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Thursday, August 23, 2018

Francois Legault & Charles Sirois Coalition for the future of Quebec

https://business.financialpost.com/news/the-odd-couple

There was a time when Charles Sirois shut himself from the public eye like an oyster hiding in a seabed.
Quebec’s high-tech wonderboy built up a telecommunications empire that made him rich after he sold phone company Teleglobe to Bell Canada in 2000. But when much of the rest of it came crashing down under a wall of debt in what has become known as the telecom nuclear winter, he retreated inward. No interviews. No splashy appearances. Just a sober post-mortem of what went wrong. And a rethink of how to make things right.
These days, the Sirois shell has opened again. Big time.
The venture capitalist and chairman of Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce is the federalist face of the two-man political movement known as the Coalition pour l’avenir du Québec (Coalition for the future of Quebec). Together with François Legault, a founder of Air Transat and a former Parti Québécois cabinet minister — yes, a separatist — he is wooing disenchanted voters of all stripes with their ideas for wealth creation and change.
The men argue that the question of Quebec’s constitutional independence should be shoved aside for the time being. They say the immediate goal should be economic independence.
This is no flash-in-the-pan group. Polls suggest it would form the next government. And by getting involved so intimately, Mr. Sirois is doing a rare thing for a businessman: Sticking his neck out.  

