Sent to Bed Without a Championship

Last night, for the first time ever, a World Series games was "suspended." Not "delayed." Not "postponed." Not "rained out." It was "suspended," as if it had taken HGH or hung around with Adam Jones. For the 1st time in 604 World Series games, Monday's Game 5 was "suspended."

Last night's game could not go on. That was not only obvious to Commissioner Bud Selig, the field crew and grounds crew, it was also obvious to even the most casual baseball fan. And since this was a World Series game, there were millions of them watching. My wife, who wouldn't understand the intricacies of baseball even if Oprah committed an hour show to it, commented that baseball players were "wusses" as she flipped over to fall asleep.

It got me thinking. Are baseball players really just "wusses?" The truth is, babseball isn't played in the pouring rain, not because of its athletes, but because of its rules. You can't throw a proper off-speed pitch with a soaked ball. You can't plant your front leg to get your weight behind a swing in the mud. You simply can't play defense on slick grass. Sure, weather changes football games a bit, but sloppy, snowy football games are a lot more fun to watch. Since ultimately, sports is entertainment, that somehow makes it justifiable. Wet baseball is not better baseball; it's not even more interesting baseball. Rain changes the game incredibly. It provides an offensive advantage that is antithetical to the strategy and execution of the game itself.

The proof was in last night's pudding, as the pudding itself puddled around second base. Jimmy Rollins had no shot at grounding a ball within his reach. Cole Hamels, an off-speed pitcher, looked helpless as he shook off both signs and the sloshing splashes of a soaked cap. Carlos Ruiz had no shot at BJ Upton, who took second base easily, using the base paths as a Slip'N'Slide. By the top of the 5th innning, in the year's most important baseball game, the weather had altered the game impossibly.

I am the last person in the world to defend the Philadelphia Phillies (Go Mets!), but they got hosed last night. Carlos Pena answered Bud Selig's prayers. The commissioner, placed in a horrific, Halloween-style horror show, lose/lose situation thanks to the fickleness of Philadelphia autumns, probably prayed. I imagine he got right down on his knobby knees, luxury-box pretzel in hand, and begged the baseball Gods for a Rays score. A Rays score that would allow him to send an entire city...a drunk, celebration-ready city...to bed without a championship. A Rays score that would make it ok to change the rules without riots. And Pena (previously hitless in the Series, mind you) answered. He knocked in Upton and made "calling" the game easy.

But Selig didn't "call" the game. He made up a "call." He didn't hand the Phillies the first-ever truncated baseball championship. And he couldn't have. No one would've wanted that. So what do baseball people want?

The fans want a dry night to celebrate, sure, but they also want fairness and good baseball. They want a home game championship. The players want to play their game under fair conditions. MLB wants more games and more TV revenue. The Rays want four innings worth of hope, even though Rays hits in this Series have been as sparse as Sarah Pailin's resume. The Phillies want to win the title in a full, home game. They want champagne and a packed house. They want dry grass to roll around on when they win the World Series, and frankly, they deserve it.

So, I understand Selig's personal decision to throw out the rules on this one. It was the right thing to do, but his timing was terrible, even dangerous. Even unfair. If the commish was gonna throw out the rules anyway, how could he possibly justify allowing the game to go on in a typhoon? How could he put the players, the rules and the integrity of baseball on the line? How could he not tell anyone? The answer is simple...to save his own ass. Because Carlos Pena's bat made it impossible for the Phillies, its management, its players, and the entire, God forsaken City of Brotherly Love, to stand up and object to the commissioner's rule change. Selig handed the Rays a run on a soaking wet, slippery silver platter by allowing the game to go on under ridiculous conditions. All to save a little face. Ah, the new brand of leadership.