My old guy is about to emerge.

Not the one that is ready to tell the local gang-bangers to “get off my lawn.” Fortunately, I live in Plains, Montana and any gang-bangers would likely be laughable wannabe types.

I’ve done my best to adapt to the pace of the “modern” world. Getting a new Wi-Fi system that is oodles faster, they say, than the old one. Those bytes will practically download themselves.

You can shave nano-seconds, which is something I hope never appears on a watch but probably already has, the nano-second hand, 75th wonder of the modern world.

Entire, important news stories in this day of TV run amok, can be signed, sealed and delivered in 30 seconds, regular seconds not nano, by trained, fast talking heads.

Who’s got time to slow down?

Faster boys, row harder or more lashes from the timer’s electronic whip will fall your way.

Grab that toaster pastry as you dash out the door on you way to work, burning your tongue and dripping strawberry filling on that clean, white shirt.

And on and on and on.

So what has my hackles up?

The new major league baseball slow-down rule concerning the time a pitcher has to throw a pitch or a batter has to get in the batter’s box and be ready to swing.

Less than a full month into this 2023 baseball season, statistics show the new rules are working. Why, they’ve shaved nearly a half-hour off the time it takes to play an average nine inning baseball game.

Hurry up, come on, let’s get this game over.

Here’s the problem in my Baby Boomer eyes: when did it occur that going to a baseball game should be a timed event?

Somewhere, in some high-rise board room, the dudes in charge of baseball decided to join basketball, football and all-ball by deploying play clocks.

We’ve got to get the folks in and out of these stands as fast as we can.

I know I for one, having spent a billion dollars on a major league ticket, two beers and dare I say a ball park hot dog, would maybe like to linger in the spring sunshine. Chew my hot dog and savor every bite (not byte) of its juicy goodness. Sip my beer, look at and maybe talk with my fellow fans, take it all in.

Without feeling like the starter’s pistol is going to go off any minute, giving me a time LIMIT on my baseball adventure.

One of the reasons I would go to a baseball game is that it is a fun escape from the honking horns, screaming sirens, crowded sidewalks, etc., of a city. It is why, after 35 years living in the Seattle then Portland areas, I needed to flee the pace, burn my neckties and breathe back home in this beautiful, so far uncrowded state.

I want the pitcher to take his time. I want the batter to contemplate the fact he is about to step into a box and await a 100 mph hard ball heading his way.

I want the time to visit the restrooms between innings without feeling the timer is running. I want to be able to walk to the concession stand. It’s a long list folks.

And it may be that there are more people like me than they anticipated when “they”, ba-jallionaire team owners and TV executives, passed this time warp of an idea to appease the younger fans who are used to 15 second sound or sight bytes.

A handful of teams, I recently read, have already decided to allow beer sales after the seventh inning, which has been a standard practice to keep the end of games from getting too giddy and to improve the driving skills of fans heading home.

In response, the great minds these days decided to allow beer sales through the eighth inning, because, they said, beer sales are down as the time fans spend in a relaxing ball park have shrunk.

Yup. And those folks who make such future-looking things to help us all save time, are in charge of other areas of our lives too.

Maybe, just maybe, it would be something the Gen X’ers could come to love.

What next?

Limit the number of phantom swings golfers can take before they actually hit the ball?

Take your time pitcher. If the umpires decide you are taking too much time to throw the ball, or if you, Mr. batter are lingering outside the batter’s box too long, the boys in blue will pay you a visit and urge you to get going.

But at least a clock won’t be ticking in the background and I will have enough time to heed a nature call and pick up another $10 beer on the way back to my seat.

The one in the sunshine. The one I paid for. The one I would like to linger in a bit longer.