He plays Robin to Mr. Legault’s Batman. Both men authored the documents that now form the basis for their revolutionary gospel. Both men are heavily involved in presenting their positions to the public. But it’s Mr. Legault who does the big stunt work and takes most of the spotlight. Mr. Sirois has so far been the supportive sidekick.
On Wednesday evening, the sidekick pulled into a community hall in the Montreal west island suburb of Ste. Anne de Bellevue in his Porsche Cayenne for the latest in a series of public forums that has taken him from his native Chicoutimi to Sherbrooke. He took his coat off, flopped into a chair and greeted an interviewer, launching into a quick explanation of how one of Canada’s top bankers suddenly became one of Quebec’s most potent political players.
After an introductory phone call from Mr. Legault in August 2010, the two men met at Sirois’ offices on the 38th floor of Montreal’s IBM-Marathon tower, the city’s tallest skyscraper. Mr. Legault shared his political preoccupations. Mr. Sirois, 57, listened politely.
“François said ‘I think it’s time that we all play the same game’, ” Mr. Sirois recalled. “I said: ‘I know my game. What’s your game?’ ”
Though the two men were from opposite ends of the constitutional spectrum, it turned out they agreed on a lot of things. That Quebec’s public service has become a bloated ineffective mess paralyzed by a growing number of special interest groups. That the province is failing to reform its finances and promote productivity. That a collective cynicism and inertia has taken hold of its citizenry, killing risk-taking and real change.
On a sunny Saturday afternoon a few weeks later, Mr. Legault held a cocktail party at his home in the tony neighbourhood of Outremont to lay out his plan. Some 20 like-minded people were invited, including Mr. Sirois and Christiane Germain, the well-known boutique hotel businesswoman. Mr. Legault’s wife, Isabelle Brais, offered snacks she’d prepared. And then her husband made his recruiting pitch.
Two days later, details of the gathering were leaked to a reporter, who wrote up a story. Mr. Sirois was labelled a co-founder of a political-party-in-the-making, even though the group had barely begun. His name has been in the news ever since.
“We believe Quebec has been on pause for the last 20 years and the rest of the world is on fast-forward,” he told the Financial Post. It’s a line he’ll repeat later that evening in a speech to the polite and diverse crowd of 300, the kind of line honed by a politician on the election trail.
Except there is no election trail and there is no election. Only a room packed full of people disenchanted with the current Liberal-PQ duopoly in the provincial legislature.
It’s standing room only on this night in Ste. Anne. And though Mr. Sirois isn’t a politician and won’t run for office when a party forms officially as expected next month, he sure sounds like one.
“I’ll tell you honestly,” he says. “If Quebec stays poor, it’s not going to change much for me in my life. But it will change things enormously for my children and my grand-children. And that’s very important to me. That’s my motivation … Here in Quebec, businesspeople shut their mouths. But I’ve decided enough is enough.”
Corporate Canada in general tends to steer clear of direct political involvement and party politics, with rare exceptions. It’s hard to imagine too many people in Mr. Sirois’ position of power on Bay Street doing what he’s doing. Jacques Ménard, Bank of Montreal’s top banker in Quebec, is spearheading a grass-roots group to tackle the high-school dropout problem. But Mr. Sirois’ political engagement goes much further.
“[He doesn’t project] the button-down Canadian banker image that one thinks of. But I mean he’s based in Montreal, not Toronto,” says Karl Moore, a leadership expert at McGill University’s Desautels Faculty of Management. “But it’s also, I think, that he’s just made enough money and has enough freedom that he can do whatever he wants.”
As Mr. Moore notes, Mr. Sirois has made his fortune. He did so by selling his stake in Teleglobe to Bell, netting an estimated $850-million. International wireless network developer TIW was sold to Vodafone for $3.5-billion, generating proceeds to Mr. Sirois of an estimated $225-million. And oh yeah, Fido? He founded that, too. When it was sold to Rogers, reports pegged his gain at $27-million.
He is the 12th richest person in the province, according to a recent wealth ranking by L’Actualité magazine. Approachable and jovial, he’s not a rich snob by any means. But he’s not embarassed by his wealth either.
Mr. Sirois says he spoke to CIBC’s corporate governance committee to advise them of his political involvement. The committee concluded he was acting on a personal basis and the members were comfortable with that. If they hadn’t been, he says he would have resigned from the CIBC board.
At heart, Charles Sirois is a successful entrepreneur now supporting other entrepreneurs. He has personally started 20 companies from scratch and is helping others do the same.
In Africa, he supplies money and mentoring to nascent capitalists through his Enablis network. In Canada, he assists promising technology businesses through his private capital firm Telesystem. Founded in 1984 to do telecom deals, the company has switched its sights into other promising technology firms, providing capital currently for 23 businesses from pig vaccine maker Prevtec to TV content producer Zone3. Its assets are worth $250-million.
“He’s everywhere,” says Telesystem colleague Robert Talbot. “He’s a doer. He likes to move things.”
Mr. Sirois has spoken his mind before, writing two books including one published in 2000 calling for a complete overhaul of the social welfare system. Mr. Legault, 54, says he read the books and found in them pieces of a kindred spirit.
Among Mr. Sirois’ remedies back then: Governments should nix the patchwork of current public assistance programs and instead give everyone a sum of money every year to manage as they want, a kind of a guaranteed minimum income; and governments should end subsidies to universities and instead boost loans to students to make them pay the real cost of their education.
Among the Sirois-Legault position papers now: Crack down on Montreal merchants who fail to speak to their customers in French; abolish school boards; lay off 4,000 workers at Hydro-Quebec; and legislate a firmer mandate for the Caisse de dépôt et placement du Québec so the pension fund manager does more to help local firms and stoke the economy, even if there might be better investments to be had outside the province.
These are not timid ideas. Not surprisingly, they’ve generated a significant share of opposition. Premier Jean Charest calls them “brutal and radical.” Students shouted down the two men this week over the tuition question.
But they’re also winning converts. Fundraising parties at $250-a-head are reportedly well attended. The movement claims to have 5,000 members.
The Caisse suggestion stands out particularly for one reason: It bankrolled much of Sirois’ run in the 1980s and 1990s, a sugar-daddy to Mr. Sirois’ sweet dreams of laying underground cables around the world to bring wireless phones to the developing world’s masses.
“He said he wanted to ‘liberate the world,’” said long-term friend François Duffar, the former president of communications firm Cossette. “He said ‘I want to cut the wire’ so people can talk everywhere.”
When things turned sour for the tech industry in 2000 and Mr. Sirois was hunting for more financing for his holdings, investors including the Caisse balked. He eventually lost control of or sold most of his telecom assets when creditors squeezed him out, surrendering $2-billion in net worth.
The general view is that Mr. Sirois joined a long line of home-grown entrepreneurs in receiving financial support from the Caisse and that he wants to make sure other people have the same chance he did. The pension fund had barely 11% of its $151.7-billion in net assets invested in Quebec last year. He’d like to see that number grow.
What happens next in the adventures of the dynamic duo seems clear. Mr. Legault plans to unveil a detailed action plan forming the basis of a political party platform on Nov.14. The coalition may merge with the conservative Action démocratique du Québec party. And a new party will be born.
Mr. Sirois won’t run as a candidate. He says he’s too rich to become a politician. Quebec voters are “suspicious” of people with assets, he once said, even if wealth creates a sort of independence that may actually build trust with the populace.
Regardless, he says: “I have economic interests in the province up and down. I would be in permanent conflict on everything. I have a health-care business, I have a hotel businesses, everything.” He can’t break with those interests overnight.
The options then? He could be party president, he says. He could steer its economic policy making or fundraising.
No matter what he does, the challenge for him and for Mr. Legault is the same. No political leader or movement in years has arguably succeeded in articulating a credible vision of Quebec as a growing and prosperous society and winning support for the sacrifices needed to achieve that.
In many ways, coming out of his shell was the easy part for Mr. Sirois. Finding that magic pearl will be something else.

