By Lenn Robbins
I fear I’m suffering from Stockholm syndrome, the psychological affliction in which a person being held captive begins to identify with his captors. What makes this case so complicated is that I’m not sure which one of my abductors I identified with.
At first, I thought it was MLB owners, guardians of the game. All the sacrifices they claim to have made.
Take Boston Red Sox and Liverpool soccer owner John Henry. He had to sell his 164-foot yacht, “Iroquois,” some eight years ago because he didn’t have enough free time for boating. The choices we face, humph!
For example, I share an apartment with my gal and three teenagers. We have only one bathtub (separate shower). There just isn’t wasn’t enough opportunity for me to get prime tub time. I had to part with my rubber ducky, “Quack.”
Henry apparently found some free time in 2016 when he purchased another yacht, the $84-million “Ester III.” I donated “Quack” to Housing Works thrift shop with a declared value of $1.75.
So, I think I’m bonding with the sacrificing owners in their war against the ungrateful players.
But man, when I think of the penny pinching some MLB players have had to endure, it all but breaks me.
Take Houston Astros pitcher Justin Verlander. According to the Detroit Free Press, the car junky has owned a Lamborghini Aventador Roadster, a Ferrari 458 Italia, Ferrari California, Mercedes Benz SLS AMG Black Series, Mercedes Benz SL55, Mercedes Benz SLS AMG, Maserati Gran Turismo and Aston Martin DBS.
In 2014, Verlander was forced into a painful decision. He added a ninth exotic ride. His house only had eight parking bays. The choices we face, humph!
Like a lot of New Yorkers, I can empathize. The Tuesday/Friday alternate side of the street parking bumper car game has pumped billions of dollars into the car insurance business and increased ulcers by an estimated 61-percent.
How wonderful it was Tuesday when Mayor Bill de Blase’ announced alternate side would become a weekly affair. Now, only once a week do we need to bring our parking rage to a boil and unleash it on some driver who has Jersey plates and can’t parallel park.
So now I think I’m bonding with the deprived players in their war against the greedy owners.
The owners and players, taken together, have held me hostage for some three months. I wouldn’t call it torture, but they kept prorating me and prorating me. I lost track of day and night.
But while I lay in bed recovering from COVID-19, I felt some hope that, perhaps soon, there would be baseball to watch, instead of the 2008 Virginia Tech-North Carolina game. Basketball or football.
Instead, they kept me quarantined in a room while they exchanged nasty emails and proposals that were deemed DOA. The last time I heard DOA used this much was on Hill Street Blues. Only now I’m the vic.
I was released from my ordeal only to learn I was worth 60 games.
Sixty. That was the ransom. I thought I had a connection with the owners. I was sure there was simpatico with the players.
Turns out I was wrong. Neither of my captors ever gave one boat slip or parking spot about me. Or you.