The All-Star Game is Not Decadent and Depraved; I Am

The All-Star Game was last week, and like the typical American sucker that I am, I settled in to watch it. Every year, I think of something else to do during the game — watch a movie, have s**, watch a movie and have s** — and instead I end up watching the game. It is, I quickly realize, my annual turn to see Ichiro, with a new twist this time: I get to see Joe Mauer as well.

I’m not much for the power hitters. Sure, Albert Pujols is great, but he’s nicknamed “The Machine” for a reason. It’s not all about his performance on the field. While he was at his warmest during the three day All-Star Albertfest in St. Looie, he’s still fundamentally a cold, calculating, moody competitor like his manager. No, I like the All-Star game for Ichiro, who turns every stadium into his personal playpen and has led off the game for the AL for a shocking eight consecutive years, during which they have never lost. Coincidence? I don’t care. It’s just awesome.

Also awesome is Joe Mauer, who’s hitting .367 and who plays catcher in Minnesota. He’s also from Minnesota, in the LeBron James-savior-in-his-hometown mold, and apparently one of the nicest dudes in baseball. (Did I mention he’s from Minnesota?) But the fact is he can rip the f**cking ball. He’s started hitting for power this year, which is unfortunate for everyone who has to pitch to him. With apologies to Pujols, he’s the best player in the game, simply by virtue of playing the most important position on the field.

Further down the AL lineup, there was Josh Hamilton, the former heroin addict who’s spent the better part of the year on the disabled list but who was voted into a starter’s slot by the fans. Yeah, that’s right, NL: we’re putting druggies in our lineup and winning. Not only that, Hamilton had the game-tying RBI last night, adding to the odd, rich tradition of Texas Rangers making important contributions to the AL’s streak of dominance: Hank Blalock’s 2003 home run and Michael Young’s 2008 performance being the key moments.

The great thing about last night’s game was that it was fast, leaving me room to go to bed merely after the eighth inning, instead of after the sixth. Living in New York, I was fairly sure Mariano was going to shut it down — if only because there are no Red Sox on the NL squad. I would guess that Rivera’s presence, so important to the Yankees, is another contributing factor to the 13-game unbeaten streak for the AL: we can turn the tables on their closers, but they can’t turn the tables on ours.

It was, ultimately, a satisfying All-Star Game, but only because it passed quickly. The whole episode is clunky, unnecessary and overblown (and not going anywhere). I was out of my house until 8:20 and had recorded the game just to make sure I didn’t miss Obama’s floaty first pitch, only to realize that, by the time I turned on the tube at 8:30, I was still 15 minutes away from seeing it. Stan Musial was carted out to the mound in a direct follow-up to an identical Ted Williams moment in Fenway 10 years ago, and it seemed derivative. He handed the ball to Obama, which provided the truly dramatic moment of the night (and by this time, it was very much night): not whether his pitch would reach King Pujols’ glove, but whether he would be booed or cheered. The booing was probably at 30 percent, and about 5 percent of that White Sox-related (as he wore a White Sox warm-up jacket), and every time the volume of the boos increased the cheering fans drowned them out. Then the ball flew, and we were on with it.

Here’s something to chew on: it took about one and half times as long to complete the entirely fictional Home Run Derby as it did to complete the All-Star Game. Milk that cow, Bud, Milk it. I say “Entirely fictional” because the Home Run Derby is an entirely pointless enterprise, albeit one that I watched parts of before switching to other happy-go-lucky entertainment: Bad Lieutenant, a movie which features Harvey Keitel as a coke-addicted, heroin-addicted drunk New York City cop and has just about the most accurate title ever. I felt less dirty watching Keitel junkie it up and (I’ll be oblique here) sexually abuse two girls from New Jersey than I would have watching Chris Berman “back-back-back” it up for Nelson Cruz in the final round of the derby.

As annoying as I find Berman to be, it is fair to say it is made for him: without him, it might be even worse, or cease to exist as anything resembling entertainment. But I’m no longer the 12-year-old boy watching NFL Primetime and giggling at his nicknames, I’m the 30-something watching Bad Lieutenant. If anything, All Star Weekend is the one pitch baseball makes to youngsters to get them interested in the game, with the cartoonish Berman (who is also cartoonishly large; I’ve ridden in an elevator with him and he’s gotta be 6’7”) serving as lead clown. It’s probably effective. I’m just over it.

And so the real tragedy of the All-Star Game, for me, is not that it has changed but that I have: I can no longer summon the willpower to assign any value to a relatively meaningless game just because I can name all the players, or want to brag about watching it to my friends and teachers any more. When I was a kid, I knew watching the All-Star Game drew this sort of line in the sand precisely because it was tedious and boring yet masquerading as something else, and I thought I could prove how much I loved sports by watching it. If I’m upset about what it “is” what I’m really upset about is that I’m no longer able to summon the cognitive dissonance to care about it any more; I’m upset about getting older. I think that’s fair. My lot is basically cast in life and the All Star Game is a reminder of that. Give me Ichiro and Joe Mauer and then I’m going to sleep.