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Friends of the decanter who also follow the Boys of Summah know that pitchers and catchers report next week, meaning Opening Day is just around the proverbial corner.

What you might not have seen was this week’s announcement that the MLB is officially changing the term “Disabled List” to “Injured List”:

Deputy Commissioner Dan Halem said Thursday the change is being made at the suggestion of advocacy groups.

“In recent years, the commissioner has received several inquiries regarding the name of the ‘Disabled List,'” Pfeifer wrote in a memo. “The principal concern is that using the term ‘disabled’ for players who are injured supports the misconception that people with disabilities are injured and therefore are not able to participate or compete in sports.

“As a result, Major League Baseball has agreed to change the name ‘Disabled List’ to be the ‘Injured List’ at both the major and minor league levels. All standards and requirements for placement, reinstatement, etc., shall remain unchanged. This change, which is only a rebranding of the name itself, is effective immediately.”

Cor lumme, stone the crows.

Ol’ Robbo doesn’t care about the language itself so much as the idiotic reasoning behind this nonsense.  Whose “misconception” are we talking about?  When I see Ryan Zimmerman or Adam Eaton was put on the DL for some injury or other, my immediate reaction is, “Oh, no, what happened to him and when will he be able to return to play?”  It is emphatically not, “Golly, Zimm and Mighty Mouse are now just like those people with disabilities who are not able to participate or compete in sports.”  Where is the evidence that people exist who would actually think this way?

Well, if MLB has decided to go down this road, allow Ol’ Robbo to suggest a few other changes:

“Strike” – This is far too violent, and especially in a men’s sport has particular connotations of violence towards women.  May I suggest “gold star” instead.

“Ball” – Again, with a men’s sport, I can’t help noticing that this word also is slang for a certain part of the male anatomy, and in this context might be seen as promoting rape culture.  Let’s go with “Good try”.

“Steal” – Obvious reference to theft, which is sure to be a pejorative re-enforcement of our prejudices regarding certain sections of the population.  Try something more uplifting like “sharing the next base”.

“Sacrifice fly/bunt” – Too Jesus-y.  In order to do away with antiquated notions of “God” and bring a proper sense of the proletarian struggle, call it a “People’s fly/bunt”.

“Designated Hitter” – Sorry, there is no better term for this.  Better get rid of it and the rule providing for it altogether. Now.


“Foul” is out.  We now say “inappropriate”.

The “warning track” is now the “reminder zone”.

“Suicide squeeze”? Fuggedaboutit!

I’m sure friends of the decanter can think of some more apropos amendments to the patois in aid of further suppressing wrong think.

In the meantime, Ol’ Robbo is off to watch his copy of “Major League“, in part to get myself in the mood for spring training, in part to thumb my nose at those forces of darkness who have  disappeared Chief Wahoo from the Cleveland franchise and no doubt will try to do away with the Indians’ name altogether some time in the near future. Maybe they can be the Cleveland New Green Deals?

(Pro tip re the movie: If you fast-forward through the subplot love story between Tom Berenger and Rene Russo, this is a very economical little flick, and you’ve enough time left over for the behind-the-scenes extras which are quite informative.)



Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Yes, Ol’ Robbo sometimes refills his bird feeders while still in his robe and jammies.  So what? I figure it might make the lady next door’s morning (or at least give her a good laugh).

This time of year my big feeder usually runs out some time mid-week, but since I don’t wish to bankrupt myself on seed, I refrain from refilling it until Saturday morning.  It always interests me to see how long it takes for the first bird to come back in once the feeder is reloaded.  The time seems to vary – anything from a couple minutes to an hour or two – but once the first bird makes its appearance, the mob inevitably shows up in very short order.

The one thing I do notice is that the first bird in is almost inevitably a chickadee.  I’ve heard tell that these birds are quite intelligent and even trainable.  I wonder if the local crew over the years has gained some sort of sense of when it’s time to all go round to Robbo’s place.

UPDATE:  By the bye, when Alexandra Occasional-Cortex’s New Green Gulag Deal reduces all us kulaks to a starvation-level existence, who’s going to feed all those birds then? Huh? Huh?


**Okay, it’s really a birdwatching post, but this is the middle of February, after all, and there isn’t really anything to be done in the yard.


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February 2019