That's Gonna Leave A Mark

Okay, here's one for ya . . .

Has anyone seen the brain that every single executive in the sports industry shares? I think I heard a rumour that it was on a plane headed for Whitefish, Montana enroute to the Annual "Let's See How Much More We Can Muck Up The Best Thing We Have Going" Convention.

Ding, Ding. You are now free to fly off the handle.

Thanks . . . I think I will.

Now I'm no expert, but when did it suddenly become acceptable for that gigantic sports venue sitting across from all of those shiny buildings downtown, that we all helped pay for, to be called anything other than "This is our lil' town's collective pride and joy and you can never put a price on it" Stadium? Apparently it happened a couple of years ago while we were all distracted by the final episode of Seinfeld (for my money the last Cheers was actually much better). We all
went to sleep and woke up the next day with a strange taste in our mouths. Something wasn't quite right . . . but nobody could quite put their finger on what it was. Until that Sunday when we all picked up our tickets and headed out for the game. Everything was seemingly perfect. The birds were singing, the air was nice and clean, and then, much to our surprise, we found ourselves standing awestruck in front of some hideous monstrosity with an enormous pulsating electric sign that said "Welcome to Preparation H Stadium".

Excuse Me?!? Oh no you didn't!

Just exactly how the heck are you supposed to get excited about spending three hours of your life cheering on your team in a place named after a product your grand-uncle-in-law uses when he can't sit down? Anyone? I don't even like picking that stuff up off the Walgreen's shelf, much less pondering how I'm gonna explain myself to the Wife once I've finally talked her into going to the game with me.

Could ya have maybe thought about it for longer than three and a half seconds before ya decided that the best possible means of getting the word out about your product was to paint the name across our building in larger-than-life color? I mean, you get to tee off at Pebble Beach tomorrow, while we have to drive past the place on our way to work. And might I add that it's uphill both ways.

Now the way I see it, we admittedly shoulder at least a portion of the blame. I guess each and every taxpayer could dig a little bit deeper and come up with the $14,000 that we would undoubtedly each have to pony up if Daddy Warbucks wasn't there to buy the naming rights. Let me just check my pockets. Hey, what do you know . . . I've got $4.78. Can I pay it off in installments?

Okay, maybe that isn't the answer either.

I guess until some benevolent company steps up and selflessly offers to pay for the right to name a sports venue something like "Citizenry Field" or "John Q. Public Arena", I'll just have to get a running start and try like heck to hold my nose as I enter underneath the giant, glow-in-the-dark "Odor-Eaters International Ballpark" banner.

Oh the humanity . . .


Ben O. (for my father, Dad O. I enjoyed talking with you the other day.)