Instead of rotating the World Series opener between the American and National Leagues, that privilege would be awarded to whichever league triumphed on All-Star Tuesday. Far more important, winning the All-Star Game would also deliver the home-field advantage in any World Series seventh game.
That isn’t so huge an edge that it would throw baseball’s balance out of whack; after all, only seven World Series have gone the distance since 1980. But it ain’t bupkus either; each of those Series was won by the team that played the finale on its home field. Which makes this notion of incentivizing the All-Star Game a rather intriguing one. However, no sport can take an intriguing notion-be it the end of the designated hitter or something as obvious as banning steroids-and bury it faster than America’s former national pastime. Thus Tuesday night’s All-Star clash in Milwaukee will remain no more than an exercise in sentimentality among a dwindling group of sentimentalists. It will leave most younger sports fans craving a good soccer game.
There was a time, believe it or not, when the All-Star Game was a hot ticket. So hot that for four years, from 1959 to 1962, two were actually played each summer. But that was back when these contests were fueled by fans’ fertile imaginations. How would an aging Ted Williams fare against an ageless Warren Spahn? Had Willie Mays ever faced a pitcher quite as crafty as Whitey Ford? Might not Don Drysdale deck Mickey Mantle with a fastball high and tight? What could Hammering Hank do with a Hoyt Wilhelm knuckler?
This was fodder for endless debate, since most of these prized matchups and other baseball mano a manos were unlikely ever to occur except in the All-Star Game. Before free agency, star players usually spent their careers or at least their prime years with one team and in one league. So unless it happened in the World Series, an A.L. slugger could go his entire career without stepping in against a Koufax, a Drysdale, a Spahn, a Marichal or a Gibson, except in meaningless spring-training encounters.
Now the All-Star Game has become their equivalent. What dwindling magic it still possessed was eradicated with interleague play in the ’90s. Why wonder how Clemens would handle Barry Bonds? We already know the answer. He’d hit him-with impunity, just like he does everyone else. Nomar against Maddux? Been there, done that countless times. And A.L. hitters against Randy Johnson. Didn’t we watch that for nine seasons? The owners believe they need interleague play for an annual injection of fan interest along with the attendance boost it appears to deliver.
For such fleeting gains, they squander all the marvelous tradition and potential long-term gain of a game that was once worthy of being called a “classic.” Today Major League Baseball, which once made tradition and history its cornerstone, is reduced to mimicking the postmoderns, namely the NBA and the NHL. Its All-Star Game is simply an excuse for a host of activities, contests and commercial enterprises that are generally far more entertaining than the putative centerpiece. Fan Fest, baseball’s carnival sideshow, is a blast. The slam-dunk contest … uh, excuse me, the Home Run Derby, is an amusing trifle (if also a reminder of the specter of drugs that haunts the sport.) But the game itself is a snooze.
No sport appears more hopelessly adrift than baseball. Perhaps the all-star bonus to the winning league is just a silly, patchwork notion. But I do know one thing. Pedro Martinez, the charismatic Red Sox hurler, took a pass on this year’s All-Star Game to spare the wear and tear on his shoulder. It’s far more important, he said, to rest up for the stretch run and a hoped-for spot in the World Series. But what if next year’s All-Star Game carried a World Series edge? You just might see Martinez trotting out of the A.L. bullpen in the ninth inning to preserve a lead. And wouldn’t all New York be amused come October if, thanks to Pedro’s effort, the Yankees got to host that seventh game in the Bronx?
