No Spitting For America's Pasttime.

MLB has agreed to an abbreviated 2020 60-game season, beginning in late July, way too many months after pitchers and catchers were required to report to spring training. That's fine. But have you seen the new rules? There's a lot of them. Spitting is the one that bothers me the most for some stage reason. I say if there are consequences for spitting, then no baseball. Period.

Gherig and Ruth would spit. In the batter's box, on the base paths, or in the on-deck circle. Dozens of times a game, but I wasn't counting. Rose. DiMaggio. Puhols. Gwynn. Musial. Cobb.

Today, we are submerged in an endless cycle of pandemic pandemonium by our 24-hour news favorites. We are not out of the woods yet. But I want to spit. In my own yard, on a run, walking down the street.

The Spanish Flu had made its entrance in 1918 and ravaged the world. Millions lost, not thousands. No cure. No hope. Lessons learned? 100 years later?

Spitting is part of the game. It's always been part of the game. I'm not a fan of chew, but it's now banned in baseball anyway. In a month you will be stepping into the batter's box, sizing up the pitcher, looking for the 3rd base coach sign, enter one foot in, then the other, wiggle the bat, smirk, zero in and swing. You want to spit but you can't. If you do it's a warning. How embarrassing is that? Next pitch. Home run. Walk off. You round 3rd and no assembling at home plate is occurring. That violates the rule of social distancing. You humbly pick up your bat, tip your cap to your teammates and walk alone to your car, because there is no showering either. It should make for an interesting season. Let's play ball.