The Spectacle of American Politics: From MLB to NFL to WWE

A Sports Apathist's Perspective

Let's begin by coining a term: "apathist." If an atheist is someone who does not believe in deities, an apathist is someone who lacks enthusiasm or interest in a particular subject. Its antonym would be "enthusiast." With this neologism in hand, I'll admit upfront: I'm not just indifferent to sports; I'm what you might call a sports apathist.

Being a sports apathist in America carries a certain weight, doesn't it? Much like religious non-belief, sports apathy comes with its own set of social consequences, even in this supposedly enlightened era. It's a position that often requires explanation, sometimes even defense, in a culture where sports enthusiasm is the expected norm.

Now, to call myself a "sports atheist" would be an overstatement. After all, I don't deny the existence of sports—that would be absurd. It's more a matter of taste and priority. As Penn Jillette once quipped about religious atheism, "Atheism is a religion like not collecting stamps is a hobby." In my case, sports apathy is a pastime like not watching reality TV is an entertainment choice. While I share Mr. Jillette's passions on may topics including his sports apathism, I do not share his obsessions with Bob Dillon nor The Three Stooges.

This distinction is important. Recently, I listened to an interview with comedian Paula Poundstone , who shared an experience that resonates with this idea. When one of her children was forced to attend church with classmates at a school in Virginia, she confronted school officials. Their response was a dismissive "What's the harm? Just go with it." To which Poundstone brilliantly replied, "I take my atheism as seriously as you take your Christianity."

Atheism is a religion like not collecting stamps is a hobby. - Penn Jillette

It's telling that "atheism" isn't capitalized, while "Christianity" is. Similarly, in our society, being a "sports enthusiast" is often seen as the default, while being an "apathist" is viewed as the deviation. This subtle linguistic and social norm speaks volumes about our cultural priorities.

These priorities, of course, shape our social landscapes and personal identities. They create tribes and outsiders, insiders and outliers. In the great American pastime of defining ourselves through our interests, I've always found myself on the outer edges of the sports bubble. It's not that I actively avoid sports; it's just that in the vast buffet of potential obsessions, I've always reached for different dishes.

You might feel the same way about Harry Potter or horticulture.

The Venn diagram of "Sports Guy" and "Star Trek Guy" is a thin biscuit indeed, and I'm firmly in the latter camp. While my 9-year-old peers were watching Gordon Solie and Dusty Rhodes with the wide-eyed credulity of, well, 9-year-olds, I was far more interested in the seemingly plausible impossibilities of Star Trek. I was too busy buying into the notion of faster-than-light travel and teleportation in a transporter beam to be bothered with the theatrics of the wrestling ring.

There was, however, a brief moment of apostasy in my sports apathism. It came first with a familial engagement with the Tampa Bay Rowdies and the North American Soccer League in the late '70s—largely because my dad and brothers were sports enthusiasts. Later, there was a resurgence in my appreciation for baseball when my son (affectionately nicknamed "Big Thunder" at the time) became the star player on his Little League team. As we attended Rays games together, I began to see the game through a different lens. I started to appreciate the elegance of baseball, much like George Will's famous observations on the mathematical symmetry of the sport.

But make no mistake: these were mere flirtations with sports fandom. Nobody would ever accuse me of being a true believer in the Church of Athletics. Which is why it's particularly striking—and perhaps telling—that even from my vantage point as a resolute sports apathist, I can't help but notice the unsettling parallels between the evolution of American sports entertainment and the transformation of our political landscape.

The fact that someone who once found the idea of dilithium crystals powering warp engines more credible than a wrestling match can draw these parallels speaks volumes about how far our political discourse has shifted. It's as if our entire political system has undergone a mass conversion, embracing a new faith that blends the worst aspects of sports fanaticism and wrestling theatrics.

The MLB Era: Strategy and Patience

In the post-war years, American politics mirrored the measured pace of baseball. Voters, like fans in the bleachers, settled in for a long season. They understood the nuances of the game, appreciated the strategic decisions, and recognized that victories often came through a series of small, incremental plays rather than grand slams.

Politicians of this era were the equivalent of crafty pitchers and patient batters. They built their careers on consistency, endurance, and an intimate knowledge of the rule book. The media, much like early radio announcers, provided play-by-play commentary that assumed an educated audience, one that understood the intricacies of the legislative process and policy-making.

The NFL Takeover: Aggression, Spectacle, and Corporate Influence

The transformation of American politics from baseball to football didn't happen overnight. It began as a slow shift in the tumultuous 1960s, gained momentum through the rebound of the 1970s, and hit its stride with the rise of conservative activism in the 1980s—a backlash to the progressive anger of the hippie generation.

