Extra big thanks to everyone who didn't wish me a happy birthday. Birthdays are bull after 21, but Mom and I had a lovely lunch to thank her for a hard day's work, and all the years of hard work that followed. Thanks, Mom.
And also, walking through a metal detector, packing only certain items and only in see-through bags, hearing the long list of rules for attending recited over and over on the public address system — it's creepy, and it subtracts about 1/3 of the fun from being there. It's like baseball, with Rod Serling doing the play-by-play.
To my recollection, nobody has shot up a pro baseball game, but these are insane times and lots of idiots love their guns, so it'll happen some day. MLB is smart to have all the security. I don't object to it, and understand entirely.
I don't enjoy it, though, and choose to avoid it. All the security checks leave me in a sour mood, so I've decided not to buy a see-through backpack that meets all the official requirements. Cuz I'm not going.
Dad didn't cook in the Army during World War II so we could all get wanded before every baseball game. Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack, and I'll root root root for the home team — on the radio or TV if we can turn off the commercials, but not at the stadium.