There are a lot of things in this world that I don’t really understand, or can’t do, or can’t foresee. But I used to be pretty sure that there’s someone out there who is paid, probably pretty well, to know those things, to predict them, and to get those things done. Or to at least make sure they get done. As I get older, it becomes clearer and clearer that there isn’t actually anyone doing the things that I don’t really understand and/or can’t do/can’t see coming. And if there is, they don’t really know how to do it anymore than I do. The feeling of everyone being on their own grows every day.
I’m fairly sure it’s not the Nationals’ GM’s job to alert the D.C. police that they’re going to have skydivers in a pregame ceremony, complete with a plane for them to jump out of circling the D.C. area. I’m also pretty sure it’s not Dave Martinez’s job either. It’s probably someone in promotions and marketing, and I’m guessing it’s someone lower on the totem pole. Whomever it is, they forgot to make a phone call. I get it. I hate making calls too, though I do enjoy talking to people (“but you hate people. But I love gatherings, isn’t it ironic?”). Someone probably realized they couldn’t alert the cops by text, and just kind of shit the whole task. Still, D.C. gets a little antsy about unidentified aircraft just kind of circling around.
I could make a joke about how easy it is to stall Congress like this, except Congress is always stalled. It’s dispiriting how vociferous decorated corpse Nancy Pelosi’s words were about the mix-up, when there are many genuine things to get upset about for which she could actually do something about, though it would probably cause her face to crack irreparably.
Still, I like to imagine the face of whoever’s task it was to alert the authorities, as word spread that they’d actually caused a panic in the capital. It’s like when you spill something and watch the puddle ooze toward a power strip or something and there’s that brief moment when you wonder if you haven’t just started the chain of events that will end with the building in ashes. Or like when I accidentally flushed the doorknob to my girlfriend’s bathroom door down the toilet (I seriously did this).
It’s kind of hard to comprehend how such a tiny acorn can turn into such a calamitous oak. Your mind can’t do the calculations in time to stop it before it’s gotten far bigger than you could have ever possibly imagined. And then there’s the paralyzing thought of how you’re going to explain this to the correct people, and with the quickly vanishing hope you can do so without painting yourself to be a world class nincompoop.
They’ll probably pay with their job. But they’ll have a story for a lifetime. It’s probably worth it.