Everything Must Go

It happened when I was halfway through my Raisin Bran.

My spoon plopped into my bowl and my forehead clunked down hard on the table and my arms hung like Hebrew Nationals at my side.

And what was I reading when the end came? This:

The Chicago White Sox will start their home games next season at 7:11 p.m.

And do you know why they're going to start their games at 7:11 p.m.? Because they signed a three-year deal with 7-Eleven for a half-million dollars a season. Yes, the Chicago White Sox found a way to sell their game time.

That was it. That broke it. My switch toggled over to I Give Up. There was no fighting it anymore. For years now, I've slobbered and screamed against selling our sense of place ( Mile High Stadium is now Invesco Field. Yeeesh), our history (remember the Suzuki Heisman Trophy? Yikes!), and even our sacred moments of utter jubilation ("I'm going to Disneyland!" Yuck).

But now we're through the looking glass, people. These evil geniuses have found a way to sell time. They've broken the dreaded fourth dimension of greed. That's when sanity took the last Amtrak out. I suddenly stopped fighting. They win. Now, I think they should just sell everything.

Screw it. From now on, we start every game with the National (Car Rental) Anthem.

Oh say does tha-aat star-spangled
Bannnner yet wave
O'er the la-aa-nd of the free
And the Lincolns you crave.

At baseball games, everything will start when the pitcher toes the rubber, which will read trojans. because all the best times begin with a good rubber. And the catcher's mitt is just sitting there, every pitch, wasting away. Why can't we cyber an ad in? get the catch of the day ... at red lobster would go nicely.