Notes and Errata of Mark of the Asphodel

Sports journalism ought to be at least of passing interest to the aspiring writer.  The entire point of the trade is to craft a narrative out of acts that, taken in isolation, are without meaning, to impose a sense of the life-or-death struggle onto events with no inherent value.  What is the meaning of a championship ring?  What does it matter who hoists the Stanley Cup?  Why is Alex Rodriguez worth $270,000,000?  Why are baseball fans in particular essentially cheering on suits of clothes-- today's grade-A villain may be next year's beloved acquisition?

Good sports writers take a blizzard of technical bullshit and a cross-section of humans (ranging from the engaging to the off-putting to the genuinely toxic) and weave those components into a story that moves other humans in a way that few things can.  Even more interesting, sports narratives are essentially reactive, crafted day-to-day in response to turns of events both "inevitable" and unexpected.  It's a blend of mythmaking and prophecy, with the usual percentage of bogus prophets.  But both the "inevitable" narratives and the hasty morning-after retcon narratives resonate with readers-- who, after all, are bringing their own sports headcanon along to imbue the whole mess with personal meaning.

Take the Tigers-Yankees showdown in the ALDS this week.  Going into Tuesday, the Tigers and their supports had a narrative to fulfill: beat the stuffing out of the Yankees before an adoring crowd in Comerica Park, duplicating the champagne-soaked glory of '06.  They failed, horribly.  The Yankees, meanwhile, had their own narrative, though rather less interesting as the Yankees have the same damn quest every year: win World Series, obstacles to that goal irrelevant.  Their 10-1 pasting of the Tigers on Tuesday served as a minor chapter in their inevitable steamroll to victory over everyone.

So, going into Game 5 on Thursday, the Tigers were working off a retcon narrative: journey into the belly of the beastly Bronx and face down the ghosts of the most celebrated baseball team on the planet, not to mention all their rowdy fans.  Whether they survived or not was kind of beside the point; they weren't "supposed" to, not when the Yankees had every advantage.  

Then things got weird.  Real weird.  Two Tiger home runs and six Yankee pitchers later, it came down to a moment that seemed like pure fiction.  The bottom of the ninth inning.  The Tigers leading by a single run.  Two outs.  And A-Rod, the most expensive athlete in the world, at the plate.  One strike, two strikes, Rodriguez is down and out and the Tigers are celebrating before a field of 50,000 Yankees fans who've been stunned into silence.  Things weren't supposed to turn out this way.

But isn't it better that they did?  The drama!  The nail-biting tension!  The roller-coaster of fortunes between Games 3 and 5!  The Yankees, teetering on the edge of victory and coming up empty, their $270M Casey-at-Bat whiffing the ball!  The Tigers, hardened by Detroit and unfazed by the aura of the Yankees and their fans.  The symbolism!  Old idols brought down, new idols raised to legendary status!  At least until the dust from the ALCS settles.  And so on.  The new details are incorporated seamlessly into the myth, and the band plays on.

Anyway, just something to keep in mind when trying to seduce a reader into caring passionately about the struggles of your fictional characters.  Watching myths being crafted is, at the very least, instructive.