The virus was a ‘lob’… a fat, juicy underhand down-the-middle, bigger-than-a-pumpkin pitch that any third-string right fielder coulda hit with his eyes closed. But with all the savvy of a wad of ‘chew’, he mistook it for a nasty curve breaking for his head and hit the dirt - did everything he could to avoid ‘being hit’ as the ball floated right across the plate for a 3rd strike. And now, instead of him taking it for a ride… it’s taking him out of the park. He blamed his bat, the ball, the pitcher, the ump, and the kid hawkin’’ Bud Lite in the upper deck… everyone but the guy wearing ‘45’. A divided nation was craving, starving, yearning for something to rally for… or against… and the virus showed up at the most opportune time - 9th inning, two out. All he had to do was bring the team together and say, “Yeah, I’ve been an arrogant ass but this is different. Yeah, I started slow but we’ll catch up. We’re all in this together. We all need to SACRIFICE. Wear a helmet. Listen to the coaches. Follow their signs. Just be patient, take my lead, and I’ll bring the run in.” By now, we woulda been in 2nd or 3rd place poised to make a run. Instead, we’re in the basement - the laughing stock of the league. Some players ‘shoulder’ their team and some point fingers after the game, and that’s why we’ll never be ‘great’ with him in the lineup… And don’t expect him to change his stance or take extra cuts or alter his swing. He just can’t do it. He’s leaving the stadium soon hopefully, but players like him always leave a mess behind and ya know he’s cool with shoving another 100,000 dead team mates into his locker before he drives away mad. I imagine he’ll end up signing baseballs for $1000. ‘a pop’ at some casino oogling the 20-somethings at the craps table… 'cause that’s the fate of players who can’t read the curve.