Friday, June 29, 2018

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Why Is Chuck the Short for Charles and Bill the Short for William?


Why Is Chuck the Short for Charles and Bill the Short for William?

 

Meet Richard, William, Sarah and Charles -- or as they're otherwise known -- Dick, Bill, Sally and Chuck. ADAM JEFFERY/BETTMANN/MICHAEL OCHS ARCHIVES/GETTY
Nicknames or "pet names" — shortened forms of standard names — exist in every language and every culture dating back to the first written records. In English, some nicknames make perfect sense: Dave for David, Pete for Peter, or Liz for Elizabeth. But others are totally weird: Margaret somehow becomes Peggy, Charles becomes Chuck, and Richard, quite famously, becomes Dick.
There isn't any overarching reason as to why nicknames develop that seem to make no logical sense. But there are some good stories behind some of the them. We reached out to Cleveland Kent Evans — psychology professor, author of "The Great Big Book of Baby Names", name columnist for the Omaha World Herald and former president of the American Name Society — to clue us in on the surprising origins of some of the most perplexing English nicknames. Let's start with a fun one.

Charles to Chuck

Unlike most English nicknames, this one does not come from England. Chuck is an entirely American invention with a colorful backstory. The first famous Chuck was a 19th-century New York City gangster named Chuck Connors, whose given name was George Washington O'Connor, not Charles.
So how did he get the nickname "Chuck"? Connors grew up in the Chinatown neighborhood of Lower Manhattan and even learned enough Chinese to earn him the unofficial title of "Mayor of Chinatown." Connors claimed that he got the nickname Chuck because of his love for chuck steak, but Evans has another theory.
"If you look at the 1850 US census, which was the first to list full names, almost all the people who had some variation of 'Chuck' in their given name were Chinese," says Evans, who thinks Connors more likely picked up a nickname from the neighborhood.
When Connor died in 1913, some of the New York papers erroneously printed his given name as Charles, making the first (if false) connection between Charles and Chuck. But since Charles lacked any catchy alternative nicknames at the time, Chuck stuck.

Henry to Hank (and Harry)

Prince Harry -- who was christened Prince Henry -- attends the launch of the team selected to represent the UK in the 2017 Invictus Games in Toronto in London, England.
JEREMY SELWYN - WPA POOL/GETTY IMAGES
Hank is another American nickname, but its origins are murkier. The most likely explanation, says Evans, is that Hank is derived from Henk, a Dutch nickname for Henry that would have been used by large the communities of Dutch settlers in New York and New Jersey in the 17th and 18th centuries.
But more interesting is the fact — little known to most Americans — that the original nickname for Henry was Harry. (Prince Harry's real name is Prince Henry of Wales.)
Evans says that Harry isn't so much a nickname of Henry as a mispronunciation of Henri, the original French form of Henry that arrived in England with the 11th-century Norman Conquest. Since few people could read or write in Medieval England, they pronounced the new name as best they could, sounding more like Harry than Henry.

Richard to Dick

Many of the most common English nicknames can be traced back to Medieval times, when half the men in England were named either John or William, and the other half were Robert or Richard. Evans says that inherited surnames didn't even show up until around 1100. Before that, people used occupations or lineage as last names: John the Smith or Robert son of William.
In those days, nicknames were essential to keeping Richard your neighbor straight from Richard your brother. A popular trick was to create rhyming names. The original shortened form of Richard was Rick, which became Hick and Dick.
The letters "H" and "D" were popular rhyming consonants, apparently, because the original nickname for Robert wasn't Bob, but instead was Hob or Dob. Bob arrived much later, Evans says, but you can still see the original nicknames in English surnames like Hobson and Dobson.

