An Obituary for Baseball

People think social criticism is easy.

It's not. It takes a Commitment to Excellence to separate from every other internet hack with his finger of the Pulse of America. 

Writing fundamentals matter. The best form of practice is to work on The Standards. By this, I mean tackling classic subjects with an eye towards technique rather than originality. 

All creative disciplines have Standards. Every jazz musician can play Autumn Leaves and I've Got Rhythym. Every painter has done a still life of a fruit bowl. Every French chef can make an omelette. 

In social criticism, the Death of Baseball is fun and timeless. Each author makes it his own while staying within these guidelines:

1) Baseball is either dead or terminally ill. There can be no recovery. 

2) This demise is symptomatic of deeper social ills.

3) The tone is self-righteous.

4) Providing evidence to make your case is discouraged. 

With this in mind, I give you The Death of Baseball. 

Last Sunday, four men entered the Baseball Hall of Fame, or should I say, the Sarcophagus of the Great American Pastime. Yes, it's true that baseball is dead in the United States. In the past, writers blamed the younger generation. They saw baseball as a mature, cerebral, and detailed game that flew over the heads of addled youngsters. They were wrong. In fact, it's the older generations that have killed baseball. 

Let's start with the game's mortal wound: PED's. Nothing is more symptomatic of the deep spiritual rot of the Post-War America. While steroid and HGH use spiked from the mid-1980's on, we must not forget the rampant amphetamine use of 'greats' like Willie Mays and Hank Aaron. Baseball writers cry crocodile tears over the tainted Home Run Race of 1998, while waxing nostalgic over that of 1961. Remember? That was the one Mickey Mantle lost due to an abscess from a steroid injection. 

The real tragedy isn't the health risks these players took on. Rather, they cheapened the consummate team game into an exhibition of statistical vanity. The fallout can be seen on major league rosters today, as players such as Alex Rodriguez and David Ortiz, play on solely for money and a chance to climb the all-time home run list. Without a care for how their diminished skills hurt their teams, they slug away, landing another blow on the Dead Horse of Baseball with every lumbering trot around the bases. 

Ty Cobb and Honus Wagner never cared about counting stats or home run lists. They played to win. That used to be the only thing this country knew how to do. 

Nowadays, the game is practically played by stat crunchers. SABR, that glorified consortium of amateur accountants continues its crusade against the last noble outpost of pre-industrial life. The modern player is no longer a man, but a string of digits. No wonder players were so willing to pump their bodies full of dangerous supplements. What does it matter to something so unhuman?

They may be able to quantify the sound of a bat cracking on a ball, but not the way it makes the hair stand up on a young boy's arm. They can track a center fielder as he chases a fly ball, but what of the way fresh cut grass supports yet yields to his cleat?

The game has ceased to be human. It is like a fresh corpse after a long illness; bearing a passing resemblance to something once vibrant but wasted by its struggle. 

The Lovecraftian Horrorscape in Light of the Most Recent Science

The images of Pluto from NASA's New Horizons mission have been the buzz of the scientific community. Among the data, we now have the best images yet of the Cthulhu Regio. This is an exciting development that gives fresh insight into the pre-Earthern existence of the Great Old One.

The midnight hued Regio is dated to 1 billion years old, consistent with the accepted dates of the struggle between Cthulhu and the Elder Things prior to his entombment in the sunken city of R'yleh. The dark hydrocarbon layer that covers the Regio is likely fallout from this ancient battle. Furthermore, the heavy cratering indicates this was an area of intense bombardment, perhaps a critical urban center similar to that reported by Danforth in Antarctica. 

Beyond the scientific community, these interpretations face criticism. Human worshipers of Chtulhu place the age of R'yleh at vigntillions of years; a number inconsistent with the age of the Earth. Furthermore, mad philosophers drawing on the Necronomicon identify Chtulhu and his extraterrestrial followers as 'star spawn,' indicating origin beyond the solar system. However, hierolinguists of the pre-galactic period are in agreement that this phrase reflects the Old Ones limited understanding of Chtulhu's true origin, and should not be interpreted literally.   

Though the photographic evidence provides a critical window into life before humanity, a new project in Antarctica looks to bring terrestrial geology into the picture. A team of scientists at Columbia University is organizing a drilling expedition to recover samples of the Gamburtsev Mountains. Set thousands of feet beneath the surface ice of Antarctica, the Gamburtsev's are an ever-young mountain range comparable to the Alps. At 1 billion years old, and well-preserved beneath the barren snows, the Gamburtsev's present the best opportunity to recover an intact specimen of an Old One. Of course, there is always the strong possibility of unleashing something of such timeless evil as to make humanity to rue its very existence and pray for a quick return to lifeless star dust.