We are pretty damn close to not having to worry about bag conversations
To bag, or not to bag, that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the team to suffer
The ninth and tenth men of outrageous fortune,
Or to take shots against a sea of threes
And by opposing brick them. To lose—to turney-run
No more; and by a sleeper season to end
The heart-ache and the thousand cutting shocks
That Fletch is heir to: ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To choke, to weep;
To weep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the flub:
For in that sleep of slump from this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there’s the respect
That makes losses of so long season.
(with apologies to the Bard)