Last night the son and I headed to Petco Park for the World Baseball Classic.
The tickets cost me $23 a pop on StubHub.
My son’s hotdog was $8, my nachos were, I believe, $7.
We got a soda for $5.95.
Parking was $20.
As we approached the stadium, and the $20 parking lot and the $23 seats and the $8 nachos, we passed a long sidewalk tent city, filled with the homeless of San Diego. It was a jarring sight that, I’m guessing, the city and the stadium and the Padres don’t want people to think much about. It’s hard to justify $23 and $8 and $7 and $5.95 and $20 when the homeless people in the venue’s shadow are eating out of a garbage pail.
On the one hand, it was a teaching opportunity. I spoke with my son about poverty, about the unfairness of America, about why so many people suffer. We discussed the stark divide between a million-dollar stadium and ballplayers paid enormous salaries to hit a round object with a wood stick. But, then, what was there for me to say? We had, indeed, spent a lot of money on tickets, as the poor simultaneously reclined on a sidewalk. At the traffic light, we found ourselves behind a Corvette convertible. We could look left and look right and see money and money and money.
Honestly, I felt sad.
But I really felt helpless.