William to Bill

Credit the Irish with this one. Evans says that a curiosity of Irish Gaelic will turn a "W" sound into more of a "B" depending on whether the word is the subject or object of a sentence. Either way, the first written evidence of a William being called Bill was in the late 17th century when Irishmen mocked King William III of England by calling the hated Protestant conqueror "King Billy."

Margaret to Peggy

The ladies also got in on the rhyming act, but took it a step further. In the 1500s, there was a fad for rhyming "M" names with "P." Here's how Evans explains the journey from Margaret to Peggy:
Margaret to Marg to Mag to Meg to Meggy to Peggy.
The same thing happened to the name Martha. It started with the nickname Math, which moved to Matty, then switched to Patty, and eventually Patsy. Thomas Jefferson's wife, Martha, was known as Patty. Neither Patsy nor Patty had anything to do with Patricia.
In a final twist, another common nickname for Margaret was Daisy. Don't even try to get there using the rhyming method. This one was adopted by educated Brits who recognized that the French word for daisy, the flower, was Marguerite.

Sarah to Sally

A few nicknames are attributed to baby talk. Little children have a notoriously hard time pronouncing the letter "R" which often comes out sounding like an "L." Evans thinks that's the best explanation for the conversion of Sarah to Sally and Mary to Molly. (The rhyming phenomenon also takes Mary from Molly to Polly.)

Anne to Nancy

Some dialects of English used to use "mine" in place of "my." That's the best guess as to how we got from Anne to Nancy. It starts with folks saying "mine Anne," which got shortened to Nan and cute-ified into Nanny, Nansy and then Nancy.
You can see the "mine" phenomenon with other names that start with a vowel. Edward goes from "mine Edward" to "mine Ed" to Ned. Ellen goes from "mine Ellen" to "mine Elly" to Nelly.

John to Jack

There are a couple of possible explanations for this one, Evans says. The first has to do with a popular "pet" form of names from Medieval England where folks added "kin" as a suffix. William was Wilkin. Peter was Perkin. Again, you can still see these nicknames today in surnames like Wilkinson and Perkins.
John, Evans says, would have been changed to Jenkin. That could have easily been shortened to Jenk which is a quick trip to Jack.
Another theory points back to the Norman invasion and the arrival of the name Jacques, which is actually the French form of James, not John. But the cultural mingling of Jenk and Jacques could have been enough to produce Jack from John.

Friday, July 14, 2017

Trump - Russia connection

Seven Theories of the Case: What Do We Really Know about L’Affaire Russe and What Could it All Mean?https://www.lawfareblog.com/seven-theories-case-what-do-we-really-know-about-laffaire-russe-and-what-could-it-all-mean


https://www.lawfareblog.com/seven-theories-case-what-do-we-really-know-about-laffaire-russe-and-what-could-it-all-mean

Thursday, October 6, 2016

Mike Trout is the new Mickey Mantle


THE STADIUM SCENE.
OCT. 5 2016 4:17 PM

Mickey Mantle Is Alive, and He Plays in Anaheim

So why is Mike Trout less famous than Jimmy Garoppolo?



