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Waiting for the Next Revolution

Matthew Guzman

Not by flood,
not by a food shortage,
not because of a communist dictator,
no, no, the next one will be epic.
The messiah will neither appear in a jelly donut,
nor on Mount Sinai.
It will start subtly, as does everything of importance.

First, the commissioner of baseball will come to his
senses and cap all player salaries at a modest
but reasonable $65,000 per year. America’s pastime
will attempt to act as a furtive paradigm for the
reevaluation of values and growth. Then, this same
model will waft its way to the game of football;
thus, capping all wages at $80,000 (the slightly in-
creased amount due to the nature of football’s
more direct physical contact). Soon to follow will be
all other major sports such as: basketball, soc-
cer, cricket, rugby, hockey, curling, volleyball, ping
pong, golf, and tennis. It will all start in the
West and spread through England, Ireland, mainland
Europe, Africa, and beyond. The number of
professional athletes will diminish at an exponential
rate, which will intern result in yearly involuntary
“drafts.”

Young children will rebel against their parent’s
incessant pleas to join their school’s sporting
teams, unconvinced that it will build strong moral
characteristics like sacrifice and unity.
The children will ignore their parents, and begin diving
into complex subjects such as philosophy, calculus,
physics, literature, and history. When you will ask
a typical four year old boy or girl what he or she
wants to be when grown, you will get things like –
“I want to understand the universe much like
Steven Hawking.” Or “If I could write like Milton,
I would be content.” Or “You know, I really
don’t feel, at least at this time, that I am ready
to make such a bold claim – seeing as how much
life there is to live, my answer would be a bit trite
as well as limiting.”

There will be the greatest of schisms and the world will
be divided in two. The elders will sit on wicker
rocking chairs and reminisce about the good ol’days,
shaking their fists at groups of teens walking by
on their way to grassroots meetings discussing Camus
and Existentialism. In these aging rockers a
growing void will begin to fill and fill with boredom,
but worse, boredom will quickly turn sour as a
carton of milk left in the sun.

Without the distraction of organized sport, the spoiling
aging population will have to face that which
they overlooked for so long, themselves. No longer
will they be able to live vicariously through the
diversion of field goals and free throws. They will be
no longer able to claim such and such is their
team; therefore, left belonging only to the team which
can be called nothing else but what it is. Oh, how
they will revolt in the beginning – burning and pillaging,
raping, molesting, cutting themselves to feel.
Oh, they will not give up easily. There will be
bonfires again. Books, brochures, pam-
phlets will be consumed in a flame of wild hatred.
At the end of the epic battle, the old era
will be devoured by the new. The remaining few
from a time so long removed will retreat
into the silence, with only their own thoughts
echoing tales of the 1975 World Series or
the gaming winning goal they saw from the side-
lines on a cold October night, still lingering
in a space between past and present.

So swing away Revolution, swing away.
We’ve already spent too much time at play.

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