The Night That Killed Extra Innings

The rumblings have started. On Tuesday night in the unincorporated territory north of Atlanta, the American League clawed its way back from a 6-0 deficit in the late innings, wrestling the All-Star Game into its first ever swing-off. The problem with the swing-off, the reason for the rumblings, was apparent even before the ninth inning ended: It might be too much fun. Too much fun could result in disaster, an eruption that would reshape the landscape of baseball for all time to come, killing extra innings once and for all and replacing them with something that smacked suspiciously of soccer.

The protectors of baseball’s sovereign dignity chewed their fingernails to the quick as Brent Rooker readied himself in the batter’s box to the opening strains of “Hotel California.” They wailed when he launched two baseballs into the left-center field seats, thrilling everyone with eyes to see or ears to hear. Steven Kwan leapt into the air with the innocent delight of a child. It was a dark omen.

“Will no one think of the children?” moaned the traditionalists when Kyle Stowers punched one over the hulking brick wall in right center and jubilation reigned near Atlanta. Their fear reached a crescendo when Kyle Schwarber duck-walked into the box, leaned back, and shook his bat in all directions as if to ward off any evil, defense-minded spirits. Schwarber, who has spent his entire career smacking monstrous, momentous home runs as casually as the rest of us put our socks on in the morning, had the potential to alter baseball’s future, cementing the swing-off as a consummation devoutly to be wished, a future too fun to avoid. If any player could turn his three swings into three signature homers, it was Schwarber.

Over the past 11 seasons, 3.5% of Schwarber’s swings have turned into home runs, a rate exceeded only by the four horsemen of the exit velocity apocalypse: Aaron Judge, Mike Trout, Giancarlo Stanton, and Yordan Alvarez. On Tuesday night, Schwarber made it a round 100%, launching a missile to dead center, then lifting a rainmaker above the bullpens in right center, and finally dropping to a knee in order to hook one into the weird open-plan office area that doubles as the right field seating section at Truist Park.

Three successive explosions, each bigger than the last, rocked the stadium. The National Leaguers went wild along the first base line. The fans went wild in the stands. Two fans, one full-sized and one fun-sized, went wild on the balcony of their ninth-floor hotel room across the street. Other fans went wild on their couches and barstools and presumably at least a couple of beanbag chairs. Even John Smoltz seemed for one fleeting moment not to be annoyed by baseball.

Schwarber walked back to his teammates with his eyes lowered, holding his bat by the fat barrel as if to emphasize that this deadliest of weapons was no longer a danger to anyone. As only a professional baseball player can, he managed to look bashful while uttering the phrase, “F— yeah.” It was an illicit, delicious overdose of pharmaceutical-grade fun, and it sealed baseball’s fate. Just not the way you think.

You may believe you see the future, that it consists of less baseball and more swing-offs, that it may start innocuously. We’ll have a swing-off, but only if the score is tied after the 12th inning. You may believe that the numbers will creep ever lower, swing-off after the 11th inning, the 10th inning. Why play extra innings at all when everybody loves a nice swing-off? We could really solve this whole issue of game length once and for all if we just cut things off at seven innings plus the occasional swing-off.

That’s not where we’re headed. You’re missing the point. It’s not that we’re bringing the swing-off to regular season games. We’re bringing Kyle Schwarber to regular season games. Starting tomorrow, extra innings are done. Starting tomorrow, all tie games will be decided by Kyle Schwarber, who will swing off against Kyle Schwarber until Kyle Schwarber has crowned a victor. Kyle Schwarber has been charged to take possession of this planet and end all dispute.

When a game is tied after nine innings, Schwarber will arrive, don the visiting team’s hat and swat three mighty flies. He will then don the home team’s hat and swat three more, alternating sets of three until one ball fails to make it to the seats, until one hat has proven superior, until one team has won and the other has lost and Schwarber has done both and neither. Kyle Schwarber will be our philosopher-king, the judge, jury, and bloodthirsty executioner of baseballs from coast to coast. He has decided that extra innings are just that – extra, superfluous, unnecessary – and he will dispense with them now and for all time.

The logistics are daunting. In order for Schwarber to be available to decide every single game, he will be permanently stationed at McConnell Air Force Base in Kansas, which is within a maximum of 39 minutes flying time of every major league stadium – or it will be as soon as we unretire the SR-71 Blackbird, the fastest production aircraft of all time. Should this prove unworkable, Michael Baumann has drawn up plans to commission a new Mach 3 Schwarbomber from scratch.

Whenever a game looks like it might be headed toward a tie at the end of nine innings, Schwarber will be strapped in and sent aloft, hurtling through the heavens at Mach 3.3 toward the stadium in question. He will carry only his lumber, his collection of all 30 team hats, and a parachute emblazoned with the words “GET HOME SAFE.” In order to avoid wasting time on landing and taxiing, Schwarber will eject directly over the stadium. He is baseball’s deus ex machina, descending from the sky to mete out dispassionate justice with a bat mighty enough to beat the truth out of the very universe. And when his job is done, when the game is won and lost, he will be whisked back to Wichita to await the next potential tie.

This represents a sacrifice for Schwarber. He may not tire. He may not rest. He must recuse himself from all worldly allegiances, which means that he may no longer represent the Phillies (though he may continue to carry himself with the unmistakable Phillies energy that so thoroughly qualifies him for the job). He may never again win or lose. He may only win and lose. He will banish the tie from the game by burying it deep inside himself. He will be the tie that ends all ties, the exception that is the rule. Kyle Schwarber will be the final reckoning. Should he falter beneath this burden, the sport — possibly even the concept of justice itself — would crumble into dust. He will do what is right. He will do what is necessary. It should be a lot of fun.