From time to time, it gets interesting out in what I like to call the “Blogosphere”. You know, the world where folks step up to the Internet and spew forth.

It is kind of the beauty of the thing. Anyone with a will to take keyboard in hand and push the right buttons can (and does) share their thoughts on all kinds of subjects. Right, wrong or indifferent. Call it a miracle of modern communication, if you like.

There an old saying that predates the online world. One which I will call upon today in a somewhat sanitized version. “Opinions are like elbows. Everyone has one.”

A couple of folks I admire have taken up the virtual cricket bats and are swinging for the fences to get their points across. I can see both sides of the argument and can appreciate where both are coming from. May not agree but I see where they both get to their points.

That is kind of the beauty of the Internet and modern electronic communication. Both sides are free to espouse what they will. Freedom of the press, as you may or may not like it. Another old saw? “The power of the press belongs to anyone who owns one.” In today’s world of tweets, blogs and Facebook postings, you can put out your own opinions for folks to read and comment on. All in all, not exactly a bad way of doing it.

To a point, perhaps? Some things are wrong today as they have always been. Hate speech often exposes it’s self in the online world. Faster than it might have, say 20 years ago. While some folks are more tolerant today than others, excuses still run thin. Stereotypes don’t play as they once did. In all kinds of ways…

Sure, popular culture has always been a powder keg. You name it, from rock and roll music to long hair to shuck and jive to twerking. There will always be those who can find something objectionable in an element of something meant to entertain. Hate disguised as comedy is still hate, no matter who laughs at what.

Yet, we live in a world where anyone can say pretty much anything, At least, that is what we would like to believe. From this little corner, I find myself more than amused when someone becomes a cause celebrity for what they said. Even more so when the person becomes more the topic than the subject discussed to begin with.

In the end, anyone can step up to the keyboard and tell the world. Heck, I’m doing it now!

In sympathies with Tampa Bay, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Atlanta, Cincinnati and now Oakland:

As penned by Ernest Thayer in 1888 –

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville Nine that day;

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that –

They’d put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-

“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.

“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;

And it’s likely they’d a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.