After all, if I was ahead when I quit, who cares? If someone else loses the argument, it's not my problem. And the Enquirer needs to keep its players healthy, right?

        The boss wouldn't buy it. He would just laugh hard enough to stop the presses. Or a paycheck.

        I guess I'm in the wrong business. I should be playing baseball, where the more you are paid, the less you have to work.

About those seats

        I figured this out on Sunday while sitting at Cinergy Field during a long rain delay. The Reds blew a big lead and took a while to finish the game, delaying the concert by Michael W. Smith. So I was sitting there watching the rain fall, listening to the thunder amplified by the megaphone-shaped stadium, and wondering.

        I wondered why they don't put the weather channel on the Jumbotron to let the fans know what's going on? If nobody wants to listen to that computer-voice that sounds like the Muppet Swedish Chef on horse tranquilizers, then at least let us listen to Marty and Joe so we can get a clue about what to expect.

        I wondered why people who were sizzling like Red Hot Smokies on the metal seats, begging for relief from the heat five minutes ago, ran like dogs with tin-cans tied to their tails when a gentle, cooling rain began to fall. I wondered: Who was the genius that came up with the idea of installing dark-blue metal seats in the sunniest part of a baseball stadium so fans can fry their wallets when they sit down?

A Red named Castro

        But most of all, I wondered: What the heck Juan Castro was doing in the lineup, striking out at every opportunity? I wondered if maybe it was some kind of secret trade agreement negotiated by the Reds management to obtain illegal Cuban cigars. “OK, Fidel, here's the deal: You send us a box of your best stogies every week, and we will make sure a guy named Castro plays for the Reds.”

        Nah. It's not so entertaining. It turns out two of the Reds highest-paid players headed for the showers in the sixth inning. The official reason: Barry Larkin had a stiff neck and Ken Griffey Jr.'s leg was “80 percent.”

        (I'd like to borrow that machine that measured his leg, because I'm sure there are days when my brain is 80 percent or less. Plenty of readers are willing to back me up on it, too. On days like that, I'm not hitting on enough cylinders for actual work, but I could handle mindless tasks, such as golf.)

        Imagine if firemen, barbers, doctors and airline pilots decided “two-thirds is close enough.” We'd all be as messed up as Ozzy Osbourne's family.

        President Bush would bomb France instead of Iraq because it's close enough.

        Gov. Bob Taft would raise Ohio taxes by two-thirds to make sure all high school graduates get an eighth-grade education.

        And columns like this one would end right in the middle of . . .

        E-mail pbronson@enquirer.com or call 768-8301.

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