One more thing.
Some time ago I won a card on eBay. A mid 60s Pacific Coast League card, I think a popcorn card, of some player that I wanted a card of... realistically it's a bookmark, not some valuable card. Back then, the buyer and seller would email each other to haggle out payment methods and shipping. eBay let us see each other's name and email address.
So, as soon as the auction is over I send the guy my mailing address and ask how he wants paid, that was about lunchtime and I sent that while at my office. I live in Kentucky, the seller was in California. When I got home that night he had responded. He said I could pay with personal check or money order, he didn't care. He said he'd already put the card in the mail, and that he knew I'd pay; he felt that he knew me from posts, talking with other collectors, I'm not even sure how, but he had heard of me and was sure I'd pay. I was impressed... until I looked at the end of his email.
At the end it looked like there was a poem. I thought who the hell collects baseball cards and prose or poetry? Who is this guy that I'd bought a card from. Cautiously, I started to read it. It went pretty close to what's below, because I liked it so much I committed it to memory.
I like to sit outside, drink beer,
and hollar at people.
If I do that at home,
I go to jail.
But if I go to a baseball game,
then I can fit right in.
I know that if a friend and I set up lawn chairs either side of a cooler in my front yard, and we sit there drinking beer and hollaring at those who drive by, we'll last about 10 minutes. Then the police will show up and ask me what the hell am I doing...
But if we go to a ball game, we can sit outside, drink beer, and hollar. We can hollar at one team, or both. We can hollar at the umpires. And at the ballgame they will bring us more beer.
|