Opposing the notion of minority rule, [Huger] argued that a majority was less likely to be wrong than a minority, and if this was not so “then republicanism must be a dangerous fallacy, and the sooner we return to the ‘divine rights’ of the kings the better.”
—Manisha Sinha. The Counterrevolution of Slavery. 2001.
Note that agreement [concordantia] is particularly required on matters of faith and the greater the agreement the more infallible the judgment.
—Nicholas of Cusa. Catholic Concordance. 1432.
It’s perhaps an irony, though a mild one, that the weekend of the celebrations of American independence the most notable sporting events are the Tour de France, soccer’s European Cup, and Wimbledon—maybe all the more so now that Great Britain has voted to “Brexit,” i.e., to leave the European Union. A number of observers have explained that vote as at least somewhat analogous to the Donald Trump movement in the United States, in the first place because Donald himself called the “Brexit” decision a “great victory” at a press conference the day after the vote, and a few days later “praised the vote as a decision by British voters to ‘take back control of their economy, politics and borders,’” as The Guardian said Thursday. To the mainstream press, the similarity between the “Brexit” vote and Donald Trump’s candidacy is that—as Emmanuel Macron, France’s thirty-eight-year-old economy minister said about “Brexit”—both are a conflict between those “content with globalization” and those “who cannot find” themselves within the new order. Both Trump and “Brexiters” are, in other words, depicted as returns of—as Andrew Solomon put it in The New Yorker on Tuesday—“the Luddite spirit that led to the presumed arson at Albion Mills, in 1791, when angry millers attacked the automation that might leave them unemployed.” “Trumpettes” and “Brexiters” are depicted as wholly out of touch and stuck in the past—yet, as a contrast between Wimbledon and the Tour de France may help illuminate, it could also be argued that it is, in fact, precisely those who make sneering references both to Trump and to “Brexiters” who represent, not a smiling future, but instead the return of the ancien régime.
Before he outright won the Republican nomination through the primary process, after all, Trump repeatedly complained that the G.O.P.’s process was “rigged”: that is, it was hopelessly stacked against an outsider candidate. And while a great deal of what Trump has said over the past year has been, at best, ridiculously exaggerated when not simply outright lying, in that contention Trump has a great deal of evidence: as Josh Barro put it in Business Insider (not exactly a lefty rag) back in April, “the Republican nominating rules are designed to ignore the will of the voters.” Barro cites the example of Colorado’s Republican Party, which decided in 2015 “not to hold any presidential preference vote”—a decision that, as Barro rightly says, “took power away from regular voters and handed it to the sort of activists who would be likely … [to] participat[e] in party conventions.” And Colorado’s G.O.P. was hardly alone in making, quite literally, anti-democratic decisions about the presidential nominating process over the past year: North Dakota also decided against a primary or even a caucus, while Pennsylvania did hold a vote—but voters could only choose uncommitted delegates; i.e., without knowing to whom those delegates owed allegiance.
Still, as Mother Jones—which is a lefty rag—observed, also back in April, this is an argument that can easily be worked against as for Trump: in New York’s primary, for instance, “Kasich and Cruz won 40 percent of the vote but only 4 percent of the delegates,” while on Super Tuesday Trump’s opponents “won 66 percent of the vote but only 57 percent of the delegates.” And so on. Other critics have similarly attacked the details of Trump’s arguments: many, as Mother Jones’ Kevin Drum says, have argued that the details of the Republican nominating process could just as easily be used as evidence for “the way the Republican establishment is so obviously in the bag for Trump.” Those critics do have a point: investigating the whole process is exceedingly difficult because the trees overwhelm any sense of the forest.
