All things are an interchange for fire, and fire for all things,
just like goods for gold and gold for goods.
Last month, one of the big stories about presidential candidate and Wisconsin governor Scott Walker was his plan not only to cut the state’s education budget, but also to change state law in order to allow, according to The New Republic, “tenured faculty to be laid off at the discretion of the chancellors and Board of Regents.” Given that Wisconsin was the scene of the Ely case of 1894—which ended with the board of trustees of the University of Wisconsin issuing the ringing declaration: “Whatever may be the limitations which trammel inquiry elsewhere we believe the great state University of Wisconsin should ever encourage that continual and fearless sifting and winnowing by which alone truth can be found”—Walker’s attempt is a threat to the entire system of tenure. Yet it may be that American academia in general, if not Wisconsin academics in particular, are not entirely blameless—not because, as American academics might smugly like to think, because they are so totally radical, dude, but on the contrary because they have not been radical enough: to the point that, as I will show, probably the most dangerous, subversive and radical thinker on the North American continent at present is not an academic, nor even a writer, at all. His name is Joe Maddon, and he is the manager of the Chicago Cubs.
First though, what is Scott Walker attempting to do, and why is it a big deal? Specifically, Walker wants to change Section 39 of the relevant Wisconsin statute so that Wisconsin’s Board of Regents could, “with appropriate notice, terminate any faculty or academic staff appointment when such an action is deemed necessary … instead of when a financial emergency exists as under current law.” In other words, Walker’s proposal would more or less allow Wisconsin’s Board of Regents to fire anyone virtually at will, which is why the American Association of University Professors “has already declared that the proposed law would represent the loss of a viable tenure system,” as reported by TNR.
The rationale given for the change is the usual one of allowing for more “flexibility” on the part of campus leaders: by doing so, supposedly, Wisconsin’s university system can better react to the fast-paced changes of the global economy … feel free to insert your own clichés of corporate speak here. The seriousness with which Walker takes the university’s mission as a searcher for truth might perhaps be discerned by the fact that he appointed the son of his campaign chairman to the Board of Regents—nepotism apparently being, in Walker’s view, a sure sign of intellectual probity.
The tenure system was established, of course, exactly to prevent political appointee yahoos from having anything to say about the production of truth—a principle that, one might think, ought to be sacrosanct, especially in the United States, where every American essentially exists right now, today, on the back of intellectual production usually conducted in a university lab. (For starters, it was the University of Chicago that gave us what conservatives seem to like to think of as the holy shield of the atomic bomb.) But it’s difficult to blame “conservatives” for doing what’s in, as the scorpion said to the frog, their nature: what’s more significant is that academics ever allowed this to happen in the first place—and while it is surely the case that all victims everywhere wish to hold themselves entirely blameless for whatever happens to them, it’s also true that no one is surprised when somebody hits a car driving the wrong way.
A clue toward how American academia has been driving the wrong way can be found in a New Yorker story from last October, where Maria Konnikova described a talk moral psychologist Jonathan Haidt gave to the Society for Personality and Social Psychology. The thesis of the talk? That psychology, as a field, had “a lack of political diversity that was every bit as dangerous as a lack of, say, racial or religious or gender diversity.” In other words, the whole field was inhabited by people who were at least liberal, and many who were radicals, on the ideological spectrum, and very few conservatives.
To Haidt, this was a problem because it “introduced bias into research questions [and] methodology,” particularly concerning “politicized notions, like race, gender, stereotyping, and power and inequality.” Yet a follow-up study surveying 800 social psychologists found something interesting: actually, these psychologists were only markedly left-of-center compared to the general population when it came to something called “the social-issues scale.” Whereas in economic matters or foreign affairs, these professors tilted left at about a sixty to seventy percent clip, when it came to what sometimes are called “culture war” issues the tilt was in the ninety percent range. It’s the gap between those measures, I think, that Scott Walker is able to exploit.
