Our national naptime

I don't think it's just because, when a kid, I was usually picked last when my older brothers and neighborhood youngsters chose up sides for a game of cow pasture baseball.

But to me, the national pastime is the national naptime. The game is sooooooooo sloooooooooow! It's downright boring.

I know that to some of you fans, that's heresy, but so be it.

You can consume half a bag of peanuts during the time it takes the batter to select his hardwood, take a few practice swings, knock the imaginary dirt from his cleats, shift the cud of tobacco to the other cheek, hike up his pants, and readjust the bill of his cap.

Then comes the standoff between the catcher and the pitcher as they shake off each other's suggested strategy for the next pitch.

By the time the batter has struck out or reached first, it's time for another beer commercial or one of those sad scenes in which a fan rushes off to the men's room because he suffers from gotta-go-right-now bladder syndrome and, as a consequence, misses a home run or a spectacular catch against the outfield fence.

Of all our sports, baseball is the most antiquated. For example, other sports long ago adopted the instant replay as the mediation in resolving questionable plays. Baseball uses it in borderline home run calls only.

Baseball still relies on the old standby method for settling differences: mobbing the umpire or participating in a free-for-all punch-out at home plate or third base.

True, there's no denying that baseball produced one of the world's greatest philosophers in the legendary Yogi Berra, who is said to have coined such memorable truths as "I think Little League is wonderful - it keeps the parents off the streets," "When you come to a fork in the road, take it" and "It's déjà vu all over again."

But that's no longer enough for me. So I didn't watch the World Series this year. How could anyone possibly be turned on by a game in which players - at least the Yankees - are paid an average of $14 million a season.

Scrabble, anyone?

One to a bed

Regarding those private dorm rooms, reader John Cates of Southern Pines remembers a family friend from Spivey's Corner who grew up in a large family in a small home and had to share his bed with brothers.

"Mr. Wiley was fond of saying that he wasn't accustomed to sleeping alone until he got married."

A smart move?

Ours is a culture of recalls, as a way of apology or appeasement for our screw-ups.

We recall cars, prescription drugs, lawnmowers, toys and on and on. We even recall marriages. But Baby Einstein? That's the limit!

Yes, Disney is mailing out $15 refunds - up to four per person - for one of the most popular baby-sitting devices of the 1990s.

Surely other grandparents - if not parents - recall the Baby Einstein videos that saved the sanity of many a parent or baby sitter stuck with a nonstop screaming infant.

When walking the floor, patting baby's back, singing, cooing and the pacifier didn't work and you were ready to throw out the baby and the bathwater, you remembered Baby Einstein!

All you had to do was plump the squalling armful on a pallet in front of the TV, insert "Baby Einstein" and ... peace!

Disney advertised the videos as "educational" though research proved they didn't automatically generate little geniuses, Disney is sweetening its "mea culpa" with cash for those who still have the electronic pacifiers.

Personally, though, I suggest that anyone tending twos and under hang onto at least one.

Little people

Another of those children's letters to God: "Dear God. I read the Bible. What does 'begat' mean? Nobody will tell me. Love, Allison."

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