Yet, such critics often use those details (about which they are right) to make an illicit turn. They have attacked, directly or indirectly, the premise of the point Trump tried to make in an op-ed piece in The Wall Street Journal this spring that—as Nate Silver paraphrased it on FiveThirtyEight—“the candidate who gets the most votes should be the Republican nominee.” In other words, they make an argumentative turn from the particulars of this year’s primary process to take a very disturbing swerve toward attacking the very premises of democratic government itself: by disputing this or that particular they obscure whether or not the will of the voters should be respected. Hence, even if Trump’s whole campaign is, at best, wholly misdirected, the point he is making—a point very similar to the one made by Bernie Sanders’ campaign—is not something to be treated lightly. But that, it seems, is something that elites are, despite their protests, skirting close to doing: which is to say that, despite the accusations directed at Trump that he is leading a fascistic movement, it is actually arguable that it is Trump’s supposedly “liberal” opponents who are far closer to authoritarianism than he is because they have no respect for sanctity of the ballot. Or, to put it another way, that it is Trump’s voters—and, by extension, those for “Brexit”—who have the cosmopolitan view, while it is his opponents who are, in fact, the provincialists.
The point, I think, can be seen by comparing the scoring rules between Wimbledon and the Tour de France. The Tour, as may or may not be known, is determined by the rider who—as Patrick Redford at Deadspin put it the other day in “The Casual Observer’s Guide to the Tour de France”—has “the lowest time over all 21 stages.” Although the race takes place over nearly the whole nation of France, and several more besides, and covers over 2,000 miles from the cobblestone flats of Flanders to the heights of the Alps and down to the streets of Paris, still the basic premise of the race is clear even to the youngest child: ride faster and win. Explaining Wimbledon however—like explaining the rules of the G.O.P. nominating process (or, for that matter, the Democratic nominating process)—is not so simple.
As I have noted before in this space, the rules of tennis are not like cycling—or even such familiar sports as baseball or football. In baseball and most other sports, including the Tour, the “score is cumulative throughout the contest … and whoever has the most points at the end wins,” as Allen Fox once described the difference between tennis and other games in Tennis magazine. But tennis is not like that: “The basic element of tennis scoring is the point,” as mathematician G. Edgar Parker has noted, “but tennis matches are won by the player who wins two out three (or three out of five) sets.” Sets are themselves accumulations of games, not points. During each game, points are won and lost until one player has not only won at least four points but also has a two-point advantage on the other; games go back and forth until one player does have that advantage. Then, at the set level, one player must have won at least six games (though the rules vary at some professional tournaments if that player also needs a two-game advantage to win the set). Finally, then, a player needs to win at least two, and—as at Wimbledon—sometimes three, sets to take a match.
If the Tour de France were won like Wimbledon is won, in other words, the winner would not be determined by whoever had the lowest overall time: the winner would be, at least at first analysis, whoever won the most number of stages. But even that comparison would be too simple: if the Tour winner were determined by the winner of the most stages, that would imply that each stage were equal—and it is certainly not the case that all points, games, or sets in tennis are equal. “If you reach game point and win it,” as Fox writes in Tennis, “you get the entire game while your opponent gets nothing—all of the points he or she won in the game are eliminated.” The points in one game don’t carry over to the next game, and previous games don’t carry over to the next set. That means that some points, some games, and some sets are more important than others: “game point,” “set point,” and “match point” are common tennis terms that mean “the point whose winner may determine the winner of the larger category.” If tennis’ type of scoring system were applied to the Tour, in other words, the winner of the Tour would not be the overall fastest cyclist, nor even the cyclist who won the most stages, but the cyclist who won certain stages, say—or perhaps even certain moments within stages.
Despite all the Sturm und Drang surrounding Donald Trump’s candidacy, then—the outright racism and sexism, the various moronic-seeming remarks concerning American foreign policy, not to mention the insistence that walls are more necessary to the American future than they even are to squash—there is one point about which he, like Bernie Sanders in the Democratic camp, is making cogent sense: the current process for selecting an American president is much more like a tennis match than it is like a bicycle race. After all, as Hendrik Hertzberg of The New Yorker once pointed out, Americans don’t elect their presidents “the same way we elect everybody else—by adding up all the voters’ votes and giving the job to the candidate who gets the most.” Instead, Americans have (as Ed Grabianowski puts it on the how stuff works website), “a whole bunch of separate state elections.” And while both of these comments were directed at the presidential general election, which depends on the Electoral College, they equally, if not more so, apply to the primary process: at least in the general election in November, each state’s rules are more or less the same.
