Bromide

Bromide- an unoriginal idea or remark intended to soothe or placate

Ex: “You’ll get ‘em next time, champ!” was the bromide offered up to the forlorn little leaguer by his father in their Toyota Rav-4 on the way back from yet another hugely disappointing Fall ball tournament.

“Dad, I struck out four times! That’s a golden sombrero!” whined the little leaguer as he ripped his chestnut leather mitt off and discarded it next to some McChicken wrappers on the floor mats of the SUV. “Do I really need to keep chewing Redman during the games? All the other kids get to eat bazooka and sunflower seeds! It’s not fair! Nobody else has vomited once this season, but I’ve puked six times!”

“Listen up, son. Do you think Willie McCovey ever sat in the back seat of his fathers’ car and complained about a little chewing tobacco? If you want to be one of the greats, you have to do it the old school way. Hot dogs and chaw, like the Great Bambino!”

“Dave’s mom says tobacco is really bad for you. She says it’s especially bad for kids.”

“To hell with what Dave’s mom thinks! She’s probably one of those advanced analytics, Moneyball bozos who value some computer hullabaloo over what you can see with your own eyes! Next thing you know, she’s gonna be telling you walks are more important than home runs! Than dingers! Dingers, son!”

“Dad, I keep striking out. I think the Redman is making me dizzy when I come up to the plate.”

“Fine! We’ll stop with the Redman. But you’re still gonna wear the jockstrap, the stirrups, the collared shirt, and the twill knit cap. That doesn’t change!”

“Dad! I look like a Romanian peasant!”

“Oh shut up, you look like a ballplayer!”

*The little leaguer crosses his arms, huffs, and stares out the window. A sloshing bucket of dip spit rests at his shins. Did Willie McCovey’s dad even have a car? Maybe a model T, if anything, he thinks to himself. *