[Business Day One] Sent Down
Until this weekend, I’ve never seen a minor league baseball game. ???? 365 It was one of those things I felt bad about as a fan of the sport, but not bad enough to remedy the situation. I compared it to a movie buff that just never got around to watching the Manchurian Candidate or the third Godfather film. Unfortunate, but assuredly not inexcusable. ????? ???? ?????? Still, with spring slowly taking on the shape of summer, it was time to get sent down to AAA.
McCoy Stadium, home of the Pawtucket Red Sox, was built in a quirky little town in New England. Pawtucket sits in the northeast corner of Rhode Island, but might as well be in the middle of the country. It’s a town with one big factory, a diner, and an old mill, all easily accessible off I-95, which splits it down the middle. In other words, the Perfect Place for a minor league stadium. I drove down, parked for $2 in a lot a block away, and followed the crowd into the park.
There was one main concourse at McCoy, which stretched from first base line to third base line. While the legends of $1 hot dogs and nearly free sodas at minor league ballparks were grossly exaggerated, the prices at the concession stands were still reasonable. Six bucks for a personal pepperoni pizza, four for fried dough and another four for ice cream in PawSox batting helmet dish. Not a bad investment at all.
Aside from the abundance of decently priced food, the thing that struck me immediately was the sheer volume of children there. Bringing an entire little league team to Fenway or Yankee Stadium would break the bank. But at $6 a ticket, the place was teeming with kids. The impact of a much higher percentage of pre-teens in the stands to the fan experience is dramatic. There’s less average sports knowledge in the stands, so questions bounce around with regularity. Nearly everyone has a glove. Though there isn’t as much emotional investment in the game, there’s just as much cheering per capita, since children like the yell loudly in a consequence-free environment. Read More
We are approximately ten months into the 
This may not seem like a particularly big deal. But for someone like me, an avid fan of college football, this development is meaningful, significant, and a reflection of how terrifying the machinery of collegiate athletics.
I know folks from Harvard and Yale that describe their times in school as simply “we were 3-1 during my tenure.” I know families in Florida that fiercely argue over where you could get a better show: in The Swamp or at The U. Heck, I know that 92,000 people went to Alabama’s spring scrimmage. Their spring scrimmage. This kind of pride (and the rivalries that it spawns) create brotherhoods rooted in cultish devotion. And while I love being part of a community that exhibits such passion, I realize that this passion manifests itself in peculiar and often disturbing ways. Folks want success so bad that their love becomes a destructive force, driving coaches out of a job and tearing up the lives of the kids that play.