The truth, and hence power, of Trump’s critique of this process can be measured by the vitriol of the response to it. A number of people, on both sides of the political aisle, have attacked Trump (and Sanders) for drawing attention to the fashion in which the American political process works: when Trump pointed out that Colorado had refused to hold a primary, for instance, Reince Priebus, chairman of the Republican National Committee, tweeted (i.e., posted on Twitter, for those of you unfamiliar with, you know, the future) “Nomination process known for a year + beyond. It’s the responsibility of the campaigns to understand it. Complaints now? Give us all a break.” In other words, Priebus was implying that the rules were the same for all candidates, and widely known before hand—so why the whining? Many on the Democratic side said the same about Sanders: as Albert Hunt put it in the Chicago Tribune back in April, both Trump and Sanders ought to shut up about the process: “Both [campaigns’] charges [about the process] are specious,” because “nobody’s rules have changed since the candidates entered the fray.” But as both Trump and Sanders’ campaigns have rightly pointed out, the rules of a contest do matter beyond just the bare fact that they are the same for every candidate: if the Tour de France were conducted under rules similar to tennis’, it seems likely that the race would be won by very different kinds of winners—sprinters, perhaps, who could husband their stamina until just the right moment. It’s very difficult not to think that the criticisms of Trump and Sanders as being “whiners” is disingenuous—an obvious attempt to protect a process that transparently benefits insiders.
Trump’s supporters, like Sanders’ and those who voted “Leave” in the “Brexit” referendum, have been labeled as “losers”—and while, to those who consider themselves “winners,” the thoughts of losers are (as the obnoxious phrase has it) like the thoughts of sheep to wolves, it seems indisputably true that the voters behind all three campaigns represent those for whom the global capitalism of the last several decades hasn’t worked so well. As Matt O’Brian noted in The Washington Post a few days ago, “the working class in rich countries have seen their real, or inflation-adjusted, incomes flatline or even fall since the Berlin Wall came down and they were forced to compete with all the Chinese, Indian, and Indonesian workers entering the global economy.” (Real economists would dispute O’Brian’s chronology here: at least in the United States, wages have not risen since the early 1970s, which far predates free trade agreements like the North American Free Trade Agreement signed by Bill Clinton in the 1990s. But O’Brian’s larger argument, as wrongheaded as it is in detail, instructively illustrates the muddleheadedness of the conventional wisdom.) In this fashion, O’Brian writes, “the West’s triumphant globalism” has “fuel[ed] a nationalist backlash”: “In the United States it’s Trump, in France it’s the National Front, in Germany it’s the Alternative for Germany, and, yes, in Britain it’s the Brexiters.” What’s astonishing about this, however, is that—despite not having, as so, so many articles decrying their horribleness have said, a middle-class senses of decorum—all of these movements stand for a principle that, you would think, the “intellectuals” of the world would applaud: the right of the people themselves to determine their own destiny.
It is they, in other words, who literally embody the principle enunciated by the opening words of the United States Constitution, “We the People,” or enunciated by the founding document of the French Revolution (which, by the by, began on a tennis court), The Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen, whose first article holds that “Men are born and remain free and equal in rights.” In the world of this Declaration, in short, each person has—like every stage of the Tour de France, and unlike each point played during Wimbledon—precisely the same value. It’s a principle that Americans, especially, ought to remember this weekend of all weekends—a weekend that celebrates another Declaration, one whose opening lines reads “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Americans, in other words, despite the success individual Americans like John McEnroe or Pete Sampras or Chris Evert, are not tennis players, as Donald Trump (and Bernie Sanders) have rightfully pointed out over the past year—a sport, as one history of the game has put it, “so clearly aligned with both The Church and Aristocracy.” Americans, as the first modern nation in the world, ought instead to be associated with a sport unknown to the ancients and unthinkable without modern technology.
We are bicycle riders.