Bartman and Starr Foul Out
According to Homer Simpson, baseball is boring without beer. He should stick to what he knows, running a cartoon nuclear power plant.

Nevertheless, a friend's marriage to a non-baseball-fan bride was easier to take when he made her realize that while she watches a game, people will bring her beer. He converted her in two games.

Unfortunately, Valerie is on the latest no-carb fad to lose weight. As a result, she has been watching baseball games without the benefit of hops. I should say Valerie spent the week of her 40th birthday in Las Vegas, announcing periodically, "I'm starting to feel a little sober." Valerie will undoubtedly lose weight just by giving up the beer. She drank plenty, and a well-known rule of physics is that each 12-ounce beer will add two pounds to a person's mass.

The good news is that Valerie has discovered baseball is a good game even without the beer, Homer Simpson jokes notwithstanding. The bad news is that she may never catch a foul ball.

That's just speculation, but drunkenness seems to be the most obvious explanation for why people embarrass themselves diving into steel and concrete stadiums in search of a leather covered ball retailing for less than $5.

Just as Steve Bartman was fading back into obscurity, along comes Matt Starr to display no sense at all about what a fan should be paying attention to in the stands.

Bartman was the Cubs fan who stabbed at the fly ball that was within reach of Cubs outfielder Moises Alou, doing his part to keep Florida alive in the 2003 National League Championship Series. Generously polite statements by Alou and others claim the team should have won anyway, but most fans think Bartman's out would have snuffed any momentum for the Marlins.

Starr is the guy in Texas who knocked a 4-year-old against a seat in the lunge for a foul ball during interleague play with the Cardinals.

Bartman and Starr both crafted lovely apologies, so maybe public humiliation is a good catalyst for unlocking a person's powers of communication. Not everyone was a victim, either. Bartman's Cubs had to watch the World Series for another year because of his grab, but Starr's victim received balls and bats and tickets from all over, eventually even from Starr. How 4-year-old Nick O'Brien feels is unclear, but plenty of grown men would be willing to stand on their heads and do funny tricks for the baseball signed by Nolan Ryan, which of course, in a manner of speaking, is what caused the problems in the first place.

Ron Luciano, the umpire, claimed even minor league baseballs seem to suspend fans' logic. In "The Umpire Strikes Back," Luciano claimed he distributed game balls as tips while working his way through the minors.

Even amateur baseballs seem to have an attraction. Seminole State College baseball coach Lloyd Simmons had his players handing out worn practice balls to fans at the junior college world series, making his team a fans' favorite, even if they never won.

Not every fan goes goofy for a ball from the game. I have a major league baseball somewhere in this house. "Balking" Bob Davidson, following his emergency call up to umpire in the National League, walking to his hotel room after the game, gave a ball to my then 4-year-old son. The child looked at the ball for a while, and gave it to my wife, who packed it for home, where the boy promptly lost it in his closet, where I suspect it remains 19 years later. I'm sure he never took it with the .2 percent of his belongings he actually moved out.

The solution to baseball's foul ball excesses is to put only the smart or hard-to-impress fans near the field. Bartman and Starr probably deserve second chances. After all, Bartman paid plenty, having to leave the expensive seats under police escort. However, the next time the home team fan gets in the way of an out or some would-be fullback clears the crowd to jab at a foul ball, the sobriety police are going to have to cut off the beer.

The solution to cluttered closets is to wait until the kids have jobs and houses and sneak the belongings back to them under cover of night.

The Trouble with Waiters
Americans everywhere need to adopt the pledge to patronize no more restaurants with chirpy waiters. On my last visit to the Olive Garden, a Britney/Devin/Jen/Buffy character actually volunteered what her favorite menu items were. I'm sure if I had lingered over dessert she would have started talking about dreams. She volunteered her name too, but I resolutely refuse to learn any waiter's name until the person actually becomes a friend.

Chain restaurant America appears to not understand something basic. When Britney/Devin/Jen/Buffy introduces herself, she only stresses the ephemeral nature of our relationship. At the restaurants we like, we know the waiters' names. Jorge, at Abuelita's Mexican restaurant in Shawnee, Oklahoma, doesn't recite a tape recorded instruction from corporate headquarters on how to increase tips. He really is glad to see me. I'm glad to see him, too. He has my favorite drink and salsa on my table in less time than Britney/Devin/Jen/Buffy can say "Hi, my name is . . . . "

Let me say here, that I have nothing against cute names or the people who bear them. Maybe the young, hip, overpriced restaurants have entire staffs of people named Sue and David, but that never seems to be the case, which raises the question of whether Shakespeare was right. I'm guessing a rose by the name of Britney/Devin/Jen/Buffy would be plastic. Anyway, the full routine is "Hi, my name is Britney/Devin/Jen/Buffy, and I'll be your server. Could I start you off with an appetizer. Our special today is . . . . "

I'm not just the would-be baseball commissioner. In the meantime, I'm also an English teacher, and I worry about these people. They need to quit stating the obvious. Education, however, is a difficult business, and some of the best responses are obviously ill-advised for someone preparing my food:

"Well, that certainly explains the apron."

"Do you mind if I call you Beeblewix?"

"Well, that's nice, but I'm still going to call you Waiter."

"My name is Jeff, and I'm going to be your baseball commissioner."

No, we need to educate these people, but we don't to be mean. In the best tradition of Skinnerian conditioning, we need to somehow convince them they will receive more response to the meaningful than to the trivial. The best response is a blank stare followed by a question on some completely different restaurant matter. Unfortunately, my wife is more nervous about silence than I am, and probably more polite as well. She usually is declining the appetizer while I'm still rearranging my eyebrows. When you join this crusade to make waiters think about what they're saying, don't take my wife. Baseball fans understand that results count. If the player hits .300 for a few years, we'll know his name. In the meantime, the rookies defer to the people who have the money.

"I don't care what your name is, but if the food is good, and the service is good, I'm prepared to come back often and tip well, and I might even look at the check to find your name so that I can ask for you again."