In Defense of the Home Run Derby

It has become all too commonplace amongst sports media elitists to suggest that the Home Run Derby, much like rotten milk, stale bread and Aerosmith, is well past its prime. If you've listened to enough sports radio and heard the talking heads on ESPN over the course of the last few days, you'd swear the Home Run Derby was a relic from the horse-and-buggy era, an event that has long worn out its welcome and is now passed out on the couch like Uncle Jack after a few boilermakers. Worst of all, though...

It's a meaningless exhibition.

God Forbid That, of course. We can't have meaningless exhibitions in a sport where the Pirates and Nationals and the Royals and Orioles routinely play each other even when both teams are about 25 games out of their respective divisions, and the outcome of the game itself is, um, meaningless.

Except in the truly phenomenal games does sports ever mean anything at all. I went to an Astros-Pirates game with two of my closest friends for my 30th birthday, and we had a great time. 'Stros won too, 6-4. Can't say the game itself changed my life, my perspective or altered my thought process in an impactful, soul-altering sort of way. Neither the Astros nor the Pirates will probably figure into the NL Central race, so the outcome was likely void of meaning. But it was a great day at the ball park and we had one hell of a good time, having drinks, watching the game, and busting each other chops. Probably spent a little too much money, but such is life.

In other words, JKIII, Brad and I saw a meaningless exhibition, and I really don't care. Lance Berkman wasn't having some sort of existential conflict playing first base. I seriously doubt that Astros manager Cecil Cooper was contemplating a double switch via Socratic method. Nor do I think I think Michael Bourne views his center field position as an extension of Nietchze's theory of religion (God is Dead. Just like potential triples hit to the flag pole on the hill at Minute Maid Park).

Sports can teach us many things, and perhaps I sometimes think a little too hard about what particular outcomes could mean in a much broader context. But at the end of the day, baseball, and sports in general, aren't philosophy classes. Why these sports pundits are all of sudden concerned with meaning when most of their lives are spent talking about nothing is beyond me.

But just in case they need a reason to care about something so utterly frivilous as the Home Run Derby, here I am to share a brief story of enlightenment.



I had the distinct honor and privilege of attending the 2004 Home Run Derby and All-Star Game. Mom, Dad, Grandma Tray and I arrived at Minute Maid Park literally hours before the festivities just to watch batting practice.

Let's stop right there for a second. The four of us drove into Houston, fought traffic and found parking to show up and watch a bunch of guys hit a baseball for no other reason than for warming up and practice.



Nothing that Alex Rodriguez, Ken Griffey Jr. or Albert Pujols hit counted towards anything at all. It was the very definition of meaningless. After all, we were talkin' 'bout batting practice. Not the All-Star game. Not the Home Run Derby. We were talkin' 'bout batting practice.

How silly was that?

Simply put, we were in awe. Especially of Pujols. Keep in mind, this is pre-2005 so Pujols wasn't Public Enemy #1 in Houston just yet. Pujols and his peers kept hitting perfectly curved comets of leather and stitching into the nether regions of Minute Maid Park, slipping the surly bonds of Earth only to crash with a rickety thud into the vacant Crawford Box seats. Pujols, himself, hit a few shots that Rube Goldberged their way across the train tracks above the bleachers.

It was like watching a 4th of July fireworks display conducted by a pyromaniac. Shots flying everywhere in any which direction, full of oohing and ahhing and a smattering of "Holy crap, that was pretty cool."

A few hours later, ESPN began the broadcast of the Home Run Derby by bringing onto the field every living member of the 500 Home Run Club. Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Reggie Jackson and my father's hero, Ernie Banks were all introduced by Chris Berman to the spastic Houston crowd.

Shortly after the introduction, we all cheered on our hometown guy, Lance Berkman, as he made the second round of the Derby. I think he had eight home runs, none of which were of prodigious note. I distinctly recall Dad and I admiring the hell out of Rafael Palmeiro's swing. Little did we know he was juicing at the time, but damn...his swing was as smooth as Billy Dee. Rafael Palmeiro might have been roided out of his mind, but that night it was like he was swinging equal parts of velvet and Godiva, Jameson's 18 and Sinatra at The Sands. During that first round, I developed a veritable man-crush on Raffy's swing. I have no shame in admitting this.

