In celebration of tonight's All-Star Game (American major league baseball), I have chosen to look a little more closely at the ways in which we honor contribution and success in society. Yes, this post will have a distinctively social-cultural and "literary" slant. Before I go into that, though, let me just say that I love baseball's all-star game (upper- or lower-case), and the way that it divides the "halves" of the season in a manner that has woven tightly into the fabric of every year's baseball narrative. My Minnesota Twins, way back in 1987, won only nine road games in the "second half" (as it is often called), and eked their way into the playoffs, where they caught fire. Still, the inability to "win on the road" meant that they would have a tough time. They solved that by winning all four home games of the World Series (and, I sheepishly admit, losing all three road ones). The "halves" of the season were a fertile discussion ground in that and almost every other baseball odyssey. They are today, too.
The All-Star Game is not precisely the mid-point of the season...but it really is "the middle." Properly speaking, it is supposed to be exactly one week after the mid-point, so that all of the selections can be made based upon the entire first 81 games of the 162 game season. In the very precise "old days," that meant teams had played another week of games (usually for a total of 87).[1] The very recent changes to the schedule have messed that up beyond recognition, with some teams already having played over ninety games this year. Nonetheless, the point of having the game as a break in the middle is that there is still a whole lot of baseball to be played. This makes all of the difference, as we shall see. Much has happened. Pause. Much remains. There is nothing in sports quite like it.
So why "honor" those who have had a great first half of a season? What does that even mean? This is the question I wish to consider today. Baseball's "midsummer classic," as it has been called for decades, "works" better than such contests in any other major sport. With football, it is obvious. No one is going to play a brutal game in the middle of the season that brings on the possibility of injury—as every football contest does. It is difficult enough for players and coaches to go through the motions at the end of every season—usually in Honolulu. Coordinating the on-field talent is, moreover, almost impossible in football, where precision and constant work lie behind success. This is true, on slightly less obvious levels, in basketball and hockey.
On the other hand, taking a dugout-load of players from a motley array of teams and tossing them onto a big brown and green diamond and outfield...well, that has worked pretty well since the first All-Star Game in Chicago in 1933. It has been a hit for almost eighty years, and precisely because it is a midsummer night's contest in the middle of a long baseball season that is only just beginning to heat up. By July, teams know pretty well whether they have a chance to "make a run," as the saying goes. Those who are hopelessly lost (such as this year's Chicago Cubs...again), know that they will not be playing baseball in October. The summer classic is a time for them to lick their wounds and try to gain some respectability in the second half. Or not.
Interestingly enough, it is not a time for successful teams or players to strut about too much. The All-Star Game itself celebrates a successful "first-half." Still, there are many stories of first-half excellence turning to second-half mush—for players and teams. So why not have the game in November, and celebrate a truly great year? Why not have a post-season spectacle that covers the excellence of a full season?
Because that would ruin everything.
The whole point is to take a summer break and to split the season into halves; to laud the players who have excelled over about ninety games, and anticipate what might come in the next seventy or more. The whole point is to mix past, present, and future in an alluring blend of cyclicality and "stop-time."
It is all about ritual...and pacing. Only major league baseball and the world's major religions seem to understand this. The points are profound—and missed by almost every other organization in world history. Arnold Van-Gennep (from whom we will hear more on Round and Square) understood the "liminal nature" of the All-Star Classic. It is "betwixt and between"...neither past nor future.
Yes, baseball is society...and culture...and life. Don't let anyone tell you that football has overtaken America's pastime. Baseball will always be the widening gyre and (at the All-Star Break), the still point of the turning world. Football, basketball, and hockey cannot compete; baseball has the pacing of life.
The baseball universe—turning-turning on its nine-inning axis—pauses, relaxes, and adjusts...before slowly revving back up for the same thing all over again. Ritual. Like religion.
This is exactly the case, except for the fact that it is and can no longer be the same anymore. That is how ritual "works." If this seems far-fetched, you need to read a little bit less of Baseball News and a little bit more of American Anthropologist. The break and the special game has made everything exactly the same and profoundly different—at the same time. And then (on Thursday or Friday, later this week), time will begin again, and the baseball world will slowly start turning.