I can't think of a better event to mark this transition than the very first monologue on the very first episode of Saturday Night Live. George Carlin was the host and did his brilliant routine "Baseball vs. Football ".

The object in football is to march down and penetrate into enemy territory and get into the end zone. The object of baseball is to go home. We're going home! - George Carlin

As television began to dominate, the measured strategy of baseball proved too slow for a nation increasingly accustomed to instant gratification. The nuanced gameplay of baseball gave way to the hard-hitting, territory-gaining mentality of gridiron football. Politicians became more like quarterbacks and linebackers, either trying to push through their agenda or aggressively blocking the opposition.

This shift brought with it a new vocabulary. Political discussions began to sound like sports commentary, full of talk about "offensive strategies," "defensive positioning," and "game-changing plays." The media's role evolved too, embodied by figures like Howard Cosell in the '60s and '70s, who brought a more dramatic, personality-driven approach to political commentary.

The Contract with America: A Game-Changing Play

The "Contract with America" in 1994 marked a pivotal moment in this NFL-ization of politics. It set the stage for a fundamental change in how Congress operated, moving away from the era when figures like Tip O'Neill and Ronald Reagan could passionately fight for their ideals while still believing that their opponents were also working in good faith to help their fellow Americans.

Instead, politics began to mirror the win-at-all-costs mentality of professional football. The goal was no longer about building a more perfect union, but about the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. Compromise, once seen as a necessary part of governance, began to be viewed as a form of weakness or betrayal.

The Rise of Corporate Influence: Changing the Rules of the Game

As this transformation unfolded, the influence of corporate interests on both politics and media grew exponentially. The sponsors—be they special interest groups in politics or advertisers in media—began to have more power over how the game was played.

Imagine, if you will, politicians forced to wear logo-covered jumpsuits like NASCAR drivers, each patch representing a corporate donor or special interest group. While not literally true, this image isn't far from the reality of modern political financing. These "sponsors" honed their skills in shaping narratives that would be in their own best interests, often at the expense of the broader public good.

Similarly, media outlets, driven by the need for ratings and advertising dollars, began to shape their political coverage to be more entertaining and confrontational. The thoughtful analysis of the baseball era gave way to shout-fests and manufactured controversies, mirroring the violent clashes on the football field.

The Spectacle Takes Center Stage

As this NFL phase of American politics solidified, the spectacle became increasingly important. Political conventions began to resemble Super Bowl halftime shows. Debates were hyped like championship games, with the focus often on zingers and gaffes rather than substantive policy discussions.

The media, once referees of the political process, became more like color commentators, analyzing each play and stoking rivalries to keep viewers engaged. The 24-hour news cycle, mirroring instant replays and constant analysis, dissected every political move ad nauseam.

Voters, once content to follow the season-long narrative of the baseball era, now tuned in primarily for the big games—elections and major legislative battles. The nuanced understanding of political processes began to fade, replaced by a preference for highlight reels and decisive victories.

This NFL phase of American politics set the stage for an even more dramatic transformation. As the spectacle grew and the line between entertainment and governance blurred, we found ourselves hurtling toward a political landscape that would make even the most outrageous football games seem tame by comparison.

The WWE Reality: When Kayfabe Becomes Gospel

As we entered the 2010s and the proliferation of social media, American politics completed its transformation into a full-blown WWE spectacle. To understand this shift, we need to familiarize ourselves with a key concept from the world of professional wrestling: kayfabe.

Kayfabe, pronounced "kay-fayb," is a term originating from carnival worker slang. In professional wrestling, it refers to the portrayal of staged events as genuine. It's the practice of maintaining the illusion that the scripted rivalries, storylines, and characters are real, even when they're not. In essence, kayfabe is the suspension of disbelief that allows wrestling to function as a form of entertainment.

In this new political paradigm, the line between reality and performance has not just blurred; it has been deliberately and systematically erased through the application of kayfabe to politics. Politicians, like WWE superstars, craft larger-than-life personas. They deliver provocative promos (tweets), engage in staged confrontations (debate "zingers"), and participate in storylines that often bear little resemblance to the actual mechanics of governance.

Facts in this kayfabe political world are malleable, adherence to a character is more important than consistency of policy, and the ability to rile up the crowd often trumps substantive debate. Just as wrestling fans cheer for their favorites regardless of the scripted nature of the conflicts, political supporters increasingly rally behind their chosen champions, treating real-world issues as if they were part of an elaborate storyline.