Mickey Mantle is alive. He’s right out there in centerfield, every day, running down balls in the alleys, taking over games with his offense, defense, and speed. And this is prime Mantle, too—not later-years, shot-kneed, wee-hours-at-the-Copacabana Mantle. He debuted at 19, just turned 25, and he’s been the best player in baseball every year since he—
Sorry, hang on, it’s not Mickey Mantle. It’s Hank Aaron. You can tell by his balanced stance and that rare blend of power and patience—nope, sorry, I’m wrong again. It’s Ken Griffey Jr. No, it’s Willie Mays? It’s definitely one of those legends. Because I’m watching him play, and I’m looking at his numbers, and any player this good, at every aspect of baseball, must be very, very, famous. Right?
It’s hard to quantify how unfamous someone is, but let’s try. What do you know about Mike Trout? He plays baseball. He … is great. That’s probably it, for most people. If you’re a baseball fan, you might know that he won an MVP a couple years ago or even that he has finished second every other year he’s played. You might even know some of his statistics, which for a diehard fan border on pornography and which after only five years in the league could be used to make a legitimate argument that Trout should be in the Hall of Fame. If you are an opposing pitcher, you know that Trout is the very last person you want to see at the plate, because of the sheer number of ways he can humiliate you and your team. And if you are Gordon Beckham, or Jesus Montero, or J.J. Hardy, or any of about a dozen other players who have watched Trout make impossible running-leaping-stretching catches at the wall to rob you of a home run, you know he is an impossible RoboCop monster who has taken notches off your stat sheet and food off your table.
Trout is not anonymous. His jersey regularly ranks in the top five or 10 in Major League Baseball sales, for one thing, and anyone who follows baseball at all knows who he is. But based on the unprecedentedly incredible things he has already done, by age 25, in the game purporting to be America’s national pastime, he should be far more famous. Wherever you fell on the Trout knowledge spectrum, you probably know way more about Peyton Manning. You know what Peyton Manning looks and sounds like and what his favorite kind of pizza is and probably what insurance company he uses. (If you don’t, sing the seven-note jingle in your head—yes, that one—and it’ll come to you.) You probably know what Steph Curry looks and sounds like and that he has a cute, funny daughter, and you might even know her name. You know exactly what Michael Phelps looks like, and he’s a swimmer—he only emerges every four years, for one week, like a minor comet or a lazy groundhog or something, and yet you know him. But what do you know about Mike Trout—a man every bit as good at baseball as Manning was at football and Curry is at basketball. Do you know what he looks like? Sounds like? Endorses? Anything? Do you know if he’s playing in the playoffs, which began Tuesday? Did you even know the playoffs began Tuesday
Here is what you should know: Mike Trout is the best player in baseball. There’s an argument to be made that he’s had the greatest season ever, for a player his age, in every year he has played. If he stays healthy, he may well end up being the greatest all-around baseball player of all time. So why does it feel like no one cares?
Because: Anaheim?
Baseball stardom has something of an East Coast bias. It’s less pronounced in basketball, and not true at all in football, where the once-a-week games are all played at regulated, TV-friendly times. But in baseball, a nightly occurrence for six months, having your games start when half the country is getting ready for bed doesn’t help your chances of crossing over. It’s not impossible—Ichiro Suzuki and Ken Griffey Jr. played in Seattle. But Anaheim is not Seattle. Anaheim is the white-hot center of Southern California: a vague, endless landscape of freeways, subdivisions, and Truman Show sameness.
Driving in Southern California is crazy-making. Any journey, of any length, makes you feel as if you’re in the Flintstones car, crawling along past the same 2-D palm trees, the same construction sites, the same strip malls, over and over. A 40-mile journey from Los Angeles to Anaheim—just as one random example I can think of, off the top of my head—can take you two hours or more, during which you first catalog all of the other, better things you could have done with that time, and then calculate how much faster you might’ve gotten there if you’d literally taken a bicycle.
And Anaheim itself feels accidental—there doesn’t appear to be a reason for it to be where it is. You just drive for a while and then pull off the highway, seemingly randomly, and there’s Disneyland and over there’s where the Angels play, and that’s Anaheim. And it’s hot. It’s so hot, always, all the time. Former FOX and ABC Sports reporter Suzy Shuster Eisen, who covered the Angels for three years, put it this way: “The only good part of driving to Anaheim is the In-N-Out just before you reach the stadium.”
The Angels won the World Series in 2002—the franchise’s first and only—and for a while it seemed that new owner Arte Moreno might just wrest control of Los Angeles baseball away from the Dodgers. Moreno went so far as to try to rename the team the Los Angeles Angels—“The The Angels Angels,” for you non–Spanish speakers—but a clause in his stadium lease mandated the word “Anaheim” had to be a part of the team name. So Moreno did the only logical thing—he renamed the team The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, a strong contender for worst franchise name ever, along with the Utah Jazz and the Mighty Ducks, also of Anaheim.
Although attendance surged, and the team won several division titles in the mid-’00s, the franchise has never quite recaptured that 2002 glory, and they’ve made the playoffs only once in the past seven years. (The Dodgers, after muddling through their own ownership drama, have four straight National League West crowns and are now firmly back in control of the city and its fans.) There is no question that performing in the postseason, in any sport, helps with countrywide popularity, and Mike Trout hasn’t really gotten the chance to do that yet. (Tellingly, all of the other top jersey sellers in 2016 are from teams that made the playoffs this season.)
So here’s Mike Trout, his generation’s best player, sitting in his clubhouse before a meaningless final weekend game against the Houston Astros. He is impossibly solid-looking but doesn’t make a very big footprint in the room—he’s like a super–laid-back Captain America.  His job tonight is the same as it has been since his first game, five years ago: to man the outfield for a mediocre team, playing in the SoCal heat, in front of SoCal fans. Technically, tonight he will be the team’s designated hitter, because the game is so meaningless, there’s really no sense having him run around and put more mileage on his knees. But he has to play, because watching Mike Trout is one of a very few good reasons the Anaheim Angels can give their fans to get them to buy tickets.