In other words, while it ought to be born in mind that this is merely one study of a narrow range of professors, the study doesn’t disprove Professor Walter Benn Michaels’ generalized assertion that American academia has largely become the “human resources department of the right”: that is, the figures seem to say that, sure, economic inequality sorta bothers some of these smart guys and gals—but really to wind them up you’d best start talking about racism or abortion, buster. And what that might mean is that the rise of so-called “tenured radicals” since the 1960s hasn’t really been the fearsome beast the conservative press likes to make it out to be: in fact, it might be so that—like some predator/prey model from ecological study—the more left the professoriate turns, the more conservative the nation becomes.
That’s why it’s Joe Maddon of the Chicago Cubs, rather than any American academic, who is the most radical man in America right now. Why? Because Joe Maddon is doing something interesting in these days of American indifference to reality: he is paying attention to what the world is telling him, and doing something about it in a manner that many, if not most, academics could profit by examining.
What Joe Maddon is doing is batting the pitcher eighth.
That might, obviously, sound like small beer when the most transgressive of American academics are plumbing the atomic secrets of the universe, or questioning the existence of the biological sexes, or any of the other surely fascinating topics the American academy are currently investigating. In fact, however, there is at present no more important philosophical topic of debate anywhere in America, from the literary salons of New York City to the programming pits of Northern California, than the one that has been ongoing throughout this mildest of summers on the North Side of the city of Chicago.
Batting the pitcher eighth is a strategy that has been tried before in the history of American baseball: in 861 games since 1914. But twenty percent of those games, reports Grantland, “have come in 2015,” this season, and of those games, 112 and counting, have been those played by the Chicago Cubs—because in every single game the Cubs have played in this year, the pitcher has batted in the eighth spot. That’s something that no major league baseball team has ever done—and the reasons Joe Maddon has for tossing aside baseball orthodoxy like so many spit cups of tobacco juice is the reason why, eggheads and corporate lackeys aside, Joe Maddon is at present the most screamingly dangerous man in America.
Joe Maddon is dangerous because he saw something in a peculiarity in the rule of baseball, something that most fans are so inured to they have become unconscious to its meaning. That peculiarity is this: baseball has history. It’s a phrase that might sound vague and sentimental, but that’s not the point at all: what it refers to is that, with every new inning, a baseball lineup does not begin again at the beginning, but instead jumps to the next player after the last batter of the previous inning. This is important because, traditionally, pitchers bat in the ninth spot in a given lineup because they are usually the weakest batters on any team by a wide margin, which means that by batting them last, a manager usually ensures that they do not bat until at least the second, or even third, inning at the earliest. Batting the pitcher ninth enables a manager to hide his weaknesses and emphasize his strengths.
That has been orthodox doctrine since the beginnings of the sport: the tradition is so strong that when Babe Ruth, who first played in the major leagues as a pitcher, came to Boston he initially batted in the ninth spot. But what Maddon saw was that while the orthodox theory does minimize the numbers of plate appearances on the part of the pitcher, that does not in itself necessarily maximize the overall efficiency of the offense—because, as Russell Carleton put it for FoxSports, “in baseball, a lot of scoring depends on stringing a couple of hits together consecutively before the out clock runs out.” In other words, while batting the pitcher ninth does hide that weakness as much as possible, that strategy also involves giving up an opportunity: in the words of Ben Lindbergh of Grantland, by “hitting a position player in the 9-hole as a sort of second leadoff man,” a manager could “increase the chances of his best hitter(s) batting with as many runners on base as possible.” Because baseball lineups do not start at the beginning with every new inning, batting the weakest hitter last means that a lineup’s best players—usually the one through three spots—do not have as many runners on base as they might otherwise.
