HR Derby – Going, Going Gone? ; All Star Game Needs International Flavor


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Aaron Gordon
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Going, Going, Gone

It shouldn’t take more than 10 words to explain the Home Run Derby. The explanation should be so simple that it makes the person ashamed they even needed to ask, like asking, “What does a cigarette lighter do?” It should be the simplest sporting contest in the world.

Major League Baseball has fiddled with the Derby’s format for almost as long as the event has existed. Each iteration has made it slightly more complicated, yielding what is now an actual bracket with byes and swing-offs. Somehow, hitting the most home runs no longer means you win the Home Run Derby. In 2008, Josh Hamilton lost despite hitting 13 more home runs than the winner, Justin Morneau. This is a problem because the Home Run Derby is supposed to be a contest of who can hit the most home runs.

This convoluted format means some people mistake this event for one of strategy. Much of ESPN’s pregame show featured Barry Larkin and Aaron Boone debating whether they would want to hit first or last, various methods to conserve their strength and whether they would modify their swings (never mind the fact that the two of them hit 10.5 home runs per year combined during their careers). Stretching their discussion during the rain delay, Larkin and Boone tapped previously undiscovered ways to rephrase “they should hit as many home runs as possible.” All of this served to highlight how needlessly involved the event has become, since the very thing that makes the Home Run Derby fun is perhaps the simplest thing imaginable.

Chris Berman began the telecast with a soft-focus recorded segment saying, “There’s still a genuine wonder in the long ball.” This remark would be undercut by the ESPN broadcast, which held the camera on each hitter’s grimacing face while the ball soared (we assume) into the twilight. Much of the innate appeal of experiencing a home run was further reduced by having the crack of the bat drowned out by Berman’s raspy voice. But practicalities aside, Berman’s statement nevertheless holds true: There’s something addictive about the home run’s beauty that makes watching dozens of them in one night seem vaguely appealing in the way that eating a few boxes of Girl Scout Cookies in one sitting might. At least, it once did for me.

The Home Run Derby has had an identity crisis since the Steroid Era came to light. Our unabashed love for dingers became a moral quagmire as we saw the ends our athletes went to in order to provide them. What had once been the most magical moment in baseball became an invitation for speculation and shame. Home runs devolved into guilty pleasures, and so too did the Derby itself.

Nothing emphasized this more than a montage of great Derby moments prior to Monday’s contest. I remember most of them from my childhood and for me they’re still as innocent as my state of mind at the time: moments like Ken Griffey Jr. hitting the warehouse at Camden Yards and Mark McGwire setting off car alarms at Fenway. “Everyone gets to be a kid again on Derby night,” Berman promised before the balls started flying. But they reneged on this promise, as the crew immediately remarked on how the Derby is “cleaner” now than it was back then. (I don’t know why they felt the need to lump Griffey, a player who has never been credibly linked to PEDs, in with the likes of Barry Bonds and McGwire, but they did because that’s the kind of broad strokes absolutists paint.) The problem, at least for me, is that I can’t differentiate between the taint of the Steroid Era and the shame of youth. That is, I don’t know whether I liked the Home Run Derby because it was actually better back then or I was just a stupid kid who liked Linkin Park.

ESPN’s anti-steroids remark is a pure distillation of the era’s cognitive dissonance. The Home Run Derby exists solely to see players hit the ball really far. Drugs help them do that and inarguably gave us some of the greatest Derby shows in its history. Yet, those moments now come with caveats and disclaimers simply because the players gave us too much of what we wanted. It’s the kind of ex post facto erasure that ensures the Steroid Era will always be an uncomfortable utterance.

At least in my mind, the Derby suffered greatly from our inability to come to terms with the Steroid Era. The event is designed to showcase the very thing that exemplifies a decade or so of rampant drug use. In order to destroy the paradox, the Derby took on a different tone because we had to come up with some other reason for the Derby to exist. The Home Run Derby had to stop being about fun and had to be about competition. This was when things started to get complicated, the formats changed and the term “bragging rights” was inserted into Berman’s lexicon between “back back back”s. He said it again on Monday night: “If the All Star Game means something, then this is also about bragging rights.” It can’t just be about slugging home runs, because we know how to get those.

