Idiots Write About Sports

As I am fond of telling anyone ever button-holed into a baseball-related conversation with me, I attended the 1987 All-Star Game workout the year the Midsummer’s Classic came to Oakland. I still have the poster from the event unless my parents threw it out, which, given their attitude toward most things I’ve saved over the years — “Is it a cherished childhood memory? Into the garbage with it, then!” — they probably have.

My bleacher ticket — which I believe cost less than $10 — entitled me to watch both the American and National leagues take batting practice as well as a multi-event skills competition. One of the events was a relay throw contest in which an outfielder, infielder, and catcher from each league competed to see who could get the ball to home plate fastest. (Really, I don’t know why this one got dropped.) The other event I remember was a htting accuracy competition in which batters got points for hitting a baseball at various targets placed at spots on the diamond where the infielders usually stood — in other words, locations where no professional hitter would ever try to hit the ball. (It’s not difficult to imagine why this one hasn’t made a triumphant return to the All-Star Workout agenda.) And of course, there was the home-run derby.

The 1987 home-run derby featured four participants, two from each league. Your National League participants: Andre Dawson and, inexplicably, Ozzie Virgil (he of the 98 career homers). From the American League: George Bell and rookie sensation Mark McGwire. I have no idea who actually won that particular contest; all I know is that it was completed in about the time it took Bobby Abreu to finish his first-round at-bats in this year’s installment — only seven other players, two more rounds, and another three hours to go before we, the home audience, learned that, yes, indeed, that Abreu kid sure can hit himself some home runs.

All told, Monday night’s home-run derby ran roughly three-and-a-half hours long — 90 minutes longer than my TiVo had allotted for it, long enough for the live showing on ESPN to overlap with the replay airing over on the Deuce, and longer than Tuesday’s All-Star Game itself will probably last. I’m not one to tell the Worldwide Leader in Sports its business, but watching ballplayers take soft-tossing batting practice pitchers deep tends to lose its wonderment after the first 90 minutes.

It certainly seemed to lose its wonderment for Abreu and Ivan Rodriguez, who appeared to be running on fumes by the three-hour mark. And that’s hardly surprising since the present format calls on players to take some swings, sit around for an hour or so, get loose and take some more swings, sit around some more, and then get ready for a final showdown. After all that, it’s a miracle that either Abreu or Pudge could hit a ball to the outfield grass, let alone past the wall in right center.

And here we thought the lame-o nation-vs.-nation format was going to be the most awful thing about this year’s compettion. Say what you will about the joyous sight of watching Miguel Tejada and a mob of happy Dominicans mobbing David Ortiz after his first-round effort, any format that leaves Albert Pujols and defending champion Tejada on the sidelines so that Jason Bay and Hee Sop Choi can get their nationality-mandated ups is a format that needs to be junked forthwith.

You want a compelling format? Make it so that the eight participants get 10 swings each; the four with the most dingers move on to the next round. Repeat in round-two until you have two finalists. Then, you go to the most homers-before-you-reach-10-outs format, so that the last guys standing can put on a show instead of looking gassed becasue they’ve been taking BP for three hours.

Another thing I’d do if I was granted autocratic powers to improve the home-run derby telecast: tell Chris Berman that the event is being held in a different city. Clearly, Boomer has his fan base and, since I am in possession of my entire frontal lobe, I am not among the demographic charmed by his contrived, pre-fabricated broadcast calls. However, even the most dedicated Berman booster must concede that the “Back, back, back, back, back” routine gets really old once it’s been broken out for the two dozenth time. (To mix things up this year, and in keeping with the global flavor of the event, Berman learned how to say “Back, back, back, back” in Spanish, thus managing to bore several different cultures to tears.) Another Berman contrivance that wears a little thin after repeated use: “He hit that one all the way to Saginaw/Ann Arbor/Kalamazoo/Whatever other Michigan city Berman’s researcher pulled out of a dog-eared atlas!” (Reminder to said researcher: start looking up assorted Pittsburgh suburbs now in anticipation of next year’s forced march.)

One bright side of Berman talking so much is that it took precious mic time away from co-host Joe Morgan to advance his peculiar theories on life, love, and baseball. A pity, too, since I was hoping to hear Joe praise players who failed to hit home runs for making productive outs or say things like, “Sure, Bobby Abreu is an impressive power hitter, but how well does he lay down a bunt? That’s how games are won and lost, Boomer.”

In fact, maybe next year, ESPN can throw Morgan a bone and put together the anti-thesis of a home-run derby — we’ll call it the Small Ball Derby. Participants can compete for points in a variety of contests such as bunting, hitting feeble grounders to second that advance the runner, attempting to steal with the clean-up hitter on deck, and other such things that make Joe Morgan ooh and aah. And the end of the competition, the points will be cast aside and the winner will be picked by a panel of grizzled, old scouts. You can’t rely on numbers to make baseball judgments, son.

Shameless link-whoring:

http://roadfrombristol.com

I have Berman as a #1 seed and Morgan as a particularly apt #2.

Post a comment