Samantha (Sam) Stone Books

This week, Major League Baseball (MLB) pauses its intense 162-game schedule to bring sixty-four of the best players together at the annual All Star game. Like the NHL and NBA, the festivities begin with a skills competition—in this case, the homerun derby—followed by National League and American League representatives playing nine innings for bragging rights (from 2003-2016, homefield advantage in the playoffs was granted to the victorious team).

It is, for the MLB, a very big deal.

But, as much as I adore baseball—and I freaking adore baseball—I hate the All Star Break.

Like, despise it.

It means FIVE. ENTIRE. DAYS. WITHOUT. THE BLUE JAYS.

Also, the game is boring and meaningless, the uniforms are often disgustingly ugly, and, aside from the players, the two-day event celebrates the worst part of the sport: the MLB.

In their recent book, Loving Sports When They Don’t Love You Back: Dilemmas of the Modern Fan, journalists Jessica Luther and Kavitha A. Davidson grapple with some of the major concerns confronting fans: brain trauma in the NFL, racist mascots and anti-LGBTQIA2S+ practices, college programs that don’t pay their athletes, the harm caused to local communities by the Olympics, and many others. In terms of baseball, they primarily consider the free market model that precludes a salary cap and the prevalence of domestic abusers in the league.

Their basic conclusion, at least from my reading, is that professional sports are inherently embedded in larger political, economic, cultural, and social structures that influence the decisions made and the directions taken. Alongside continued advocacy and smart consumer choices, they suggest, individuals must determine their own ethical limits. Balance social justice struggles with the realities of modern-day athletics.

And, so, during this five-day, League-imposed break from my boys of summer, I want to consider my love of the sport, chronicle some of my concerns, and consider whether there a way to square my moral commitments with my support for a morally questionable pastime?

Or, must I hold my nose and compartmentalize my politics in order to enjoy baseball?

Happy All Star Break!

For the Love of the Game

In October 1993, two months into my grade eleven year, the Toronto Blue Jays won the World Series for the second year in a row.

That summer, I had met a boy. A tall, funny, smart, cute boy.

And he loved baseball. Hockey, basketball, and football too, but he was consumed by the Blue Jays’ attempt to repeat. And, honestly, I was consumed by him.

I would do anything to spend time together. Even watch boring baseball. 

But, a funny thing happened on the way to that championship: I fell in love with the Blue Jays.

I was, I guess you could say, a bandwagon jumper.

Frankly, it hasn’t been great.

In the nearly thirty years since that World Series victory, my team has only made the playoffs three times (2015, 2016, and 2020), and, aside from the sheer pleasure of experiencing Roy Halladay starts every five days (that poor man probably lost more complete games than most pitchers ever threw), the period from 1995 to 2014 should be considered the Dark Days.

The problem was: I was hooked.

Baseball is not, it turns out, boring. There is always something happening, even if it isn’t always obvious, and, the more you learn about the game, the more interesting it becomes.

It relies heavily on statistics—sometimes to the point of hilarity, like a hitter who has a .350 average against left-handed pitchers on Sundays—but numbers can be comforting. Reassuring. Measurable and comparable. Objective.

There is no clock, counting down the time remaining; an inning takes as long as required to get three outs. But, for half that time, during your team’s turn at bat, there is zero risk of the other club scoring runs, providing a nice break during stressful games.

It is the only manageable sport, in my opinion, for those of us with anxiety.

It is also, like life, all about failure. A player who gets a hit in one-out-of-three plate appearance is almost guaranteed a spot in the hall of fame. The question is: how do you brush it off and do it all over again the following day?

Players (and fans) must have short memories because, regardless of what happened today, tomorrow is another game and anything can happen. The score always resets to zero and, on any given day, either team has a decent chance to win.

Because there are so many games, fans get to know the players, experiencing, with them, a whole lot of highs and lows. We get to know their personalities and, like a favourite television show, we get attached to their various quirks.

And, across baseball, there are plenty of characters.

There’s L.A. Dodgers pitcher Tony Gonsolin who publicly recognizes Caturdays by wearing cat-theme t-shirts under his jersey and, this season, sporting cat-themed cleats. Current Los Angeles Angel Noah Syndegaard launched a book club to try to “make reading fun again.” Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Steven Brault recently released an album of Broadway cover songs and Texas Rangers pitcher Jon Gray investigates haunted houses during his free time. Mets outfielder Mark Canha is a foodblogger, while White Sox pitcher Dylan Cease obsessively plays frisbee golf. On my Toronto Blue Jays, there’s Lourdes Gurriel Jr., nicknamed Pińapower Jr. for his wild hairdo, Ross Stripling, who worked as a financial advisor in the pandemic shutdown, “happy warrior” Vladimir Guerrero Jr., who is always smiling and playful in the dugout, and so many other interesting and fun individuals.

In baseball, though, one person cannot carry a team through an entire season to a World Series victory. Superstars exist, of course, but as Mike Trout and Shohei Ohtani on the Angels, Juan Soto on the Nationals, and Bryce Harper on the Phillies demonstrate, it takes more than a single threat to reach the top.

The players are exceptionally talented athletes, able to bat and field their positions impressively well. It is pure joy to witness a perfectly-turned double-play, a dominant pitching performance, or a particularly successful night at the plate. I can (and do) spend hours each day watching “my boys” do what they do best.

Even better, is going to the ballpark and seeing a game live. The warm sun on your face, the buzz of the crowd vibrating your seat, the mouth-watering scents of hotdogs and popcorn enveloping your senses.