There was only one moment of the 2014 Home Run Derby that resembled anything like entertainment, and it predictably involved Giancarlo Stanton and a very long home run. ESPN’s tool for estimating home run distance told us that the ball would have gone 510 feet if the stadium didn’t get in the way, which is approximately the height of a 40-story building and further than most people can sprint. The ball landed approximately two-thirds of the way up the third and highest deck at Target Field, a place where fans probably didn’t consider themselves within the home run radius. Players on both teams jumped up and down in amazement, and anyone watching at home was completely justified in doing the same. It was a genuine thrill derived from the simplest of pleasures: seeing a ball fly through the air for a really long time and land really far away.

These moments now happen in the Home Run Derby by accident. The Derby won’t be worth watching until we can admit to ourselves why we’re here and make the event only about that one thing. Unfortunately, the Derby brings out the kid in all of us; that kind of complex reconciliation with the past is far beyond a child’s capacity. I suppose we’ll just have to wait until we grow up.


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MLB All-Star Game’s continued irrelevance could be saved by going international
Joe Posnanski
MINNEAPOLIS, Minn. – You might not be old enough to remember this, but Battle of Network Stars used to be a thing. Every now and again, a bunch of television “stars” – let’s just put “stars” in quotations because it wasn’t like Johnny Carson was out there – would gather together in some fairly exotic location like Hawaii and compete in various “sporting” events.

Yeah, we need to put “sporting” in quotations too because while they did have some actual sports in there like swimming and cycling, they also had pseudo-sports like tug of war and an obstacle course and so on.

It was entertaining at the time, partly because we were so starved for something resembling sports on television that we would watch anything, and partly because Howard Cosell was the announcer, and Cosell was incapable of lowering the volume or intensity for trivial competitions. With Cosell, everything was at least as important as the Super Bowl or the seventh game of the World Series. So you would hear him shout things like, “One thing you have to say about Patrick Duffy is that he’s a COMPETITOR!” or “Robert Wagner doesn’t know the MEANING of the word quit!” Sometimes it seemed Cosell got the irony. And sometimes, it seemed, he did not.

Point is that we as a country used to love stuff like that. Superstars competitions. Battle of the Network Stars. Battle of the Sexes. Match races. All-Star Games galore. You know, every year an all-star team of college football players would face against the Super Bowl champion. It is a very funny thing to see a young person discover THAT for the first time. Their faces go pale, and their eyes widen, and they sputter, “They … they … they … DID WHAT?” There are so many baffling things about the old College All-Star exhibition – injury risks for young players, injury risks for old players, absurdity of a Super Bowl team actually playing a bunch of college kids – that they don’t know where to begin.

But we can begin here: We don’t care about pointless games now. We just don’t. And the range of pointlessness has expanded – we don’t care like we did about horse races that are not the Kentucky Derby, track events that are not the Olympics, boxing matches that are not for some sort of championship. We’ve replaced all of that in the American psyche with stuff at least tangentially connected with sports we DO care about – stuff like the NFL Draft and recruiting and free agency and those viral stories of the day. We’d rather talk and tweet and text and argue about where LeBron James will sign or what nutty thing Johnny Manziel will do next than watch sporting events that don’t count.

And that brings us, yet again, to the All-Star Game.

Well, every single year we write about how much the All-Star Game has lost. Last year, about 11 million people watched – one-third of the audience from 1982, one-half of the audience from 1994, thirty-one percent down from five years ago. But perhaps the most sobering fact was reported by Sports Business Journal: The average age of the All-Star Game viewer was 53. That would be a five followed by a three.
Whenever I am in the younger demographic of a television audience, you have real problems.

Well, the All-Star Game just doesn’t make sense anymore. It made sense when few baseball games were on television and the opportunity to see the stars play was magical. It made sense when the American and National Leagues were truly separate – before interleague play, before free agency, before easy travel between the leagues, before teams switched leagues – and so the only time you might see Johnny Bench face Jim Palmer was in the World Series or All-Star Game. It made sense when we CARED about meaningless games just for the enjoyment of the moment.

All that stuff is gone. Bud Selig’s rather desperate effort to attach meaning to the game by having it determine World Series homefield advantage hasn’t added anything at all, largely because it doesn’t matter to anyone now. It won’t matter to anyone for months, and even then it will only matter to fans of teams actually in the World Series. And for teams in the World Series, it will seem impossibly stupid to have homefield advantage determined by some single in the eighth inning by an All-Star pinch-hitter off an All-Star middle reliever.