The second round was perhaps most memorable. Minute Maid Park pulled back the retractable roof and let Lance Berkman take dead aim at Crawford Street. Right around about the seventh or eighth home run, he wasn't just hitting them on to the street. He was smacking light poles on Crawford Street. He forced accidental pedestrians to duck for cover like they were in the middle of a misbegotten hail storm. Lance Berkman became Genghis Khan with a Louisville Slugger, and every baseball he saw was China. He crushed them further and further into the Houston night, exiling the baseballs some 520 feet away, sentencing them to solitary confinement far beyond the maddened crowd.

Berkman could hit only a few more home runs, finishing with ten, an incredibly respectable number in the second round. Miguel Tejada stepped up quietly afterwards, and while he didn't hit them as far, he carefully measured each shot precisely into the Crawford Boxes, only 315 feet away. He not only won the round from Berkman, but also won what was the all-time record for most home runs hit in a round with 15. Furthermore, he ended up pulling a Maximus and winning the crowd as well. A crowd that had already cheered its hometown hero with delirious praise. Dad and I actually gave Tejada a standing ovation, and remarked how much we'd love to have him on the Astros someday.

Tejada ended up defeating Berkman in the final round. I can't even honestly say I remember how many home runs either man hit at the very end. All I can tell you is this, though. The 2004 Home Run Derby was one of the 15 happiest days of my life. No joke. Everything about it was inherently meaningless, true. But watching Berkman and Tejada duel in that second round, watching Palmeiro swing the bat without any degree of effort it seemed, validated all those moments in the driveway re-enacting past Home Run Derbies with Dad and my sister, Caitlin. It validated all those summer days with my cousins playing Home Run Derby in their backyard, and later in the cornfields of Shenandoah, Iowa as well. That meaningless home run derby? Like hell, it is.

It is the connection between our past to our present. It is the connection between Banks to Berkman, a bridge so that we may not forget who we were at one time and to remember that it's not too difficult to go back to that place every so often.

Moreover, isn't happiness life's ultimate pursuit? If this is what makes people happy, how can it be meaningless?

So to those grizzled sportwriters, pundits and talking heads, I say this: Embrace your inner child and give it a hug. Grab a wiffle bat and go out to the driveway. Stand their with the bat in your hand, crouching, legs spread apart just like Jeff Bagwell. And just stand there in your Bagwell stance.

For about at least a couple of hours until it really starts to hurt, you pretentious asses.

Revisionist History: What We All Seem To Be Forgetting About Michael Jackson

50 seems about appropriate.

Contrary to what the suddenly gushing press and bloggers seem to be saying, I don't truly believe that Michael Jackson had another comeback in him. I think he could still sell out arenas, yes, but not in a good way.

Michael Jackson touring past 50 years old would have been an inglorious train wreck, featuring a pop culture carnival with PT Barnum on lead guitar and the Elephant Man dancing back-up. Thinking Michael Jackson had one more in him would be like suggesting that Mark McGwire still had at least 100 more home runs in him.

Honestly. Take a step back for a moment. Can you really see an aging Michael Jackson and whatever was left of his face try to carry on with the swagger of Mick Jagger or the grace of Tina Turner?

Honestly?

Simply put, too much damage, permanent and irreversable, had been done too many years ago, and Michael Jackson was too old and too much of a freakshow to make any lasting musical comeback seem like anything other than a novelty act. Maybe Jackson would have been put on some great shows, and maybe he would impressed the media to an extent, but then again, so did Axl Rose with all of his recent performances and Chinese Democracy still went over about as well as a fart in church with the public.

And that was no accident. Similarly, Rose wasted two whole decades as a troubled hermit before he decided to try and become relevant again. His bout with relevance was met with indifference, and not because he wasn't talented. He was and is. And not because Chinese Democracy sucked. It didn't.

