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.
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.
