Clinton, South Carolina, Thursday, September 18, 2014, 11:08 a.m.
There’s no crying in baseball.
I’ll concede that point and raise you one.
There’s no press in the press box. I got that message this morning from a high school athletic director and without a trace of irony.
“I’m sorry but during the game we don’t allow press in press box.”
I’m back to the basics of love.
And that guy just guaranteed it’s going to rain.
I’d be willing to spearhead a movement to have the facilities popularly referred to as press boxes changed to Coaches’ Wives Box. Or Radio/TV Box. Or Place Prominent People Go When It Rains.
It’s the same way I feel every time I’m sitting at a basketball game when the public-address announcer – I wonder if the athletic director ever told anyone, “Hey, sorry, but there’s no talking in the microphone” – says “media timeout.”
Bull. It’s a TV timeout, or it was until radio broadcasters wanted them, too. It’s a radio/TV timeout, not a media timeout. I’m pretty sure if I was at courtside and started waving my hands – and yelling, “Hey! Ref! I’m getting a little behind. Little help, all right?” – not only would there be no timeout. I would be escorted out, at a minimum, and, quite possibly, detained by gendarmes.
I wonder if there’s Twitter in the press box.
Read my novel The Intangibles, which is about the South, sixties, civil rights, desegregation, bigotry, sex, drugs, and high school football. They still had press boxes back then.