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If baseball was real life, the unwritten rules would look ten times stupider

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Acuña matata

MLB: Miami Marlins at Atlanta Braves Dale Zanine-USA TODAY Sports

After the initial shock and outrage of watching José Ureña hit Ronald Acuña Jr with a pitch had faded, it actually got me thinking. What lesson was meant to be drawn from that action?

Was Ureña telling Acuña: “stop being good, you 20-year-old jerk”?

I’m not sure. I think, perhaps, Ureña was just deeply unsettled by the home-run mashing kid who isn’t old enough to drink legally. After all: How dare he?

Then I stopped thinking about it in terms of baseball lessons on the field, and asked myself: what can these in-game lessons teach us about real life? How can I translate the teachings of baseball to my day-to-day.

For starters, as soon as my co-worker who is better at her job than I am comes through the office door, I’m going to throw a stapler at her.

Hear me out, because baseball tells me this is okay. You see, she has demonstrated that through hard work and a natural aptitude for her position that she is the superior employee. But I don’t want that going to her head, she needs to know that I see her being good and I don’t care. As long as I hit her in the legs or back, this is totally okay.

Next up, as soon as my supervisor gives me my performance review, I’m going to tell him it’s f&*%ing stupid.

“Are you blind?” I’ll ask.

“Meets expectation? That was clearly an exceeds. F&*% this.”

Baseball teaches me this is okay, because I didn’t tell him to eff himself, I merely pointed out that he was very bad at assigning merit to my actions. I will not get ejected.

Phew, glad we got that taken care of.

Now it’s time for me to make a presentation to some co-workers. I kill it. Best presentation I’ve ever given, they’re in awe of how smart and capable I am. Except for Becky who is still pissed at me for hitting her with a stapler, like she doesn’t know she deserved it. Show off.

I wrap up my presentation and flip my laptop off the podium. Oops, sorry Steve. Anyway, no matter. I raise my hands in the air and make direct eye contact with Becky as I walk out of the room. Boosh.

Last but not least, I’m sitting at my desk doing nothing and Becky walks by saying, “Sorry, are you just... sitting there, doing nothing?”

And just like that a mountain of work pours onto my desk. Thanks a lot, Becky. Everyone knows you don’t talk about the no-hitter when it’s in progress.

OK, that last one might be real.