But what so many critics failed to realize was that the performances can only be so great. The albums can only be so important. But once the public gets past a certain point, the most important things cannot be forgiven.

The constant controversy involving children. The battered women.

The constantly changing face. The constantly changing time for the concert to start.

The behavior that likened Howard Hughes. The behavior that likened J.D. Salinger.

The undeniable talent forever shrouded by what they had done, and what they had failed to do, not by what they had truly accomplished.

I can't help but think that a 50-year-old, a 60-year-old, a 70-year-old Michael Jackson performing would have had all the impact of Mike Tyson in The Hangover.

Amusing? Yes. Occasionally brilliant? Perhaps. Slightly more than pathetic? Absolutely.

One night a few years ago at a bar in Downtown Austin, Brad and I were going to play bocce ball and have a few drinks when one of the TVs stuck on ESPN Classic started replaying old fights of a young Mike Tyson. We were mesmerized. We abandoned our company, quit talking to women and simply watched Tyson kick ass and dominate for close to an hour.

He was young, in his prime and nobody had ever come along and dominated quite the way he did in the late 1980s. Not Ali, not Lewis, not Foreman. Tonight, I watched a young Michael Jackson in his prime on YouTube, and I can honestly say nobody had ever come along and dominated quite the way he did in the early 1980s. Not The Beatles, not Elvis, not Zeppelin.

But just like Tyson, Jackson had become a sad, cliched punchline. Always good for a laugh, and a constant reminder of eccentricity gone horribly wrong. I don't think anybody would enjoy seeing a 50-year-old Michael Jackson trying to dominate the way he did when he was 20 any moreso than watching a 50-year-old Tyson, a 50-year-old Rose, a 50-year-old McGwire try to recapture a glory that had been tainted so long ago by unforgivable sins, and a public that can no longer embrace, but has chosen to make fun of them.

Perhaps on Friday morning and throughout the weekend, nobody will be here talk about the past. Perhaps most people will simply choose to forget and forgive Michael Jackson now that he's dead. Artistically, it's always the more convenient choice.

But I will talk about the past. And it was the past that dictated how so many people truly felt about Michael Jackson up until today.

If It Matters At All: Thoughts on Manny Ramirez

I can honestly tell you that I remember everything about the moment, all except for the Blue Jay who foolishly pitched to Manny Ramirez.

Six weeks into the 2004 season, early May I believe. 2-2 count, and some middle relief rack threw a slider to Manny that didn't dive. It hung there suspended in mid-air as if the baseball were on an invisible tee that only Manny Ramirez could see. I was drinking a Magic Hat #9, and started to choke on a swig, as he began to swing. He hadn't even connected just yet, but I knew what the hell was going to happen.

Manny Ramirez was going to hit the ball harder than any human being ever had before. Bat connected with baseball. Beer went flying out my nose.

Seriously.

Magic Hat #9, the only good thing to ever have come out of Vermont, went shrieking out my nose burning like cocaine in reverse. Manny Ramirez freaking destroyed this baseball, not in The Natural Roy Hobbs way. He hit that hanging slider the way Ike hit Tina, or Forrest Gump beat the ever-living shit out of that thug at the Black Panther party. Manny smacked it merciless and cruel like a bad-wielding Machavelli with a stick of black chaw spewing from his gums. Fenway didn't even cheer for Manny. They audibly gasped as if they were trying to keep the $10 beers from coming out of their collective noses as well.

The baseball that Manny Ramirez hit was still ascending over the Coke Bottle behind the Green Monster behind the Citgo sign. That's about 420 feet away and still climbing.

To put that in perspective: The dead center field flagpole at Minute Maid Park in Houston is about 430 feet away. Manny Ramirez's home run that night in Boston would have had a legitimate shot of sailing higher than the flagpole.

The baseball ended up careening off a building, skipping through a parking lot and ended up on the Mass Pike almost 800 feet away. It was unquestionably the most massive shot I have ever seen anyone hit my entire life.

