This past week another sport continued the spectacle known as the draft. Baseball held its annual event, which has so many rounds that it might still be taking place, though this is largely uncorroborated since no one really chooses to pay attention, unless you live in Altoona. Once the domain of wartime conscription, breweries, and the cause of complaints levied by the patrons of a typical Florida-based early bird-special eatery, the term has continued to grow exponentially in the arena of sports. In fact, football’s yearly occasion involves ESPN analysts hauling out Big Boards so massive that you could crush a man with them.
When baseball holds its draft, unlike those of the other major sports, there is really no frenzied anticipation. After all, it might be years before the pick sees the light of day, if he ever does. And, how many folks are really interested in watching the baseball version of reading a shopping list out loud? (“And with the thirteenth pick, the Cubs select the generic brand detergent.”) Best of all, there are fifty rounds. Hey, even Roberto Duran uttered “No mas!” after enduring fewer punches. Fifty equals a root canal-and-a-half. Of course, in this day and age of media saturation the draft is televised to provide justification for not moving from the prone position for three days.
First of all, a primer. MLB’s draft is known as the First-Year Player Draft, or the Rule 4 Draft, presumably in reference to baseball’s first three rules: Do not keep your PEDs in a Pez dispenser, “misremember” is not a word, and thou shalt lie early and often. Baseball’s draft is also the only one that runs during the season, a perfect soporific to break up the dog days of summer. Not only is it the hardball’s ode to War and Peace but it might possibly be the only sport where teams sometimes choose not to select players in the later rounds or sometimes do so as a favor, drafting the sons of team managers and GMs and even the daughter, as the Chicago White Sox did in 1993 for their general manager. By the way, picking Roy Hobbes in the 48th round doesn’t necessarily ensure that you’ll soon be replacing the scoreboard, but you never know.
Baseball’s draft is also too much of a crapshoot (with the emphasis on the first four letters). With so many factors to take into account and trying to grade a prospect straight out of high school or college, the scouts sometimes, well, strike out. The list of first overall picks in the annals of the MLB draft include a number of schlubs. For every Ken Griffey, Jr., Alex Rodriguez, and Shawon Dunston, there is a Brien Taylor, Bryan Bullington, and Matt Bush, making a GM’s ultimate choice on who to draft look no more technical than a game of inebriated darts.
In the name of objectivity (perhaps the first and last time, this sentence will be written on this keyboard), two of the first three picks will not be discussed as they both went to UCLA — this writer’s alma mater — other than to say there were two Bruins and no Trojans taken in that span; I kid, I kid. The other picks in the first round serve as an eclectic mishmash. There were two Tylers and two Taylors taken (but no Tippecanoe), not to mention Archie and a Bundy. (I checked, the latter didn’t go to Polk High.)
There was a Bubba and a Spangenberg, as well as an apparent oxymoron, with the Oakland A’s selection of Sonny Gray. The Mets found Nimmo, apparently his first name was Brandon all along. Levi meet Hager: the Twins and Rays both apparently needing pants to add to their wardrobe. The Red Sox took Matt Barnes, perhaps figuring that he would jump at the chance to try a new sport after his disappointing season with the Lakers. Winning the title last year, there was no need for the Giants to worry, but their selection of Joe Panik would suggest otherwise. Boston also drafted a Swihart for their catcher. I’m interested to see what the first collision at home plate is going to be like. The Cincinnati Reds took a flyer on Robert Stephenson. Just don’t be surprised if he has his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde moments.
While baseball’s selection event still continues to creep out of the shadows, from its days of a bunch of company men sitting around in drab clothing shouting out their choices over an antiquated speaker phone to the current day of wearing drab clothing in front of TV cameras, the drafts of other sports continue to change as well. Hockey’s spectacle still has a ways to go, but at least it’s no longer sharing a ballroom with the local freshman mixer. Basketball and football’s drafts have become big time, primetime events. Sure, there is the occasional frozen envelope in addition to New York and Philadelphia fans booing anything on two legs, but the spectacle of watching one’s favorite team selecting the future superstar/scapegoat certainly has allure. 42 million Americans watched this year’s football draft, indulging in a three-day exhibition of three-piece suits, jammed full of jargon, and chocked full of cliché.
Sports’ relentless schedule affords no breaks these days. Between bass-fishing tournaments, the occasional bowl-a-rama, and cheerleading exhibitions, there really is no time to look away from the glowing screen. Now the American sports-viewing public is bombarded with professional sports drafts. I can’t help but be a little intrigued despite all the bashing. After all, the next time I run into a used-car salesman, I’d like to be able to tell them I remember when they were drafted.
