ELItorial

When more really is less

In Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, everyone has sex. A lot of sex. All the time. The government encourages promiscuity. Adults are considered normal only if they copulate with five or six different people a week. School children are literally shoved into the bushes by their teachers for "erotic play time."

SARAH ENGLAND/YH

No, this is not some anti-Yale, this is Huxley's vision of the future—and it's a bleak one. In his novel, sex has lost all meaning. It has become a reflex, a thoughtless, mechanized task like tying a shoelace or taking a shower. No one enjoys it and no one looks forward to it. Sex, Huxley argues, needs abstinence to make it special. It needs the lack of it, those desperate nights, those 4 a.m. dreams of a loved one. Sex is special not in the process, but in the wish fulfillment.

I'm not arguing that Yale is, paradoxically, a romantic haven, just making a rough analogy between Huxley's sad prognosis for the future of romance and the very real and unfortunate present of professional sports. As any idiot can tell you, we simply have too many professional sports. We're suffering from an embarrassment of riches. New markets and an expanding economy have pushed owners to inaugurate too many new teams, too many new sports, and too many new stadiums. In the past 100 years, the sports industry has grown exponentially, yet so naturally and so seemlessly, that most fans aren't even conscious of its Death Star-esque proportions.

Look back 100 years and take any other form of live entertainment—for instance, theater. There are more theatres in America in 2000 than there were in 1900. But there are, by rough calculations, 150 times the number of professional sports teams. In the year 1900, there were eight major league baseball teams and one golf tournament a year. Hockey, basketball, and the NFL weren't even on the radar screen. Today there are 29 teams in the NBA, 20 in the WNBA, 30 in Major League Baseball (with about six minor league affiliates per team), 28 in the NHL, 31 in the NFL, and 12 in MLS. Let's not forget the CBA, CFL, the men's tennis tour, the women's tennis tour, the WWF, the WCW, the PGA tour, the LPGA tour, the Buy.com tour, the Senior PGA tour, the PBA, the WPBA, indoor football, indoor soccer, and the beach volleyball circuit. Throw in some ostensibly "amateur" competitions, such as big-time NCAA Division I basketball and football, the Olympic Games, and the X-Games—which have all more or less become professional—and it's pretty safe to say that there's a lot out there.

Moreover, professional sports are still growing. Every major sport has plans to expand. Last year Nashville and Atlanta got NHL teams, and there'll be four more WNBA squads come spring. Even New Haven is getting in on the action. The Ravens have a new contract, and the Coliseum will be home to a new minor league hockey team, the New Haven Knights, and potentially a new indoor football team.

This state of affairs is fantastic for the owners. They're making a lot of money—the market can support such extravagence. Ticket sales are as high as ever, and advertisers are still chomping at the bit. Players also benefit. They get to play the game they love and get paid to play it. The only group that suffers is the fans.

Just as sex loses its meaning in Brave New World, so sports, because they are everywhere, are losing their power, their force, and their meaning to fans. When fans are constantly bombarded with games, and ESPN.com has more links than the U.S. Senate's website, it's impossible to really care about any of it. If the Rangers lose in the playoffs, well heck, there's the Devils and Islanders to root for, the Knicks or the Nets might be in the NBA finals, the Yankees and Mets are in the middle of the season, and the Giants and Jets are just around the corner.

I'm thinking back to one of the best baseball novels ever written, W.P. Kinsella's Field of Dreams—a book so good even Kevin Costner couldn't ruin the movie version. At the very beginning of the book, Kinsella writes that Ray (Costner) never got along with his father because his father idolized Shoeless Joe, and Ray couldn't look up to a "crook." When Ray called Shoeless Joe a "crook" to his father's face, his father never recovered and their relationship was never the same. Baseball was his father's religion, and Shoeless Joe was the Pope. The obsession may sound unhealthy, but who would you rather go to a ballgame with—Ray's father, or the yuppies who sit courtside at Knicks games just 'cause the seats are a $1,000 a pop and everyone is there?

I don't want to sound overly sentimental. The games are still the same. Free agency, greedy owners, and even expansion can't ruin what takes place on the field. But maybe it's time we turn on, tune in, and tone down our following professional sports. Players and teams aren't as individuated as they once were, and maybe going on a self-imposed sports diet is the only solution. I know it's hard. It's so tempting to spend hours watching SportsCenter, flipping through Sports Illustrated, or watching the Golf Channel, SportsChannel, ESPN, ESPN2, or Classic Sports. Sports on television 24 hours a day may sound utopian, but, as the saying goes, "There are only two tragedies in life. One is not getting what you want, the other is getting it."

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