Now, the value of this move of putting the pitcher eighth is debated by baseball statisticians: “Study after study,” says Ben Lindbergh of Grantland, “has shown that the tactic offers at best an infinitesimal edge: two or three runs per season in the right lineup, or none in the wrong one.” In other words, Maddon may very well be chasing a will-o’-the-wisp, a perhaps-illusionary advantage: as Lindbergh says, “it almost certainly isn’t going to make or break the season.” Yet, in an age in which runs are much scarcer than they were in the juiced-up steroid era of the 1990s, and simultaneously the best teams in the National League (the American League, which does not allow pitchers to bat, is immune to the problem) are separated in the standings by only a few games, a couple of runs over the course of a season may be exactly what allows one team to make the playoffs and, conversely, prevents another from doing the same: “when there’s so little daylight separating the top teams in the standings,” as Lindbergh also remarked, “it’s more likely that a few runs—which, once in a while, will add an extra win—could actually account for the different between making and missing the playoffs.” Joe Maddon, in other words, is attempting to squeeze every last run he can from his players with every means at his disposal—even if it means taking on a doctrine that has been part of baseball nearly since its beginnings.
Yet, why should that matter at all, much less make Joe Maddon perhaps the greatest threat to the tranquility of the Republic since John Brown? The answer is that Joe Maddon is relentlessly focused on the central meaningful event of his business: the act of scoring. Joe Maddon’s job is to make sure that his team scores as many runs as possible, and he is willing to do what it takes in order to make that happen. The reason that he is so dangerous—and why the academics of America may just deserve the thrashing the Scott Walkers of the nation appear so willing to give them—is that American democracy is not so singlemindedly devoted to getting the maximum value out of its central meaningful event: the act of voting.
Like the baseball insiders who scoff at Joe Maddon for scuttling after a spare run or two over the course of 162 games—like the major league assistant general quoted by Lindbergh who dismissed the concept by saying “the benefit of batting the pitcher eighth is tiny if it exists at all”—American political insiders believe that a system that profligately disregards the value of votes doesn’t really matter over the course of a political season—or century. And it is indisputable that the American political system is profligate with the value of American votes. The value of a single elector in the Electoral College, for example, can differ by hundreds of thousands of votes cast by voters each Election Day, depending on the state; while through “the device of geographic—rather than population-based—representation in the Senate, [the system] substantially dilutes the voice and voting power of the majority of Americans who live in urban and metropolitan areas in favor of those living in rural areas,” as one Princeton political scientist has put the point. Or to put it more directly, as Dylan Matthews put it for the Washington Post two years ago, if “senators representing 17.82 percent of the population agree, they can get a majority”—while on the other hand “11.27 percent of the U.S. population,” as represented by the smallest 20 states, “can successfully filibuster legislation.” Perhaps most significantly, as Frances Lee and Bruce Oppenheimer have shown in their Sizing Up the Senate: The Unequal Consequences of Equal Representation, “less populous states consistently receive more federal funding than states with more people.” As presently constructed, in other words, the American political system is designed to waste votes, not to seek all of their potential value.
American academia, however, does not discuss such matters. Indeed, the disciplines usually thought of as the most politically “radical”—usually those in the humanities—are more or less expressly designed to rule out the style of thought (naturalistic, realistic) taken on here: one reason, perhaps, explaining the split in psychology professors between their opinions on economic matters and “cultural” ones observed by Maria Konnikova. Yet just because an opinion is not registered in academia does not mean it does not exist: imbalances are inevitably corrected, which undoubtedly will occur in this matter of the relative value of an American vote. The problem of course is that such “price corrections,” when it comes to issues like this, are not particularly known for being calm or smooth. Perhaps there is one possible upside however: when that happens—and there is no doubt that the day of what the song calls “the fateful lightning” will arrive, be it tomorrow or in the coming generations—Joe Maddon may receive his due as not just a battler in the frontlines of sport, but a warrior for justice. That, at least, might not be entirely surprising to his fellow Chicagoans—who remember that it was not the flamboyant tactics of busting up liquor stills that ultimately got Capone, but instead the slow and patient work of tax accountants and auditors.
You know, the people who counted.