Why Baseball’s Golden At-Bat Fools Us
Heroes Can’t Be Pre-Selected
No matter how high someone may have climbed in the game of baseball, there is often the nagging feeling that they could have reached even greater heights. Beyond the sheer challenge of competing, we often hear about other reasons a career might have fallen short. The reasons can range from the plausible—like an injury in high school—to the utterly delusional—like thinking they could have made it if only they were left-handed. This is the byproduct of baseball’s easy relatability. And, nothing makes a sport more relatable than one that feels within reach even at its highest level.
We rationally know the odds are slim even under the best of circumstances. But unlike other sports that rely heavily on certain immutable physical traits like height, weight, or agility, baseball seems to embrace everyone. Success comes from all shapes and sizes.
Of course, that can present a downside for the player who does make it. I know that during my off-seasons at home, I reached a saturation point with “almost made it” stories. If taken personally, it could make the journey to the big leagues seem as simple as the choice to work full-time one summer instead of playing travel ball. But overall, this engagement is a plus, part of a game that continually reminds you of your big league arrival—and how close you were to NOT making it at all.
What I find interesting, though, is that the “could’ve, might’ve, should’ve” exists within the ranks of players who have reached the pinnacle of the game as well. That we could’ve been more, could’ve been in the league longer or sooner, even when, on our way, we feared that our careers might be shorter or even non-existent.
As I have digested the unfinished concept of MLB’s Golden At-Bat, the debate has been fascinating even if the likelihood of the rule being enacted is remote. Once I step out of my “get off of my lawn” boots, I can objectively see other reasons that it could have a negative impact.
In theory, MLB’s Golden At-Bat would allow a team to choose one at-bat per game where they can use any hitter regardless of the player’s position in the batting order or where the team is in the line-up at that moment.
The relatability of baseball gets diminished should there be such a rule. It pre-determines who should be the hero when the strength of baseball lies in the fact that anyone can be the hero. It tips the scales in favor of the superstars, when one of baseball’s most alluring features is that the star could be anyone and need not be super.
A manager’s decision about who becomes the golden hitter might come down to a match-up (left-handed batter or sinker ball hitter). But the point of the rule seems to be getting the best players to the plate at the crescendo—more Juan Soto, more Shohei Ohtani, and fewer pinch hitters and 8-hole batters in the big moment.
I often question what “best” actually means in a sport as diverse as baseball. If I was hitting against Al Leiter, I was Babe Ruth. Against Dustin Hermanson? I was Babe the Pig. Even the stars of the game face pitchers who give them trouble. So, who really is the best for a given at-bat?
When we consider the stars in baseball’s playoff history, they range from Steve Pearce to Travis Ishikawa, from Reggie Jackson to Chase Utley. The spotlight often shines on these players, without pride or prejudice. The magic of those moments has been sprinkled across all roles, making it feel like it could be any one of us. It might not always be true, but as fans, we love the idea that it could be, and that is part of what makes the connection so powerful.
This sentiment began to erode when pitchers stopped hitting. We all understood that pitchers were not great hitters, and that their at-bats were often unproductive. But it also opened up subtle strategic questions for managers about using a pinch hitter or how to use the bunt. For me, pitchers having success at the plate became a bridge to those high school friends that would tell me how they could hit a 95-mph fastball. When a pitcher like Bartolo Colon hit a home run off of a great pitcher, fans won something. It wasn’t just a fun moment; it proved that anything was possible.
We must suspend our understanding of small sample sizes and the necessity for consistent performance to remain a major leaguer. But for the purpose of belief, we only need one example. One pinch-hit single in the 9th from a .175 hitter.
And make no mistake, that .175 hitter was once a star somewhere or maybe still is.
Every big leaguer was a star at some point: a dominant college player, a high school prodigy, the guy that everyone at the stadium watched. The greatness of consistency, of doing it over and over against the best, eventually wears anyone down. Yet, it’s the humility in those poor performance stretches that reminds us of the fragile nature of greatness.
The Golden At-Bat could crown someone who has been consistently great, year in and year out. The player with the biggest contract, quickest bat speed, and most star power. No doubt that would make for must-see TV. We could consider a variety of baseball (or non-baseball) criteria to determine who the golden batter should be, giving him an extra shot at heroism.
In the meantime, we must remember what’s at stake. The shining moments for everyone else, the ones who are stars in their own right—without a script. The guy who made the play that moved the win probability dramatically, without even swinging the bat. The true gold of the game belongs to everyone, from the bench player to the fan. It’s about the element of surprise, and the belief that this moment could be connected to their moment in baseball history. The Golden At-Bat would only widen the gap, giving more gold to those who already have plenty.
I heartily agree. Thank you DG.
Doug is exactly right, but this is a process that began the day that Ron Blumberg became the first-ever designated hitter in 1973.
All of this robs baseball of its place as the most democratic sport ever invented, a sprt in which ANY player, irrspective of the position he plays or even his batting average, can get the game-winning hit, make the game-winning defensive play. Baseball's owners seem determined to emulate football, whose player ranks are stratified like British society, from the lowest defensive players with their un-guaranteed contracts, relatively low papy and short careers, all the way up to the figuratively fair-haired quarterbacks who command the liomn's share of their teams payrolls and adulation.
One of the great things abouut baseball is that it's played outdoors in ballparks that are, each of them, different from all the others. Football, basketball and hockey are played on standardized fields, floors and rinks; the latter two indoors where weather is not a factor.
Baseball's beautry is that it is dependent on so many imponderables -- such as the improbable circumstances that led to Bartolo Colon's home run -- but by their institution of the designated hitter, so that pitchers no longer bat, the elimination of the four-pitch intentional walk (don't we all remember one or two instances of a wild pitch or passed ball on one of these) and other standardized "blandings" (yes, I know there's no such word) of the game, the owners have removed these impoderables one by one.
I've said it before, but I'll keep repeating it: the owners are peddling dog food, trying to pass it off to dumb sucker fans as being fit for human consumption. It is NOT. REJECT what they're feeding you, make your displeasure known. It's the only way, slim as it may be, to get the game back to some semblance of the glorious thing it once was.