I once worked at a football stadium. I sold programs. I was 14. Before the game, I lined up with the other vendors, including the guys who sold beer. They had to be older, of course, but they still trudged through the stands, like me, hoping for customers. At the end of the day, like me, they pocketed, in cash, a small percentage of what they brought in. And they went home, many via bus or subway. They were nice guys, but not men — and I say this politely — whom I would necessarily entrust with life-and-death decisions. Apparently,...