A brutal war ravages the signs of hope that baseball was supposed to deliver

Last night, I watched a young Ukrainian father tell Rachel Maddow how his family - holed-up in a basement with food running out - hoped to flee Kyiv, though they have no gas for the car. When the interview was done, she was almost crying. 

Dear noble, wealthy, patrician lords of baseball, 

If you'll indulge me a moment... You seem to think fan loyalty is unbreakable, and that our lives are forever indebted to you, who you grew up to inherit the pillars of a game that our fathers raised us on. Well, here's a thought, straight from a former outpost on the Black Sea:

Go fuck yourselves. 

Over the last few months, the world could have used the hopes that once bubbled up from spring training camps everywhere, but somewhere along the way, you weren't making enough money, or feeling enough power, so you locked it up and shut it down.  

This is the weekend when baseball either solves its labor impasse or starts canceling regular season games. 

Well, I just want to say that, if you go ahead and blow the deadline, this sad, wild world will go on without you - as it will someday without Vladimir Putin. 

In the meantime, I suggest you enjoy your moments of fantasy empowerment, when you can pretend to be an important person. Because here's a secret, now being exposed nightly around the world from bunkers and basements where families are taking cover: 

You really don't matter much at all. 

Cancel the regular season, my friends, and you'll be surprised how little you are missed, and how quickly you are forgotten.