The cliché about Southern California fans is fairly accurate—they have a penchant for meandering in late and leaving early, to beat the traffic. Trout, a New Jersey native who rooted for the Phillies, shrugs off the “fan intensity” gap between the Northeast and SoCal. “I don’t know that it’s that different, really. You want to have the stadium filled, for sure.” And to be fair, The The Angels Angels do just fine in that regard—they drew 3 million fans this year, to that hot stadium in the middle of nowhere and 3 million last year and the year before that. So at least Trout is appreciated locally. But something is muting his potential fame, and that thing may be the neither-here-nor-there city in which he plays. Eisen, for one, would agree. “There’s only room for one star in Anaheim,” she says, “and it’s Mickey Mouse.”
Because: How He Lives?
The famous story goes like this: The Yankees’ star centerfielder is hungover, again, so he’s sitting this one out. Coach sends him to pinch-hit, so he struggles to the plate, head throbbing, and somehow hits one out to win the game. He rounds the bases, wincing at the loud cheers, and as Mickey Mantle gets back to the dugout he looks to his teammates and says, “Boys, you’ll never know how hard that was.”


Mantle’s fame was part talent, part New York, part Yankees, and part wild-man night-owl personality—he also famously said, toward the end of his life, “If I’d’ve known I was gonna live this long, I would’ve taken better care of myself.” Doubtful Mike Trout will feel the same, decades from now. There are no famous stories about wild behavior, no crazy nights at whatever the 2016 equivalent of the Copacabana is. Trout’s main off-field passion seems to be … the weather. He loves weather and weather reports, even appearing on the Weather Channel a few times, to guest-announce the weather. That’s right. His true passion is the thing we all talk about to fill awkward silences on elevators.
Despite having grown up a Phillies fan, Trout most idolized a guy who played elsewhere. Jeter was my guy. I was a shortstop … and they always aired the Yankees on ESPN. I just liked the way he played, the way he carried himself.” There’s a logic to this—Derek Jeter had the same private vibe, even when out in public. He stayed outside of the limelight, as much as a superstar in New York can. His play, and the Yankees, and the tireless work of his many hagiographers, made him famous.
So Trout is not Mickey Mantle. He’s not Bryce Harper, either, with his bro-y fauxhawk and calls to make the game more fun and calling out reporters for their clown questions. Trout is not cartoonishly Popeye-ish, like Mark McGwire. He doesn’t get into Twitter fights like Curt Schilling. He limits his media exposure and his endorsements. He doesn’t do anything—for better or worse—that would propel his stardom to the next level. As he puts it: “That’s just kind of how it’s been. I’m one of those guys who likes to keep stuff to themselves. People ask me questions, I answer.” However, many athletes at his level become stars simply by playing as well as he plays. Personality helps, but extreme greatness itself can beget fame, even if the person inside the personality isn’t larger than life. (If you don’t believe me, listen to Michael Jordan trying to record one simple line for a Gatorade ad. The guy wasn’t exactly a dynamo off the court.)
All of these things—playing on the West Coast, playing in Anaheim specifically, limiting his exposure, loving weather a lot—might help explain why the best baseball player ever, through his age-24 season, is roughly as famous, right now, in America, asJimmy Garoppolo. But it doesn’t completely explain it.
Which brings us to the game of baseball itself.
Because: Mike Trout Plays Baseball?
Stats on baseball’s popularity are a little Rorschach-y—if you’re Commissioner Rob Manfred, you can stare at them and see healthy attendance figures fueled by new stadiums and greater parity, billions in revenue, and record-shattering TV rights deals for local markets. But the World Series TV ratings paint a different picture—one where a crummy, meaningless Monday Night Football game in Week 5 of the NFL season can tie or beat the Fall Classic. Baseball’s biggest moments don’t hold the nation’s attention the way they used to. It may technically be a top-two or -three sport in the U.S., but there are so many games, over such a long period of time, it maybe just doesn’t feel special, or something.

