BLM anarchists foul balls fail sports fans. Players foul out at being men.

TEXAS: The traditional cry from decades past, in the spring, was “play ball!” It once had some magic in its sound and ring. It had an ambiance of its own. From that single cry, came the core intuition of spring, the season of birth, and greenery and joy and happiness breaking the winter of any and all discontent. Competitive fun would come alive. Now, this cry is a joke. So is any cry for basketball, football, or any of the other “sports.” The only cry now is "foul ball."

Sports are like a dirty joke with no punch line. Just the noises of angry “jocks,” overpaid and underworked-- babbling ballplayer bromides.

With oppressed baseball players like Mookie Betts--sorry, that should be oppressed BLACK ballplayers-- earning 365 million dollars, the only question is how much in reparations should fans get.

After all, we, the taxpayers, built the stadium with tax and bond dollars. And we, the taxpayers, want to be repaid. And we don't want to pay to watch jocks denigrate our traditions. Not our anthems or statues or flags or mascots or traditions.

While the great national quarantine mask and hoax episode continue, who is being oppressed?

MLB, the NBA, the NFL? The NCAA? (There's a joke—"student-athletes") Of course not. These rogues in their “slogan jerseys” and artificial phrases preen before the cameras as if intelligent thought consumes them. Outside throwing or bouncing (or often fumbling) a ball these muscle-bound mindless miscreants could not, (it sounds like) find a subject compatible with a predicate without scratching their south-of-the-belt brain area.

At that, 9 times out of 10 they would come up with the wrong tense verb.

Useless ballplayers, untalented except unto their field of play, like public school teachers, stand around waiting for a T.V. camera so they can tell those who pay them how essential they are. Then they insult their fans with actions that drug-gang members would appreciate; not to mention the uncultured language cataclysm they spew.

My God, how can life go on without Lebron James (Red China’s go-to guy) or Colin Kaepernick (a third rate QB)?

As far as that goes how can life go on without the owners of sports teams and their billion-dollar empires? What must fans do? Where will they be able to drink a $12.00 beer or eat $7.00 hot dogs; or find a parking place for $25.00? Or get a ticket for $100.00 to attend a ballpark they paid for?

And, once they have paid for that parking, hot dog, beer, and ticket, which altogether can easily reach into the $100s of dollars, without the jersey, those same supporters of hotdogs, beer, outrageous ticket, and parking costs all so they can be called a racist. A racist because they stood for The Star-Spangled Banner.

Or for wearing a shirt that says "Blue Lives Matter."

Is this a great country or what?

Former baseball player Aubrey Huff spoke as eloquently as any man could the other day, when he said on OAN’s,

For me, that time has come and gone.

But even the college sports under the so-called amateur banner of the NCAA is no longer anything but a moneymaker for sports commercialism. Whether it’s ESPN, Nike, or others.

In college sports, the coaches make millions, the star players make thousands (usually under the table), and the concept of the student-athlete is a joke. Usually graduating at best with degrees in nonsense like “General Studies,” or “World Studies of LGBTQ,” etc.

The majority seldom graduate at all.

In a short time, if the past is truly a prologue, the NCAA will tell us that cheerleaders must include something like “Black Lives Matter” in their cheering. And if any school is caught even whistling Dixie, then its scholarship-limit punishment for the offender.

Often one of the star-players (now has-been) will be gifted a T.V. commentator position and his comments sound as if he barely finished the sixth grade.

Play ball in the spring? Play ball in the fall? Let us hope not.

These false idols presented by the sports gods are not worthy of any adulation; not their own; certainly not the fans.

And no life, black or white, is worth 365 million dollars to play a ball game.

And they ain’t yet made the hot dog that’s worth $7.00.

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Paul Yarbrough writes novels, short stories, poetry, and essays. His first novel. Mississippi Cotton is a Kindle bestseller.

His author site can be found on Amazon. He writes political commentary for CommDigiNews.