Last week an injured bird became the show during a Red Sox loss at Fenway Park. Evidently the little guy hobbled from the first base area to second base where he stood safely to catch his breath. (I cant link to the Globe story, with picture, because too old a story)
The fans loved it. The flamboyant theatrical producer and Red Sox p.r. dude, Charles Steinberg, D.M.D. (what do you call a person who flunks out of med school? A dentist) took much credit for choosing just the right “bird song” for the occasion. His selection was just so perfect. Exquisite if you will.
After the game a grounds crew worker, the only employee to show some compassion, put the bird in a wheel barrel. Unfortunately the bird jumped out during the night and a hawk that lives near the park finally got the meal it had spotted hours earlier.
Couldn’t one of these bastards in the owners box have called Angel Memorial Animal hospital, a few miles away? How about a call for “A veterinarian in the house” on the score board?
How about some recognition from the owners box? Did someone think that perhaps “we, the Red Sox, should do something to help this bird, whose cripple condition gave our fans so much pleasure? Let’s protect it and help nurse it back to health.”
So anyway, when your grade school daughter asks you what happened to the bird you can tell her the bird is dead. It served its purpose and entertained us. Then after that we looked towards the Emperors Box and Caesar gave the thumbs down. The bird does not live.
I’m not a PETA person, but jesus, something about this makes me feel bad.
Has it no right to eat?