Just last week, I was having dinner at the Big River Grille in downtown Chattanooga when a high school baseball team walked by. Not one player had a bent bill. With the help of some alcohol and the presence of my friend Keith (who can fight better than I can), I let out some of my pent up frustrations. As they passed, I hollered, “Bend your bills! Bend them! Bring back the bend!!” Most of the impressionable youngsters didn’t respond, except for one. He looked at me as he passed by, and with a cold Clint Eastwood sort of look in his eyes, he simply said, “No.” It was then I knew that we have a serious problem on our hands.