Recently, a run on Maui Jim shades would have made sense.
Let’s reach for the Coppertone.
Time to sing sunshine songs: “I’ve Got Sunshine on a Cloudy Day,” “The Future’s So Bright (I Gotta Wear Shades),” or any “sunshine” song that promises hope, happiness and good times “a-coming.”
“Braves Baseball is Back!” was the mantra from Savannah to Suwanee and all points in between.
It was to be a summer like no others. The economically disadvantaged vendors, ushers, Battery restaurant owners and workers were going to recoup losses that a vacant Truist Stadium made the 2020 season one big whiff in more ways than one.
Besides, we had the MLB All-Star Game smack dab in the middle of the season. That was until a New York dimwit and a failed Georgia gubernatorial candidate, who still insists she won in 2018, put their heads together.
Rob Manfred and Stacey Abrams are MVPs, along with the 1996 Atlanta Olympics sourpuss Juan Antonio Samaranch, when it comes to being a scourge to Atlanta area sports.
Manfred and Abrams were the quintessential double-play combo, working in tandem to hit cleanup and yank the ASG from Atlanta. Their misguided strategy, hatched in response to a voting law, will cost us $100 million when the game is played in Colorado.
That’s right, Denver! That’s the city where the air is as thin as a spider’s whisker. Forget souvenir t-shirts and hats. Somebody better invest in parkas, oxygen tanks and inhalers.
Maybe the Mile High City will get a blizzard in July.
When the dust had cleared after the announcement, Ms. Abrams was a true Pinocchio/politician. She professed to not wanting Georgia to lose the game, days after she helped cancel a gift that had been bestowed on us.
I’m not griping from the cheap seats. In the waning days of the 2019 season, I ponied up for a 2020 A-List membership which entitled me to 27 games and the privilege to buy All-Star tickets.
Covid erased the 2020 season in Atlanta. The Braves offered a credit if I renewed my 27-game package. So far so good. The first glimpse of avarice came when the invoice for All-Star tickets arrived. The package for a pair of tickets including the game, homerun derby, parking and all other activities deleted $1,400+ out of the coffers.
I was out more than $4,000 without ever eating a hotdog.
It’s a fact that we Dads can rationalize anything.
Here was mine: At 65, I’m fairly certain this was my last chance to take my 20-year-old baseball-crazy son to this event. Greg’s baseball knowledge is impressive, having blown way past my baseball aptitude.
Many say he’s a student of the game, being able to quote stats and strategy. He works as a travel-baseball coach. Mid-July was going to be a special father-son time. Now, like me, Greg says he probably won’t even watch.
Thanks, Manfred and Abrams (sounds like a sleazy law firm). And by the way, we baseball fans would like to cancel you for snatching away our opportunity to pay an all-star tribute to the late Henry Aaron.
I was hoping someone would break out the Royal Oak sign, where many of Aaron’s dingers sailed over. I doubt Hank even drank Coors or liked to ski.
During a visit to podiatrist Dr. Joel Shancupp, whom I still thank for doing his part in a past birthday celebration by lopping off my nasty toe, we commiserated about baseball. He’s a Yankee fan and his unhappiness mirrors mine.
As I left his office, instead of heading north to FOCO, I drove to the Braves office.
After clearing security via a metal detector and temperature check, I spoke with a ticket office representative.
“I’m here for a refund,” I announced.
Her reply was probably a script she had practiced quite a bit recently. “May I ask why?”
I told her of my disdain for MLB. She continued to recite: “I hate to see you give up your seats. It’s going to be a great season.”
No doubt. The Braves will likely be in the playoffs.
“I’m still a Braves fan. I know a fantastic ticket broker and I’ll go to any game I choose to. Why don’t you give my tickets to Stacey Abrams? I’m sure she’s a huge baseball fan.”
Part of that last statement is probably true.
MLB wrote a “30” (journalism symbol for end of story) on my attendance.
Transplanted “Jersey Girl” Suzette, who I work with, agreed with Ms. Abrams getting my tickets.
“Just make sure she shows an ID when she picks them up.”
That will likely be the best line of the season.
Mike Tasos’ column appears every other weekend. He can be reached at email@example.com. He is also on Facebook.