Wiffle to the People — Right On

I’m composing this week’s column in a bit of a daze because I just returned from my annual pilgrimage to Fight Club.

What is Fight Club, you ask? Well, I can’t tell you that, because the first rule is that you don’t talk about Fight Club. But I can tell you what it’s not: It’s not a half-brilliant, half-moronic movie with Brad Pitt and Ed Norton. It’s not a cult, a gang, or a club. It’s not a drum circle. It’s not the Bohemian Grove (although there are bohemians and there is a grove). It’s not organized crime or organized religion (though it is organized — and very well — by a certain local businessman). And’s it certainly not just an excuse to drink, smoke, and eat meat for a couple days. No, Fight Club isn’t easily understood, but I can tell you one thing: Every man who walks away from Fight Club thinks of himself as the winner.

Baseball, Think Baseball

Both of you who follow this space have noticed that there isn’t much baseball coverage. There’s a reason for this: It’s because I can’t watch, discuss, or think about baseball without falling into a powerful slumber. Baseball is so slow, so profoundly unsexy, that some men use thoughts of it to delay orgasm.

But at the moment it’s the only game in town. The Raiders are just starting to think about getting revved up; the Warriors are in the middle of the most successful part of their year, which is the offseason; and the World Cup is gone, not to return till 2006. So baseball will be today’s topic. I have just downed a large cup of Peet’s finest and will valiantly strive to fill my allotted space before being overcome by unconsciousness.