The Tie that Lost Baseball

WHAT AN EMBARRASSMENT.

In the days leading up to Major League Baseball's All-Star Game, few people were talking about the actual contest ahead--instead focusing on "labor" issues, contraction, steroids. The game was supposed to change all of that. After all, as we were constantly reminded earlier this week, this one is for the fans.

Instead, the 2002 All-Star Game ended to a chorus of boos when, in the 11th inning, the game was called off. A pathetic 7-7 tie. The teams, we are told, "ran out of pitchers." Commissioner Bud Selig huddled with managers Joe Torre and Bob Brenly in the middle of the 11th (in the middle of the inning!!) and they all agreed that the game would finish three outs later, no matter the outcome. The All-Star MVP Award, named this year for Ted Williams, baseball's greatest hitter who passed away last week, was not awarded. Many fans paid hundreds of dollars each to see the game at high tech Miller Park--retractable roof and all. And they got a tie.

Perhaps we should not have been surprised. With all the revenue-generating activity now built around the All-Star Game, it's been clear for years that the game itself was of secondary importance.

All-Star week in Milwaukee this year included a massive exhibition in the Midwest Express Center downtown. Kids could get autographs. They could watch a baseball being stitched together. They could see bats carved from wood. They could take their best cuts in a state-of-the-art batting cage. They could even pitch to a video screen, trying to strike out their virtual heroes.

And there was the home-run derby. It was moderately entertaining. Sammy Sosa pounded multiple 500-foot homers in the semifinals, and Jason Giambi bested him in the finals. Of course, the 'roid question wasn't far from many fans minds.

After that came the "celebrity" softball game which featured a handful of former baseball all-stars, ESPN commentators, and third-rate celebrities--Coolio, Picabo Street, the bearded guy from "The West Wing," and someone--whose name escapes me--described by the announcers as "a famous Canadian soul singer." As it turns out, the softball game provided a nice contrast to the actual All-Star game, with several of the amateurs playing as if their lives depended on a victory. At one point, corpulent comedian Kevin James ("King of Queens") tried to stretch a double into a triple and, in a deliberate collision intended to jar the ball loose, nearly obliterated the third baseman, diminutive Olympic speedskater Derrick Parra, who surprisingly, didn't cry and blow kisses to his wife.

And then came the tie and the excuses. At the post-game press conference, baseball commissioner Bud Selig said that he was just sick about having to call the game. (Let it be noted that his demeanor--the constant shoulder-shrugging--throughout the interview session sent precisely the opposite message.) Managers Joe Torre and Bob Brenly said they owed it to the other managers around the league not to return their big stars tired. The pitchers, especially the closers, just couldn't be asked to exert any more than they already had. Even though no pitcher went more than 2 innings. (Their argument about relief pitchers was preemptively undermined by the American League's starting pitcher, Derek Lowe, who had been an ineffectual reliever for the Boston Red Sox last year.)

Even if you accept the lame argument about running out of pitchers, there were several options more attractive than calling the game: Have field players pitch. Or if you're open to messing with the rules (calling the game a tie, for example), why not allow the managers to reinsert pitchers who have already been pulled? Geez, why not have the managers lob some pitches themselves--coach-pitch style? At least that would have been entertaining and fans would have appreciated the effort.

Perhaps most dispiriting was the reaction of the players. Watching them, one after another, say that they agreed with the decision was positively infuriating. There was only one exception. Kansas City's Mike Sweeney said he felt like the Bad News Bears player who, faced with a similar situation, threw down his glove and said, "Just let us play!" Maybe Sweeney should get the MVP for at least giving lip service to the spirit of competition.

It's fitting, for me, that this travesty happened in Milwaukee, my hometown, where my love affair with baseball, courtesy of the Milwaukee Brewers, flourished for years. Even before Harvey's Wallbangers won the AL pennant in 1982 (only to lose in the World Series to the St. Louis Cardinals and a-hole pitcher Joaquin Andujar), I could, on any given summer day, recite the entire roster--including player positions, numbers, batting averages and, in many cases, hometowns