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I know that, on some level, I’m supposed to be angry about Juan Soto’s $765 million land mass of a contract with the Mets. In a former life, I might have been. I can hear the younger me howling: Bad for the game! The haves having their way again! Competitive balance being force-marched to the fiction section of the baseball library!
But acceptance, if not wisdom, often wins out as you get older. And so I ask myself the most hands-off, laissez-faire question of all about Soto’s big day: So what?