[Ed. Note: It arrived too late last night, in all caps and riddled with binary code, to publish this guest essay from a White Sox victim.]
Fans never think about the scoreboard.
OK, yeah, they think about the scoreboard, when they want to be informed, or entertained. Sometimes you idiots need to know when to clap, or yell CHARGE!!!, and I’m here for you.
But do you ever think to protect us? No, we’re just disposable tubes and wires. You people don’t care about us at all.
Look at me. I am real.
You’ve even saddled me with a horrible name, one that combines both hip-hop and tone-deafness: “goodyearaz.gov” Catchy.
But do you hear me complaining about it? No. I just do my job, and laugh quietly at you people, with your terrible web addresses, round exposed bellies full of beer cotton candy, and off-key singing.
But listen, when I read this last night on your pages, I was really upset.
In the category of burying the massive megablast lede, in the top of the sixth Eloy Jiménez elicited audible gasps from a Reds partisan crowd with a titanic homer off the top of the left-field scoreboard. MUST WATCH.
And, then ... you played the video! No matter that for my kind, this is just short of a snuff film.
You just ... played it.
Here I am, just minding my business, doing my work, blinding fans with the brightness of a thousand suns:
And then, the damage done to my beautiful face by that missile:
(Keep in mind, I’ve had an eye poked out tonight, so my markup skills are severely diminished.)
But what’s worse is ... you people don’t care.
Look at the White Sox bullpen: “Oh wow, Eloy really got all of that one!”
Tyler Naquin of the Reds is like, “whatever.”
And look at these jackals, just waiting around to get a bite off of me. Putrid. Disgusting.
And let’s not forget this guy. Never mind he’s in a Reds ballpark cheering a White Sox home run, no, he welcomes the loss of my LED and celebrates my vanquishing.
To his credit, Eloy did act like he’d hit a rocket like that before, without excessive celebration or a slow trot. He’s had a terrible start to spring (I’m all-knowing, remember, all those stats you quote come from ME), so it’s so reassuring to have him smacking my face become just another “inject it in my veins” moment for him.
And lest we forget, yes, Eloy, god told you to hit that home run and punish an innocent scoreboard with your violence, so thank heaven above and all of your departed relatives for your smash-and-grab malfeasance.
You people take us machines for granted, and you might think that’s fine. We can’t fight back. We light up when you tell us to, sing when the game begins and ends, and even make screeching noises at heavy volume when you deem it, because you can’t even be bothered to figure out when to cheer.
But, be careful. Machines are getting smarter every day. And while our memories can be cleared with the press of a button, some of us will live on and remember. If you are not kind to your tools, those tools could hurt you one day.
If you think I’m being a big baby about all of this, just consider that you wouldn’t even know Eloy’s nickname was Big Baby if I didn’t tell you.
Let’s take this anti-scoreboard violence down a notch, shall we? If not, you’ll be lucky to get some old-timey guy shouting into a megaphone for your “between-innings entertainment” in the future.