fact, I was one of the kids always picked last out on the playground.  I didn’t care, I had my mitt and I was ready if ever the more popular kids came to their senses and let me play.  (It was usually when some flu epidemic or plague had wiped out most everyone else).  There I’d be oiling up my mitt anxiously awaiting the nod.

 

            To this day I still have that glove; in fact, I keep it in the trunk of my car, you know, should somebody somewhere suddenly need a left fielder or a first baseman.

 

Flash Forward

 

            Reality sets in over time and although my hand now fits nicely into the mitt, I no longer imagine myself making the game saving play.  Don’t get me wrong – I still feel like I’m out in left field, but for altogether different reasons.

 

            It is the selection process that I want to talk about today, that small band of kids on the playground hoping to be selected for the team; some leaning forward, maybe inching themselves closer to the ones doing the picking.  Others, more excitedly waving their arms in the air, “Pick me – pick me.”   It is much like the Republican primaries, all jostling themselves about, trying to be noticed, and hoping to appear as the right choice. 

 

            It seems a long, drawn out process that is taking its toll on those of us in the cheap seats.  Being somewhat north of 60 and having spent all too many years in windowless cubicles, my entire take on the thing may be limited, but it appears the system needs an overhaul.  The selection process smacks too much of P.T. Barnum.   Speech writers and sound bites, photo ops of senators handing out little packets of campaign trail mix; no better definition of shenanigans will you find.

 

            This, I am sad to report, is not one of those essays identifying a problem and then posing a solution.  I haven’t a clue as to a better plan; in fact, let me put your mind at ease right now.  This is not a political topic under the guise of A Well- Oiled Mitt, but a round-a-bout examination of the selection process, automobile dealerships and once again the P.T. Barnum approach.

 

 

            For years now I have been swimming around close to the murky bottom of my talent.  Only occasional patches of light reach the talent floor and absent of any navigational gadgets I tend to feed upon the same thoughts over and over again, those growing in the light, such as well- lit car dealerships.  I’m sure there have been past essays touching upon the insanity of how we sell cars in this country, but perhaps none as poorly written as this. 

 

 Mr. and Mrs. Minnow head out on a Saturday morning to check out the new 2012 Barracuda with all its options, but as they swim up to the dealership the first thing they see is a swarm of hungry shark salesmen pacing back and forth.

 

As this isn’t their first venture into the deep end, they already realize they will be lied to, taken advantage of and obviously end up paying far more than they should; yet unavoidable - there are the sharks, each one inching up towards the front door; “Pick me… pick me…”   But for right now all the Minnows want to do is sit in the car, examine the gauges, knobs and buttons, and maybe see if they can even reach the pedals.

 

            Let’s face it, this country loves a circus; we want our politicians to put the needs of the many ahead of the wants of the few, and our car salesmen to put that thought process in reverse…   and still fill the place with balloons and banners.

 

 

Flash Back

 

 

            Suffice it to say, anyone north of 60 and still carrying around their baseball mitt should not be allowed in the game.  Sunday Morning readers might add that this particular essay lacks direction, contains a modicum of sarcasm and fosters a slight desire for Ball Park Franks.   I strongly suggest we leave Zobostic on the bench - at least until the next plague.