A bunch of young (impressively fit) men running around in matching uniforms for a few hours, showing off their impressive talents.

There are thirty different stadiums in the league, each unique. Each a character in the story.

There’s the stupid short-porch in right-field at Yankee Stadium that results in a ridiculous number of homeruns. There’s the vast foul territory at the Coliseum in Oakland that means most popups are playable. There’s the fans in Atlanta doing a racist chant that makes me turn the game off immediately. Each one is an entry on about a million bucket lists.

It’s the best.

The Major Leagues’ Bad Deeds

But… is it? Really?

Regardless of my enjoyment of the game (and my team), there is no doubt that Major League Baseball has significant issues. Some are easier to address than others, but each adds to my discomfort with the game.

As someone committed to social justice struggles, I sometimes feel icky supporting the sport.

There is, as Luther and Davidson demonstrate, a disturbing lack of parity among players and teams, a result of the free market approach, resulting in a lack of pay equity and a number of practically uncompetitive teams.

There is, despite recent disciplinary changes, a tendency to reward domestic abusers like Aroldis Chapman, Marcell Ozuna, Yasiel Puig, and, most likely following his current leave, Trevor Bauer with large contracts and international platforms. Each additional example makes my stomach turn.

Organizationally, the MLB is, as academic Michael Serazio describes, “defined by a small-c conservatism, of the Edmund Burke sort. Baseball tinkers with rule changes — feebly snipping a few minutes off game length, here and there — while a digital world whooshes by, accelerating and disrupting our lives, and other sports happily remake and contort themselves for that media spectacle.”

This conservatism stretches to politics as well.

Recently, following the mass shooting at an elementary school in Uvalde, Texas, San Francisco Giants Manager (and perfect male specimen) Gabe Kapler announced his intention to sit during the national anthem “until [he feels] better about the direction of our country.” A few years ago, he and a few Giants players knelt to protest racial injustice and provide a voice for others.

But, he is an anomaly.

Former Blue Jays first-baseman, Carlos Delgado, is one of few others. The bilingual American citizen (born in Puerto Rico) felt confident enough to speak out against the 2003 invasion of Iraq, retreating to the clubhouse during the seventh inning when, following 9/11, “God Bless America” would play. This is not the case for many players.

In part, the reluctance to engage in political discussions connects to the racial demographics of the league; on Opening Day of the 2022 season approximately thirty per cent of the players were Hispanic or Latino, seven per cent Black, two percent Asian, one per cent Hawaiian/Pacific Islander or Native American, and the remaining sixty per cent white.

Black players, like Adam Jones, have been mobilizing against the racism they experience on a daily basis, forming The Players Alliance to fight for social justice and equality. However, they comprise an increasingly small proportion of club rosters and face horrifying backlash for their efforts.

Moreover, as Delgado reflects: “If you’ve got 30 to 40 percent Latino players, that’s a lot of mostly Spanish-speaking players that not all of them are completely fluent in English…and sometimes they’re looking for their American citizenship and they don’t want to speak out against the establishment.” Many are coming from impoverished areas and communities, hoping to support their families, and the risks associated with activism are often seen, justifiably, to be too great.

It would take several books to chronicle the many ways racism is deeply embedded in Major League baseball, but, some of the most offensive examples might include: the “unwritten rules” and demands to play the game “the right way”; the series of barriers that limit opportunities for African Americans to become major league pitchers (similar to quarterbacks in the NFL); the funnelling of Latin American kids into baseball academies where they sacrifice education (and leave their communities) for a one-in-a-million shot at the big leagues; and, even if they make it, the relatively low pay they receive (about twelve per cent less according to a 2014 study).

In addition, Major League Baseball has become, not unlike the NFL, heavily militarized. Teams wear (disgusting) camo hats and uniforms and regularly recognize active and retired personnel, the skies above their stadiums available to screaming fighter jets, racing through the clouds.

It is, as an anti-imperialist socialist, incredibly difficult to stomach.

Also nauseating are the speciality uniforms—for Mother’s Day, Players Weekend, the All Star game, and, every year, it seems a million other niche events. A few aren’t horrifyingly gross, but, to be blunt, their only purpose is to sell more jerseys and further pad the pockets of already wildly wealthy owners.

And, this, ultimately is my main problem with the MLB: It is, at is core, a business, and every decision is intended to increase profits. Ethics and morals, even the game itself, takes a back seat to this capitalist endeavour.

What, then, is a socialist, who adores elite baseball, to do?

Loving Baseball When It Definitely Doesn’t Love You Back

Sports are emotionally tumultuous.

Each game, each inning, has the potential for success or defeat. For excitement or disappointment. For joy or heartache.

One day, you’re on top of the world, winning it all, and, then, for the next thirty years, you’re tortured by mediocre teams and terrible seasons. It can be a overwhelming.

But, sports can hurt in other ways too.

They reflect some of the worst aspects of our society—the greed, the racism, the militarism, the misogyny, the violence—and bring out the worst in humanity.

It is appalling, really, how much we are willing to abandon our morals to support our favourite game.

And, yet, I cannot quit.

I cannot abandon my boys.

They offer a useful distraction from the shitty world, a break from the mentally and emotionally exhausting work of social change, and, for now, I can mostly ignore the painful parts. The unethical parts.

And I can write about a better league, a more political league, and imagine a different world.

But, only until the Blue Jays sign Aroldis Chapman (or someone like him).

I pray to the baseball gods that never happens.

Go Jays!