This Time It Counts! But Should It?

When I was younger and spent my summers at a camp in upstate New York, one of my favorite nights of the entire eight-week experience was the second Tuesday of July.  After dinner, any camper who was a baseball fan got to go to the assembly hall and watch the Major League Baseball All Star Game projected on a giant screen.  As the ultimate sports dork even fifteen years ago, I used to make my own scorecard out of a piece of looseleaf paper (normally reserved for writing letters home) and meticulously note each at bat, defensive replacement, pinch hitter and relief pitcher.  I'd look at the scorecard days after the game had passed, marveling at how David Justice had played CF for a few innings or how Randy Johnson was used in an eighth inning set-up role.  It was fun to see the game's biggest stars play out of position, generating situations and match-ups that could only exist at the Midsummer Classic.

That's all changed, now that the game "counts."  The National League won the All Star Game last night for the first time since 1996, largely because Phillies manager Charlie Manuel coached the exhibition like he would an important regular season contest or playoff game.  He filled his bullpen with relief pitchers who are used to throwing pressure-packed innings late in ballgames, and had a few situational lefties at his disposal to battle the AL's biggest bats.  He carried a number of top defensive players, and had Marlon Byrd and Michael Bourn partrolling the outfield when it mattered most.  He selected a utility player to round out his roster so that he'd be prepared if he needed a spare corner outfielder or infielder.  It was smart.  It was savvy.  It was kind of boring.

Baseball's All Star Game is a supposedly an exhibition engineered for the fans' entertainment.  This makes it alright when the "fans" (in quotation marks, because no one that votes in Yadier Molina as an All Star Game starter can be considered an actual baseball fan) make mistakes when voting for starting lineups; let the people see who they want to see, and use the bench to recognize the other players who truly deserve to be All Stars.  This provides justification for the "every team must have an All Star" rule; fans of every team will be tuning in to watch, so each team should be represented by at least one player (even if that player is hitting .255 with one HR at the break).  This is why it makes sense to let everyone play, and absolves AL manager Joe Girardi from sending up Adrian Beltre, John Buck and Ian Kinsler while down two runs in the bottom of the ninth when Evan Longoria, Joe Mauer and Robinson Cano had started the game in those slots.

As we know, though, the game is no longer just an exhibition.  Since 2003, the game has been used to determine the always-important home field advantage in the World Series, which has turned the contest into nothing more than a giant question mark.  Are managers supposed to let everyone play, or keep their starters in if the game is close in order to try and win?  Shouldn't the best players be elected starters rather than the fan picks?  Or should the best players actually all be on the bench, since the bench players are the ones playing in the critical late innings anyway?  Does it make any sense for players from teams with absolutely no World Series aspirations to determine the fate of those that do?  Bob Costas summarized the situation perfectly just this past Monday:

"I have no problem if they want to include a Baltimore Oriole or Pittsburgh Pirate, but if you're then going to say that a bloop single by that Baltimore Oriole or Pittsburgh Pirate — in an exhibition game, in the least typical game all year — could decide or influence the most important game played all season long, the seventh game of a World Series, this defies all logic."

Last night's game perfectly showed the flaw in the "This Time It Counts!" philosophy.  Jor Girardi, for the most part, managed the game like a typical All Star Game and lost, meaning that if his Yankees make the World Series they'll be playing Game One in someplace like Atlanta or Los Angeles or St. Louis.  Charlie Manuel combined old-school All Star managerial techniques with actual baseball strategy and won, though as it currently stands his Phillies won't even be in the playoffs, let alone playing in late October.  Marlon Byrd saved the game for the NL with a key defensive play; his team is eleven games under .500 and in fourth place.  John Buck failure deliver in a key situation in the ninth crushed the AL's chances; his team is under .500 and also in fourth place.  Alex Rodriguez of the first place Yankees ended the game on the bench, his .304 career batting average in 597 home runs going to waste.  How does any of this make sense in a game that will dictate who gets the last at bat in Game Seven of the World Series?

Major League Baseball made the game count in order to generate increased interest in the exhibition, but instead created a contest where situatioal relievers and role players decide the game.  In overreacting to the 2002 tie, Commissioner Bud Selig and MLB executives created an uncomfortable situation where the managers are expected to simultaneously try to win and let everyone play.  As a die-hard National League baseball fan, I appreciated Charlie Manuel's winning strategy and I'm glad the NL finally won (with Brian McCann of the Braves winning the MVP, no less).  But when I think back to the kid who used to love staring at the All Star Game scorecard, I can't help but long for the days when the Midsummer Classic didn't count for anything at all.