Every July, sports media follows the same script. The MLB All-Star selections come out, and suddenly, we’re conducting congressional hearings.
Who got snubbed? Who shouldn’t have made it? Why are fans still voting? Why does every team get a representative? Somebody’s WAR is higher than somebody else’s OPS+, and before you know it, sports radio, television, and social media have spent an entire week arguing over a game that’s supposed to be fun.
Ironically, that’s the best part of All-Star Week.
The debates. The snubs. The Home Run Derby. The player introductions. The custom uniforms. The mic’d-up moments. The awkward dugout interviews where future Hall of Famers suddenly sound like Little Leaguers. That’s the entertainment. The game is simply the closing act.
Then Tuesday night arrives, and everyone makes the same mistake.
They expect October.
This is my annual public service announcement: you’re watching the All-Star Game wrong.
Every year, people tune in expecting nine innings of playoff intensity, then spend the next morning complaining that nobody dove headfirst into second base, that managers emptied the bullpen too quickly, or that pitchers only threw one inning. Of course they did. That’s the assignment.
We’ve somehow convinced ourselves that an exhibition should deliver championship drama, then criticize it when it doesn’t. That’s like buying a ticket to Happy Gilmore and complaining it wasn’t Oppenheimer. Wrong movie.
Why the All-Star Game Isn’t Built for October Intensity
The World Series, the Super Bowl, the NBA Finals, and the Stanley Cup Finals are where every pitch, possession, and decision carry enormous weight. That’s where players become legends, and fan bases either celebrate forever or spend the next decade asking what went wrong.
The All-Star Game isn’t trying to be any of that. It’s baseball’s family reunion.
It’s one night where rivals become teammates, where MVPs laugh together in the dugout, where fans get to see combinations they’ll never see again, and where the sport gets to celebrate itself for three hours without anyone’s season hanging in the balance. Sports don’t have enough nights like that.
Sports media doesn’t always help. We spend two weeks promoting the event like it’s going to determine baseball’s future. Every roster reveal becomes breaking news. Every snub becomes a national controversy. And every fan vote becomes evidence the process is broken. By first pitch, we’ve convinced everyone they’re about to watch baseball’s version of Game 7.
Here’s the funny part: if the game looked like October, we’d probably complain about that too.
Imagine if managers refused to remove their ace until he’d thrown 110 pitches. Imagine if stars played all nine innings. Or imagine if every replay review lasted five minutes because the outcome mattered that much. We’d spend Wednesday morning complaining that everyone took an exhibition too seriously.
The All-Star Game can never win that argument because we’re asking it to be something it was never designed to be.
The Numbers Prove Fans Still Care
Meanwhile, the ratings tell a completely different story. Last year’s MLB All-Star Game averaged roughly 7.2 million viewers, once again making it the most-watched All-Star event in American sports. The Home Run Derby drew nearly 5.8 million viewers, up from the previous year. Those aren’t Super Bowl numbers, nor should they be, but they’re a long way from “nobody cares.” People care. They just care differently.
Different events are meant to give you different experiences, and that’s okay. The All-Star Game isn’t failing. We’re just grading it with the wrong answer key.
Somehow, we’ve convinced ourselves the appetizer should taste like the steak, when the feast is everything leading up to Tuesday night. The debates, the snubs, the Derby, the introductions, the personalities, and the anticipation — that’s the event. The game itself is simply the celebration after all the arguing.
Not every sporting event has to determine a champion. Not every broadcast has to produce an all-time sports moment. Sometimes it’s enough to celebrate the best players in the game, let them smile, joke around, wear microphones, hit a few tape-measure home runs, and remind everyone why they became stars in the first place.
So before All-Star Week takes over Philadelphia and the inevitable complaints flood television, radio, and social media, here’s my annual public service announcement.
Stop grading the All-Star Game like it’s October. Debate the rosters. Argue about the snubs. Watch the Home Run Derby. Laugh at the mic’d-up moments. Appreciate seeing the game’s biggest stars sharing one field, even if it’s only for a night.
If you judge the All-Star Game for what it is instead of what it isn’t, you’ll probably enjoy it a whole lot more.
Maybe the problem has never been the All-Star Game. Maybe it’s been the way we’ve been watching it all along.
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With decades of experience behind the mic, John Lund is more than a sports commentator and weekly columnist for Barrett Media—he’s a storyteller, humorist, and true fan. He’s hosted shows in mid sized markets like Pittsburgh and Salt Lake City to larger cities like San Francisco, Detroit and Dallas. John has even hosted nationally on ESPN Radio. Known for his sharp wit and deep sports knowledge, John welcomes your feedback. Reach him on X @JohnLundRadio or by email at John@JohnLundRadio.com.