"I wonder why there is a designated hitter in baseball after all these years? As an experiment, it seemed like a swell enough idea, but you would think the novelty would have worn off by now and everyone would get back to playing baseball"
About this Quote
Mohr’s gripe lands because it treats a decades-old rule tweak like a party trick nobody had the nerve to end. Calling the designated hitter an “experiment” is the tell: he’s not litigating run production or pitcher injuries so much as mocking the way sports institutions let temporary fixes harden into ideology. The punchline is in the polite understatement of “swell enough,” a deliberately small phrase that makes the DH sound like a gimmick from a marketing meeting rather than a foundational choice. Then he twists the knife with “novelty,” framing the rule as entertainment-first, a shiny object that distracts from the harder, messier version of the game.
The subtext is really about authenticity and responsibility. “Everyone would get back to playing baseball” isn’t a literal claim that the DH isn’t baseball; it’s a cultural rebuke of specialization. The pitcher who can’t hit becomes a symbol for modern workarounds: outsource the inconvenient part, keep the product moving, pretend nothing essential was lost. Mohr, an actor and comic, understands that audiences like clean narratives and uninterrupted momentum; his complaint is that baseball’s charm is its friction. The old National League ritual forced managers into uncomfortable decisions, forced pitchers into vulnerability, forced fans to watch strategy unfold in real time.
Context matters, too: for years the DH was a league identity fight, not just a rule. Mohr’s line channels a certain fan’s suspicion that “progress” in sports often means sanding down quirks that make the game human, replacing them with efficiency that looks a lot like blandness.
The subtext is really about authenticity and responsibility. “Everyone would get back to playing baseball” isn’t a literal claim that the DH isn’t baseball; it’s a cultural rebuke of specialization. The pitcher who can’t hit becomes a symbol for modern workarounds: outsource the inconvenient part, keep the product moving, pretend nothing essential was lost. Mohr, an actor and comic, understands that audiences like clean narratives and uninterrupted momentum; his complaint is that baseball’s charm is its friction. The old National League ritual forced managers into uncomfortable decisions, forced pitchers into vulnerability, forced fans to watch strategy unfold in real time.
Context matters, too: for years the DH was a league identity fight, not just a rule. Mohr’s line channels a certain fan’s suspicion that “progress” in sports often means sanding down quirks that make the game human, replacing them with efficiency that looks a lot like blandness.
Quote Details
| Topic | Sports |
|---|---|
| Source | Help us find the source |
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