There’s been a good bit of talk (read: whining) lately about what has become of baseball’s All-Star festivities. On his podcast last week, Sports Illustrated senior writer (and my sports writing idol) Joe Posnanski and special guest Michael Schur (the artist formerly known as Ken Tremendous) bemoaned what they see as a laundry list of problems with the game.
As you may know, it all goes back to 2002, when the All-Star game ended in a 7-7 tie because both teams ran out of players after 11 innings. That caused commissioner Bud Selig a great deal of embarrassment, especially because the game was played in his hometown of Milwaukee.
As a result, Major League Baseball has spent the past decade or so continuously tinkering with the All-Star format and selection process. The biggest change is that, in an effort to add meaning to the game, the winning league now receives home field advantage in the World Series. This has resulted in a number of bizarre contradictions:
- Although the game determines something important, the players don’t seem to care any more than they used to. You have a bunch of halfway interested guys on vacation deciding which league has home field.
- The All-Star game is played totally differently than a regular season game, with players switching out constantly, and pitchers only throwing an inning or, at most, two. They even have strange rules, like allowing catchers to exit and subsequently re-enter the game.
- The best position players, theoretically, start the game, but by the ninth inning, they’re long gone. With the game (and home field in the World Series) on the line in the late innings, it’s the worst All-Stars who determine the outcome.
- Many of the players in the All-Star game represent teams with no chance to go to the World Series, so the home field contrivance does not actually make the game more meaningful for them, at least not directly. Why would an Astros player care where the Phillies play game one of the World Series.
So, yes, the whole “this time it counts” thing can be pretty annoying. Another point of frustration is the method by which players are selected for the game, which has become increasing complicated and confusing.
First, the fans vote for the starters. Then the managers name some reserves. Then the players vote for some more reserves. Then the fans vote again, this time for the “final player” in each league. But those final players aren’t really final players at all because a bunch of guys, maybe a dozen or more, pull out because of injuries or because they’re a pitcher in need of more rest or because of mental anguish, stubbed toes, birthday parties, whatever. Confused yet? The ones who beg off are replaced by dudes whose names are chosen based on how funny they sound as judged by a committee of 13 women who pick their NCAA brackets based on the mascots … or something.
From the outset, last night’s home run derby seemed plagued by the same order of gimmickry. Rather than a home run hitting contest between eight individuals, there was supposed to be some vague team concept, with the leagues squaring off against each other, somehow, maybe (in the end, the final round featured only American League sluggers). In yet another pointless complication, two of the hitters—David Ortiz for the AL and Prince Fielder for the NL—were “captains” and had picked their respective squads at what I can only assume was a super-secret, elementary-school-playground-style event, where all the players in each league lined up and hoped not to be picked last. Feelings were certainly hurt.
Exacerbating these issues is the plain fact that year after year the announcing for the home run derby is nauseating. Last night’s team of Chris Berman, John Kruk, and Nomar Garciaparra was just as horrible as any habitual home run derby viewer would have anticipated. Undoubtedly, most of the blame falls on Berman, who knows absolutely nothing about baseball.
E.G. At one point during the broadcast, the commentators interviewed Andrew McCutchen of the Pirates live from the booth. Berman asked the speedy center fielder if he admired Ortiz, the slovenly, steroid-using, home-run-hitting designated hitter. The odd question clearly befuddled McCutchen, who paused for a second before finally saying something unrelated about trying to take in the entire All-Star experience. The whole uncomfortable mess was simply the latest example of Berman’s signature clueless telecasts.
To the outside observer, it is apparent that the only reason ESPN allows him to do the play-by-play for the derby at all is his redundant, infantile, and annoying home run call: “Back, back, back, back, etc., back, back, …, back, another back or two … gone.”
I knew just about everything I listed above going into this year’s derby, but I decided to watch it anyway, because the alternative was helping my wife pack for a business trip and I have a low tolerance for repeating “Don’t forget your toothbrush” ad nauseum.
The first round of the derby was fairly uninspiring, with six of the eight players hitting five or fewer home runs (Adrian Gonzalez managed nine; Robinson Cano hit eight). Compare those totals to Josh Hamilton’s 28 from the first round in 2008, and you have a lot of bored viewers. Matt Kemp of the Dodgers only managed to hit a meager two homers, though he didn’t let that stop him from sending exponentially more tweets from the field.
But unlike Hamilton, who expended all of his energy in the first round and managed only seven homers in the second and final rounds combined, Cano and Gonzalez hit more as the derby went along. In the second round, Gonzalez hit 11 and Cano hit 12, giving them matching two-round totals of 20. That was more than enough to put them through to the finals, with no one else even reaching double figures.
I’m not exactly sure when I stopped being annoyed by the announcers and started feeling caught up in the moment. It was probably around the time I realized who was pitching to Robinson Cano.
Participants in the home run derby choose their own pitchers and usually opt for a coach or bullpen catcher. To hit 20 home runs on 40 swings, you need someone skilled enough to throw the ball in the same place repeatedly, but not so skilled that the ball cuts or curves.
Rather than calling on one of his coaches, Robinson gave the job to his father, Jose Cano, who pitched briefly in the Major Leagues for the Houston Astros. It was a touching gesture, not only because it was a wonderful father-son moment, the kind that those of us with wonderful fathers can appreciate, but also because it was so genuine. This wasn’t hype. This wasn’t a play for publicity in the New York tabloids. Jose simply mentioned to his son that he could do the job. After all, who knows Robinson Cano’s breathtakingly perfect swing better than his own father?
Gonzalez went first and hit a final-round-record-tying 11 homers. Since they switched to the current format (more or less) in 2000, the competition had never seen both hitters reach double digits in the final.
As Cano stepped to the plate, the camera zoomed in on his father. Jose was not smiling; he was here to win. With dad’s help, Robinson blasted impossibly long homer after impossibly long homer. He hit balls off the back walls of the park. He hit balls so far ESPN could not even estimate the distance. And still his father did not smile. When Robinson reached 10 home runs, his father held up two fingers, just two more, but his stoic look remained. When Cano launched homer No. 12 a couple pitches later, winning the derby with a few outs to spare, finally father and son could embrace. They ran together and hugged in the middle of the diamond, Jose’s face finally breaking into a grin. Robinson’s Yankee teammates rushed out to congratulate him, too.
It was the sort of moment that inspires sports writers to pen fake poetry. In his one season in the big leagues, 1989, Jose Cano pitched 23 innings, allowing two home runs. In a few hours on Monday night, he gave up 32 long balls to his son. Each time he turned around to see one of his pitches flying over the fence, he felt proud.
Truly, no pitcher has ever been happier to give up so many home runs.