Only T.S. Eliot comes close to explaining the genius of baseball's All-Star Game. I can't stop thinking about Eliot's poetry when I write about baseball. There is a reason, even beyond relevance. Of the millions of fans who have ever sat in the stands of major league baseball stadia (o.k., "stadiums"), I may be one of a small number who read T.S. Eliot on cool autumn afternoons. I used to memorize the Four Quartets during slow double-headers at the old Comiskey Park when I was in graduate school (I would choose them for their peculiar combination of all-day baseball and quiet time, since the Sox stunk in those years). The opening lines of "Burnt Norton" say it all—about baseball, breaks, and life. Think about past, present, and future when you watch the stars run onto the field tonight. It is the quintessential middle of the season, with past and future hovering in the balance. Ritual, culture...just right.
T.S. Eliot. Collected Poems. London: Faber and Faber, 1962.
The All-Star Game is not precisely the mid-point of the season...but it really is "the middle." Properly speaking, it is supposed to be exactly one week after the mid-point, so that all of the selections can be made based upon the entire first 81 games of the 162 game season. In the very precise "old days," that meant teams had played another week of games (usually for a total of 87).[1] The very recent changes to the schedule have messed that up beyond recognition, with some teams already having played over ninety games this year. Nonetheless, the point of having the game as a break in the middle is that there is still a whole lot of baseball to be played. This makes all of the difference, as we shall see. Much has happened. Pause. Much remains. There is nothing in sports quite like it.
 |
| [b] All-Star RF |
On the other hand, taking a dugout-load of players from a motley array of teams and tossing them onto a big brown and green diamond and outfield...well, that has worked pretty well since the first All-Star Game in Chicago in 1933. It has been a hit for almost eighty years, and precisely because it is a midsummer night's contest in the middle of a long baseball season that is only just beginning to heat up. By July, teams know pretty well whether they have a chance to "make a run," as the saying goes. Those who are hopelessly lost (such as this year's Chicago Cubs...again), know that they will not be playing baseball in October. The summer classic is a time for them to lick their wounds and try to gain some respectability in the second half. Or not.
Interestingly enough, it is not a time for successful teams or players to strut about too much. The All-Star Game itself celebrates a successful "first-half." Still, there are many stories of first-half excellence turning to second-half mush—for players and teams. So why not have the game in November, and celebrate a truly great year? Why not have a post-season spectacle that covers the excellence of a full season?
Because that would ruin everything.
 |
| [c] Footfalls RF |
It is all about ritual...and pacing. Only major league baseball and the world's major religions seem to understand this. The points are profound—and missed by almost every other organization in world history. Arnold Van-Gennep (from whom we will hear more on Round and Square) understood the "liminal nature" of the All-Star Classic. It is "betwixt and between"...neither past nor future.
Yes, baseball is society...and culture...and life. Don't let anyone tell you that football has overtaken America's pastime. Baseball will always be the widening gyre and (at the All-Star Break), the still point of the turning world. Football, basketball, and hockey cannot compete; baseball has the pacing of life.
The baseball universe—turning-turning on its nine-inning axis—pauses, relaxes, and adjusts...before slowly revving back up for the same thing all over again. Ritual. Like religion.
This is exactly the case, except for the fact that it is and can no longer be the same anymore. That is how ritual "works." If this seems far-fetched, you need to read a little bit less of Baseball News and a little bit more of American Anthropologist. The break and the special game has made everything exactly the same and profoundly different—at the same time. And then (on Thursday or Friday, later this week), time will begin again, and the baseball world will slowly start turning.
Only T.S. Eliot comes close to explaining the genius of baseball's All-Star Game. I can't stop thinking about Eliot's poetry when I write about baseball. There is a reason, even beyond relevance. Of the millions of fans who have ever sat in the stands of major league baseball stadia (o.k., "stadiums"), I may be one of a small number who read T.S. Eliot on cool autumn afternoons. I used to memorize the Four Quartets during slow double-headers at the old Comiskey Park when I was in graduate school (I would choose them for their peculiar combination of all-day baseball and quiet time, since the Sox stunk in those years). The opening lines of "Burnt Norton" say it all—about baseball, breaks, and life. Think about past, present, and future when you watch the stars run onto the field tonight. It is the quintessential middle of the season, with past and future hovering in the balance. Ritual, culture...just right.
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.[1]
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.[1]
[1] Please don't make me discuss the "older" 154-game (or other) "historical" schedules; it is all proportional.
[2] T.S. Eliot, Collected Poems (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 189.
[2] T.S. Eliot, Collected Poems (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 189.
Bibliography
No comments:
Post a Comment