Like most working schlubs, when a lottery jackpot heads for the stratosphere, I casually toss in a couple of bucks to the office pool.
It’s not so much I think we have a chance in hell of hitting one of those mega-jackpots.
It’s the deep fear that the one time I don’t get in, my co-workers will hit it big, and snicker at my frugal (OK, cheap) ways as they file out the door.
I have no interest in being the only person left in the office.
Then there’s Ryan Howard. The Phillies power hitter hit his own Powerball jackpot yesterday.
The Phillies signed their slugger to a five-year contract extension worth $125 million.
That is not a typo. Howard will be paid $125 million to don the pinstripes and mash baseballs into the far reaches of Citizens Bank Park through 2013. In other words, Howard is likely going to be a Phillie for life.
That’s a good thing. So why does the whole thing rub me the wrong way?
It has nothing to do with baseball. I still love the game. It was the sport I fell for first, and the one still closest to my heart. I don’t blame Howard. Or the Phillies. The market forces driving sports these days are all about money. All those fans who jam into Citizens Bank Park all summer are there in part to see Howard.
There’s just something about someone making that kind of money to play the same game I played for hours on end as a kid just strikes me as a bit unnerving.
It’s not just baseball. It’s all sports. They throw these dollar figures around like it’s spare change. A million here, a couple million there, and finally $125 million there.
Make no mistake, we all pay for these salaries, at least in part. That’s why you need to take out a second mortgage to take the family to a game.
Realistically, have you ever counted up just what a day at the ballpark costs? For you, the wife, and two kids, add up the tickets, parking, something to eat and a souvenir, you’re staring at a tab that approaches several hundred dollars.
Then there is the ultimate slap in the face. The $6.75 beer, and a lousy one at that.
I wince every time I buy one of those, knowing my dad is rolling over in his grave.
More power to you, Ryan. Me? I guess I’ll just have to keep playing the Powerball.
It’s not so much I think we have a chance in hell of hitting one of those mega-jackpots.
It’s the deep fear that the one time I don’t get in, my co-workers will hit it big, and snicker at my frugal (OK, cheap) ways as they file out the door.
I have no interest in being the only person left in the office.
Then there’s Ryan Howard. The Phillies power hitter hit his own Powerball jackpot yesterday.
The Phillies signed their slugger to a five-year contract extension worth $125 million.
That is not a typo. Howard will be paid $125 million to don the pinstripes and mash baseballs into the far reaches of Citizens Bank Park through 2013. In other words, Howard is likely going to be a Phillie for life.
That’s a good thing. So why does the whole thing rub me the wrong way?
It has nothing to do with baseball. I still love the game. It was the sport I fell for first, and the one still closest to my heart. I don’t blame Howard. Or the Phillies. The market forces driving sports these days are all about money. All those fans who jam into Citizens Bank Park all summer are there in part to see Howard.
There’s just something about someone making that kind of money to play the same game I played for hours on end as a kid just strikes me as a bit unnerving.
It’s not just baseball. It’s all sports. They throw these dollar figures around like it’s spare change. A million here, a couple million there, and finally $125 million there.
Make no mistake, we all pay for these salaries, at least in part. That’s why you need to take out a second mortgage to take the family to a game.
Realistically, have you ever counted up just what a day at the ballpark costs? For you, the wife, and two kids, add up the tickets, parking, something to eat and a souvenir, you’re staring at a tab that approaches several hundred dollars.
Then there is the ultimate slap in the face. The $6.75 beer, and a lousy one at that.
I wince every time I buy one of those, knowing my dad is rolling over in his grave.
More power to you, Ryan. Me? I guess I’ll just have to keep playing the Powerball.
Comments