This, for what it’s worth, is Trout’s theory on baseball’s struggle to win over casual fans: “There are so many games. [Many] people start watching in September. In those mid-summer months, there’s not a lot of people watching, because there’s 162 games.”
And those who do think it’s special are old and getting older. The median age of those baseball-first fans is climbing. Stars are made by kids, and kids don’t watch baseball the way they used to. And even if they do, there’s the essential problem of the actual game they’re watching: It’s very weird. It may in fact be the weirdest sport we have.
It’s not the most boring sport, as haterz are fond of claiming; there’s more ball-in-play action in baseball than there is in football (though obviously far less than in soccer or basketball). But it is weirder. It’s a team game, made up of one-on-one battles, in which players can go an eternity without touching the ball. More importantly, on TV, only the pitcher and batter are really visible. Even if you want to learn more about Mike Trout, you can watch an Angels game (at 10 p.m. on the East Coast) for 40 minutes and never once even see the best player in baseball. If at any given moment Steph Curry isn’t touching the basketball, he is at least running around and his teammates are trying to get it to him. He is always in the game.


And if baseball the game is bad for star-making, the meta-game—the way it packages and presents itself to fans—is even worse. At the most boring regular season NBA game—I’m talking Suns-76ers in early January—the lineups of the home team will be announced during a 4-D holographic laser–video–light show that could make Nik Stauskas look like Dr. J. Baseball has a public address system and a gameday program you can buy with a tiny golf pencil to keep score. MLB has yet to figure out how to market its best stars, on a day-to-day basis. Maybe because there are just too many players and too many games that last too long, in a too-long season over too many months.
MLB is not blind to its problems. It recently introduced several rules to trim some precious minutes off its nightly running time, which appear to be working and which Trout applauds: “It’s tough to be out there, three, four hours a day. They’re speeding it up to an extent, but it still has to be baseball. From a fan standpoint, the fans leave in the sixth, seventh inning because it’s a long game. As a player it’s worse—you’re beat by the seventh, eighth inning.” But the game, really, is the game: It’s plodding and gradual and deliberate. No matter what happens on the margins, it still has to be baseball. It will never have the constant action of basketball or the explosiveness of football, and as such its stars may simply never truly break through to the extent that NFL and NBA stars do.
Which maybe brings us all the way back around to Anaheim, in a way, and the 3 million fans who fill that hot stadium every year. Baseball, thanks to its everyday schedule, lends itself extremely well to local-market television. Franchises have unlocked massive value by either selling broadcasting rights to local sports networks (FOXSportsThisPlace, FOXSportsThatPlace) or by outright owning them (YES for the Yankees, NESN for the Red Sox). But that Balkanization has led to a sort of fan provinciality—when you have the ability to watch only your team, you end up not watching any others, really. The NBA has its Christmas Day spectacular. The NFL has a weekly national doubleheader, plus Monday and Thursday nights. The MLB has 30 sets of fans living in 30 happy bubbles. Which means Mike Trout is a very big deal in Anaheim, and a silent tree falling in Anaheim, nightly, everywhere else.
This is how you explain the Rorschach-iness of baseball’s robust fan data—it’s a confederacy of fan bases, many of them individually healthy but without the centralized national pillars of support enjoyed by other sports. And in one remote part of that confederacy, we find Mike Trout, who does every exciting thing you can do on a baseball field and does them better than anyone else, and it feels as if it doesn’t matter. For whatever reason, baseball is local, and so are its stars. He is Mickey Mantle, minus New York, minus the Yankees, minus the wild side, plus Anaheim, plus the weather, and minus most of the fame.


Mike Schur is a TV writer and producer, and his new show is called⁠⁠The Good Place⁠⁠, on NBC.

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