Setting:  October.  Miami, fancy hotel bar, four wall screen televisions.  Nine o’clock.  I up on a stool having just finished a meeting.  Darn.  I’d missed the entire game.

“Excuse me,” I say to the man next to me who’s just finishing his meal.  “Do you know who won the game?”“What game?” he asks harshly.  “The World Series.”   “No.”  He sighs.  Frowns.  “Oh.”“I do not sit around and watch sports.  I am not a spectator.  I play tennis.  I run.  I swim.  I golf.  I do not observe.”  “Okay . . .”  “That’s what’s wrong with this country,” he says.  “People sitting around on their behinds watching sports.”  I open my mystery paperback on the bar.  The bartender tells me the score as he takes away I’m-Not-A-Stupid-Spectator’s empty dinner plate.  “Those fish filets were ridiculous,” I’m-Not-A-Stupid-Spectator informs the bartender.  “That’s why everybody’s fat in this country.  Because the servings you give people are too big.”