MLB is the life for you
I’m going to teach my daughters how to pitch.
They are learning to ice skate and taking tae kwon do lessons, but it’s time to put a baseball in their tiny hands.
Golf lessons are on the horizon, but that will be recreational. This pitching a baseball thing is serious business.
Daddy: Hey, Bryson, I want you to learn how to pitch.
Bryson: Daddy, I’m just 7.
Daddy: Yeah, and in 14 years you could be launching a mediocre Major League pitching career that will see you lose more games than you win and then get paid millions of dollars.
Bryson: That’s a lot of money.
Daddy: Tell me about it.
If Bryson passes on this gold mine, I can still fall back on Blaine, my comet-armed kindergartner. She could be a female Bob Gibson.
Blaine: Daddy, who is Bob Gibson?
Daddy: Some guy who was woefully underpaid by today’s standards. Besides, you don’t have to be a Bob Gibson. You could be a Jason Marquis.
Blaine: What’s a Jason Marquis?
Daddy: He’s a guy that lost 16 games, was benched by the Cardinals, and is basically a nut case who is going to make $21 million over the next three years.
Blaine: That’s a lot of money.
Daddy: Tell me about it.
I guess I’ll have to explain to the girls that any position in the Majors is a gold mine, right now.
Daddy: Bryson, you can call in sick for minor or imagined illnesses in Boston and get $14 million a year to play the outfield. And Blaine, you can be a super-hitting, sad-fielding player in Chicago and get $18 million.
The girls: That’s a lot of money.
Daddy: Tell me about it.
