Every morning, I wake up and grudgingly scoop a lump of chalky, cakey collagen powder into my coffee. The canister declares it to be quick-dissolving—lies!—and tasteless—lies upon embroidered lies!—but of course it is neither, requiring the dilution of my dark roast with liberal doses of milk or creamer or, in a pinch, hot cocoa powder. I have been drinking my coffee black since age 18, but I am well past that age now, far past enough that I have need of the wretched collagen in the first place, or else squatting down to retrieve something from a low shelf results in a macabre symphony of bone gleefully screeching against bone.
MLB owners are failing in their duty of care