Media: From Referees to Ringside Promoters

The media, once tasked with being impartial referees, have become willing accomplices in this kayfabe spectacle. The transformation mirrors the evolution of sports commentary: from the straightforward radio announcers of the early century to the bombastic style of Howard Cosell, and then to the entertainment-focused approach of figures like John Madden in the '80s and '90s.

Today's media landscape, driven by the insatiable demand for ratings, has fully embraced the WWE model. News networks craft narratives, stoke conflicts, and prioritize entertainment value over informational content. They're no longer merely covering the political "sport"—they're active participants in scripting and promoting the show, much like WWE announcers who are in on the act, hyping storylines and feuds to keep viewers engaged.

The Triumph of Kayfabe

Professional wrestling, in its earlier incarnations as WWF and now WWE, always maintained a dedicated audience. The key difference was that in the past, only the most credulous viewers truly believed in its authenticity. The majority of fans understood, at least on some level, that what they were watching was scripted entertainment.

Now, we face a stark and troubling reality: the mentality that once allowed wrestling fans to enjoy a scripted show has seeped into our political discourse. The suspension of disbelief that was once reserved for entertainment has become a cognitive habit in processing real-world events and policies.

Those who approach politics with this kayfabe mindset—treating it as a scripted spectacle rather than a serious civic process—have gained power and influence in the political arena. They operate in a world where reality is fluid, where facts are subordinate to narrative, and where the ability to entertain overrides the capacity to govern.

The Fall of an Empire?

This wholesale adoption of the WWE model in American politics is more than just a curiosity or a temporary phase. It's a harbinger of societal decay, reminiscent of the spectacles that marked the decline of ancient Rome. The prioritization of entertainment over substance, of conflict over cooperation, and of personality over policy doesn't just degrade our political discourse—it threatens the very foundations of our democratic system.

As voters become fans, cheering for their chosen champions with a fervor that borders on the religious, the ability to make informed, rational decisions about governance erodes. The blurring of reality and performance makes it increasingly difficult for citizens to distinguish between genuine policy proposals and scripted storylines designed for maximum dramatic effect.

Star Trek's Prescient Vision

In 1968, Star Trek aired "Bread and Circuses," an episode that imagined a 20th-century Roman Empire. At the time, it seemed a quaint thought experiment in alternate history. Today, it reads like a chilling prophecy.

The episode's depiction of a technologically advanced society still clinging to gladiatorial combat as televised entertainment bears an uncomfortable resemblance to our current political arena. Captain Merrick, a former starship commander turned TV producer, epitomizes the morally compromised official, sacrificing principles (and people) to appease a capricious leader and a ratings-hungry populace.

What seemed naive commentary in 1968 now feels uncomfortably close to home. The Roman-inspired "First Citizen" who rules through manipulation of the masses and staged conflicts could easily be transposed onto our modern political stage. The citizenry, placated by spectacle and distracted from real issues, mirror our own struggles with engagement beyond the political circus.

This fictitious Rome's fusion of ancient brutality with modern media manipulation eerily echoes our current predicament. It's a stark reminder that technological progress doesn't necessarily equate to social or political advancement. In fact, it can amplify our worst tendencies if we're not vigilant.

The episode's writers couldn't have known how accurately they were forecasting our future. Yet here we are, grappling with a political reality that would be right at home in their imagined world—a sobering thought for any observer of American democracy.

Can We Escape the Ring?

The question now facing America is not whether we can pull back from the brink of WWE politics—we're already deep in the ring. The real question is whether we can find a way to break kayfabe on a societal level. Can we create a new model of political engagement that satisfies our appetite for drama and conflict while still preserving the substance and seriousness necessary for effective governance?

The path forward is unclear, but it undoubtedly requires a collective effort to become more discerning consumers of political information. It demands that we, as citizens, actively resist the allure of simplistic narratives and theatrical conflicts. Most importantly, it requires that we recognize the high stakes of our current predicament: the future of our democracy hangs in the balance.

As we grapple with these challenges, we must remember that unlike in sports or entertainment, the consequences of our political choices extend far beyond the final bell or the end credits. They shape our lives, our communities, and our world. The challenge for every American is to be more than a spectator or a fan—to be an active, informed participant in shaping the narrative of our nation.

Only by collectively choosing substance over spectacle, truth over kayfabe, and civic responsibility over entertainment can we hope to steer our political discourse back towards something resembling reality. The alternative—allowing our politics to devolve further into a never-ending WWE event—may well signal the twilight of the American experiment.