I watched Manny trot around the bases thinking, "Holy crap, there's no way what he just did was humanly possibly."

Turns out, I was right. It wasn't.



Here's the implausible explanation that Manny Ramirez: He has broken junk. The same man who beat a baseball into submission will now take a 50-game vacation for using gonadotropins, or simply put, something prescribed to address erectile dysfunction.

Well, at least he and Rafael Palmeiro now have two things in common, I do suppose.

Maybe more than that now that I really consider it closely. Both had swings that were Grand Canyon at Sunset pretty. Call me naive, but I will never believe steroids would have made their swings better. Steroids improved the results of their at-bats, no doubt, but damn, I'm convinced their swings would have looked just as graceful flailing at air.

They were also unequivocally bad guys, as well, and no, their steroid use isn't indictive of their character. Rafael Palmeiro was arrogant and defiant in front of Congress, lying to everyone and pretty much everything about what he was really doing. Manny may not have lied--at least not that we're aware of--but he was accused of shoving the 60-year-old assistant around (roid rage?), sulked and essentially quit on the Red Sox, forcing a trade to the Dodgers.

And as soon as he got to Los Angeles? He reverted back to the Manny of that night in May 2004, demolishing every baseball in the National League with a wooden, Louisville Slugger-style jackhammer. After the season was done, he held the Dodgers hostage in a Favrian manner, continually toying with them until they gave him a contract that even AIG would have blushed at.

Manny Ramirez, in the Dodgers' mind, was too big to fail.

He did anyway.



Manny Ramirez, Roger Clemens, Alex Rodriguez, Barry Bonds.

Four guys that were unquestionably heading for Immortality. Now they're just four rich bastards that no one will ever trust again. But that's not their problem. Those four guys will simply insulate themselves with their friends, their peers, their hangers-on, their butt-kissers, their groupies and a million other people who will make their excuses for them.

Trust? That's hardly their problem. It's yours.

But there's a greater problem with sports now, and it doesn't have the slightest thing to do with steroids, in and of itself. Sports has a credibility problem, and it's manifesting itself in every possible avenue. Today's news about Manny Ramirez is hardly shocking. Yao Ming picking up three quick fouls in the Rockets loss to the Lakers was NBA refereeing at its finest. Yao picking up three quickies all but ensured a Lakers win, and tied the series up at one a piece.

Hell, I actually bet my friend Brad, a Southern California native and die-hard Laker fan, a bottle of 18-year Jameson's that the Cavs would beat the Lakers IF they both got to the NBA Finals. Simply put, David Stern would rather market the entirely likeable LeBron James, as opposed to probable rapist, Kobe Bryant. I am 100 percent certain of the outcome in the same way that I am certain the sun will rise in the east, this summer will be hot and Amy Winehouse will be ugly tomorrow, the next day or the day after that. It's a foregone conclusion that the NBA refs will ensure the Cavs (read: LeBron) gets their first ring, and then market the hell out of him, trying to make him the next Michael Jordan. And that's why I'll be drinking some of the finest Irish whiskey in the world come late June. It's not because I think the Cavs are better.

It's because the outcome that I'm betting on is more favorable to the business of the NBA.

The BCS is such a farce it's not even worth mentioning. And even the NFL isn't immune from this credibility problem. They have a steroid problem every bit on par with MLB, but people are all too willing to sweep their problems under the rug in the name of gambling, fantasy football and all the other things the make the NFL so popular.

Perhaps I'm wrong about all of these things. Maybe I will watch Brad drink a bottle of my favorite whiskey right in front of my face. And maybe Yao really did pick up those three fouls, and maybe--just maybe--Manny Ramirez really does have broken junk.

But when he comes back 50 games from now, thousands upon thousands of people will flock to Dodger Stadium to watch a man fallen from grace hit a baseball farther than perhaps anyone on the planet ever could.

The sun will shine in Los Angeles, the beers will flow, Vin Scully will wax eloquent about days gone past, Dodger Dogs will taste better than ever.

And Manny Ramirez will round the bases without a care in the world.