The Sports Narrative
Miami Marlins’ Ichiro Suzuki is only the 30th MLB player ever to reach 3,000 hits AP PHOTO
The cool analysis of why Holly Holm was Ronda Rousey’s worst nightmare before she even stepped in the ring, or an explanation of why America is threatened by black quarterback Cam Newton – that, to me, is more interesting than that famous kick to the head or a million touchdowns.
Athletes occupy a different section of our idol pantheon than any other kind of public figure. Actors, artists and musicians produce work that is entirely subjective. We can never completely agree on whether Michael Jackson or Elvis Presley had more influence on modern music, or exactly how great an actor Marlon Brando was.
But Michael Phelps has 23 Olympic gold medals from four different games to secure his glory in the history books. There’s no trying to explain that away. Athletic adulation derives from performance – being the fastest, strongest and greatest, indisputably.
Millions of fans, young and old, love to see that they were right about their favorite player scoring the most goals, or hitting the most home-runs in a game. Some of them may even wager their extra money with the added assistance of betting websites like BangTheBook; this might actually turn out to be a good bet, especially if a player or game has been analyzed to understand the odds. We don’t see the same happening with music or other art forms, now, do we?
This simple fact changes the way all sports journalism and writing is done – there’s no need to justify the athlete’s fame because the achievements speak for themselves. It’s all about trying to parse the man or woman atop the podium.
More specifically, it’s about quantifying greatness.
When Miami Marlins outfielder Ichiro Suzuki recently reached the milestone of 3,000 MLB hits (though his career in Japan brings the total to more than 4,000, more than any other player), a slew of profiles tried to get in his head. Is his greatness because he ritualistically eats curry before every game? Is it down to the fact that his coach always used pitching speed guns during their training sessions to calculate where he was at, and how to make progress? Because of his laborious calisthenics routine? Because his dad trained him like a maniac since he was in elementary school?
We can apply this formula to anyone. We spent years wondering why Tiger Woods was great, and then, after his famed implosion, we analyzed the rubble to figure out why he wasn’t. We pick apart Tom Brady’s crazy diet and wonder how he has the energy to play football.
We don’t ask, not in the same way, not with the same rigor, how Meryl Streep disappears into a role, or what is it about Adele that makes her voice so beautiful. In fact, we usually treat revelations from method actors with a sort of incredulity. Jared Leto thought sending his Suicide Squad castmates live rats and bullets would make him a better actor. OK, cool. Sure it did.
For an athlete, how is the only question that matters.
It’s why doping is such a big deal. Because doping wipes away the mystery with one fell swoop. He is the best because he cheated. It is the concrete answer we never want.
Athletes provide the mystique of glory – because we can pick apart Ichiro all we like, but all the biographical details and interviews in the world will never really explain those 3,000 hits.
Ultimately, the athlete will always be unknowable.
PTAKEYA@MIDWEEK.COM
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