So, I’ve been thinking a lot about it: What can be done to make the All-Star Game matter again? It’s still an amazing opportunity for baseball – the All-Star Game still has one of the best stages in sports. It’s a Tuesday night in July when NOTHING ELSE is going on. And, weirdly enough, I started thinking about lessons the All-Star Game can take from the Home Run Derby.

It’s weird because: I very much dislike the Home Run Derby. Almost everyone I know does. It’s a terrible event live. It’s a terrible event on television, viewed through the prism of Chris Berman shouting “back-back-back.” The Derby is repetitive and dull and generally annoying.
BUT … it does something the All-Star Game does not. It sticks in the mind. I was thinking about the Home Run Derby the last decade or so and found, to my utter shock, that memories flooded back. I immediately remembered Josh Hamilton’s home run barrage as he was completing a comeback that blew the mind – that was inspiring. Bobby Abreu hit a billion homers one year, that was pretty amazing. Ryan Howard … Prince Fielder … Vlad Guerrero … I remember these moments pretty vividly. I remember Robinson Cano winning with his dad pitching. I remember Robinson Cano flailing helplessly as Kansas City fans booed him for leaving hometown hero Billy Butler off the Derby team.

Then, I was thinking about All-Star Game memories from the last decade: I came up completely empty. I could not think of a single one – and I’ve BEEN to almost every All-Star Game in the last decade. The last vivid memory I have from an All-Star Game was the 2002 tie game calamity, more than a decade ago. And I’ve BEEN to the All-Star Games. Before that, I remember them stopping the game in the middle to honor Cal Ripken.

So why is the Derby more memorable to me (and the numerous others I asked) than the All-Star Game? I think it’s simply this: It’s completely different. The All-Star Game is just another game, one of 3,000 or so that will be played this year if you count spring training and the postseason. Yes, it has the best players (or some reasonable facsimile), and yes it has great history with Ted Williams’ game-winner and Bo Jackson’s bomb to center and Pedro Martinez’s two thrilling innings of strikeouts and whatever. But, in the end, it’s a meaningless game. And we don’t have any time for such things.

The Home Run Derby, for all its many flaws, is DIFFERENT. Same thing with the dunk contest, which is better than the NBA All-Star Game. It acknowledges that people have changed, that it isn’t enough to just get together a few familiar stars and have them play a game for no real purpose. We don’t watch sports like that anymore.

So, it’s really simple: Baseball can keep playing the All-Star Game as is, and fewer people will watch every year. Or they can learn from their own history and figure out a way to make the game memorable again.

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OK, since you asked, here’s what I would do to make the All-Star Game matter again: I would put together one Major League Baseball All-Star Team and have them play a game against a Japanese League All-Star team.

Yes, of course there would be some logistical concerns. But there are so many good things about this game that I don’t even feel like there’s a need to sell it … but here are just three:

1. It would bring back some real meaning to the game. The thing about the old All-Star Game was that players used to feel some sense of pride for the league they played. The National League was older and more established, the American League was the upstart. Then the National League was much more active in integration, while the American League moved slowly. Then the National League won a bunch in a row. And so on. Now, nobody CARES what league they play in. Heck, the Houston Astros and Milwaukee Brewers happily swapped leagues.

But if you had MLB against Japan … you better believe players would care.

2. The Japanese Leagues are obviously much, much better than people generally seem to believe in America. It’s obvious because in recent years players like Ichiro, Yu Darvish, Masahiro Tanaka, Koji Uehara and so on have become mega-stars in the big leagues. It would be so good for baseball to get the leagues closer together.

3. The All-Star Game would become a world-wide event in a way that it is not now. Baseball does not celebrate its worldliness as much as it should. There are several different languages spoken in every clubhouse. The best players bring new cultures and new styles into the sport. It’s funny; baseball’s championship has been called the World Series for 100 years, but in many ways the world was not invited. I think you begin by bringing in a Japanese All-Star Team, but over time you could add players from Korea and China and Latin American countries. Make it the World All-Star Game.

Anyway, it’s just one idea.


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