Among other things, I want to know why Erwing Schrodinger gets a Nobel Prize and I don’t. I was in college when I met Schrodinger and his stupid umlaut and his even stupider cat. I thought the thing with the cat was dumb when I was twenty-two and hung over. It’s even worse now that I’m pouring mixers into blenders to cover the taste of kale instead of vodka. And, of course, it’s even more upsetting because this matter of the cat co-exists with the Reds.
For those of you who did actually useful things with your youth, Schrodinger’s Cat refers to a thought experiment that involves poison and a hammer and a cat and they’re all in a box, and something something the cat is simultaneously alive and dead because we don’t know if the cat is alive or dead unless we look in the box. Which of course completely ignores the fact that it doesn’t matter if we know if the cat is alive or dead; it’s alive or dead whether someone cares check on it or not, much like Steve Chabot’s hair, so I don’t know why we’re even talking about this. It is my understanding this is all a physics thing, and now you know why I majored in English courses, where at least people have the decency to direct you to a dictionary when gibberish shows up.
Schrodinger’s Cat is cool with the hip kids all of a sudden, probably because it was mentioned once on The Big Bang Theory and we seem to be in some sort of post-nerd Renaissance now in which everybody knows what you’re talking about when you mention that you should always let the Wookie win, which I wish someone had clued my classmates into back in 1991 when I was walking around in Princess Leia buns and getting pencil shavings dumped into my bookbag for my pre-coolness. It’s nice to know that the stupid cat has come around again as well, because although he was a giant waste of my time, at least I didn’t have to Google him twenty years later.
Where I will accept the cat is in the context of the baseball offseason. The 2019 Reds are currently alive and dead, unlike the 2018 Reds, which are completely dead, and the 2018 Bengals, which are technically alive, but have been dead to everyone but Dave Lapham since about Week 6.
But we have this baseball team which exists, and yet does not exist. We have prospects and we have coaches; we have re-signs and we have contract dumps. How all this will all come together, or not come together, will slowly unfold in the coming months. In the meantime we get to yell at each other on Twitter over the matter, but in reality, no one knows if this animal is going to have a pulse or not. It’s Schrodinger’s Baseball Team.
I much prefer this state of unknowing than the agony of a hardcore rebuild. Maybe we’re still in a post-Riverfront, pre-Great American Ball Park kind of apocalypse in which there are two stadiums and lots of construction equipment and cranes and a big hole in the wall where left field used to be (this is a thought experiment known as Schrodinger’s Stadium, and it only comes around once a tax levy.) Maybe the building is finished and we just don’t know it because the city workers haven’t gotten around to knocking the safety barriers down yet.
So, I’m fine without opening the box until after Christmas. We’ll know soon enough whether this team is dead or alive.