Postmodernism in the Time of Barry Bonds

I love Greg Kinnear.

Attribute it to “Little Miss Sunshine,” ascribe it to “As Good as it Gets,” or blame it on “Auto Focus” (the obscure one about that pervy “Hogan’s Heroes” clown) but I am all about this dude. I think this affinity goes back to the golden days when I used to eat from his “Talk Soup” like it was a bowl of Ramen Noodles. One way or the other, I am a sucker for picking up any movie Kinnear has been in…which means I have seen some true stinkers in my day (think “The Matador” and “Sabrina” and “Stuck On You”).

I call this situation* getting Kinneared (this term is often applicable to Edward Norton flicks).

Anyway…

I got Kinneared the other night, and in a major way. It was by a movie called “Unknown”. Anyone else seen this thing?

This crappy movie is unmemorable for a multitude of reasons, the least of which being that it is crappy. More important to its unimportance, however, is that it is a bland variation of “Vanilla Sky” which is a bland (and overtly self-indulgent) variation of “The Matrix” which is a bland variation (sorry) of “Memento” which is a great movie.

And I don’t mean variation as in “the plot was similar” or that it “starred similar actors/actresses” or that Simon Brand, the director of the stinker, thought “Penelope Cruz could be his next Renee Zelwegger.”

No, instead I mean its central premise was the same; the movie was centered around the question: What is reality?

So as “Unknown” concluded and Jesus’ face (or Jim Caviezel’s, depending on how you choose to look at it) disappeared inside a cheesy score and rolling credits, I found myself thinking about the whole “idea” behind “postmodern art.”

Now, I don’t even know what postmodernism really means. Actually, let me rephrase that; I know what it means conceptually, but since it is, in fact, built around a conception, doesn’t this mean it can’t actually, be defined?

The debate surrounding postmodernism (and I realize most people don’t even realize there is a debate) reminds me of several of my college communications courses I took towards my major (at least, the few I actually showed up to). I remember sitting through hours of discourse wherein I, along with my classmates and my professor (who was a semi-condescending dude named Brett O’Donnell, I think), would sit in a circle (very egalitarian of this Liberty University prof, I might add) and talk about what a litany of long-dead rhetoricians were saying about life and communication. To this day, I don’t know what confused me more about those collegiate chats: (a) what the heck a “rhetorician” actually was, or (b) why we spent so much time talking about the art of talking.

Point being, the debate about what postmodernism means and whether we’ve, as a society, entered a “postmodern era” seems as ridiculous and trivial as talking about the finer points of talking. It all seems very elitist and uppity and vapid and…well, meaningless.

As I finished this bore of a movie the other night and thought about the underlying question of what, in fact, reality really is, it got me thinking about this whole discussion as to whether we are living in a postmodern world. And I realized that while I honestly don’t care whether we’re living in a modern or post modern or pre-modern or semi-modern world, I do think I can spell out a good example of what it means to be in the postmodernist camp. And I can make this extrapolation by the strangest of means: by pointing out that baseball season is now in full swing.

Here’s why America’s favorite pastime is relevant in this discussion…

The argument for whether postmodernism is, in fact, even a relevant term, has always been contingent upon a highly nebulous vortex. However, because of this current baseball season, it is my contention that those who believe society has entered a postmodern era will soon have a metaphor to cite when arguing their position.
And his name is Barry Bonds.

Barry Bo entered this 2007 baseball season with 734 homeruns, which left him twenty-one dingers away from breaking Hank Aaron’s all-time mark of 755. That means homeboy has walked (or trotted) around the base paths a further distance than the lovable Jared has walked toward his local Subway.

There is a huge media storm surrounding Barry Bonds’ quest for this milestone because of its historical significance, but moreover, because of the black cloud hanging in the quest’s balance. In case you’re either (a) not even peripherally interested in sports or (b) have been living under a rock, let me explain what said black cloud is: Barry Bonds has been accused of taking steroids.

Now, it is noteworthy that he, in actuality, has been more than accused; he has actually been proven guilty. But, Barry Bonds, when confessing, employed some serious Clintonian rhetoric and, in a brilliant semantics twist, (or, ironically, in an example of the philosophical question “what constitutes reality?”), Barry admitted he’s taken steroids for a brief time, but explained that this was because they were supplied to him by a trainer and he didn’t know he was, in fact, taking steroids (therefore, it begs the DEEPER question: if one doesn’t know he’s taking steroids, but is meanwhile pumping them into his system like vegetables, is he really taking steroids? And if so, should he be punished?)

This whole scenario with Barry and the “did-he-take-steroids-or-didn’t-he?” saga is akin to the OJ Simpson scenario: everyone knows he did it, but even though it hasn’t had much tangible repercussion or consequence, a lifetime’s worth of attempts to prove innocence and credibility will still be futile (Much like JFK’s “alleged” dalliances with Marilyn Monroe).

Because of his steroid usage, people openly debate whether Barry Bonds should be regarded as the homerun king of all time and whether, upon breaking Hank Aaron’s hallowed record (which he inevitably will do, assuming Jesus doesn’t come back or Barry doesn’t start smoking weed with Ricky Williams) Bonds should, indeed, be cited as the official record holder.

People on Barry’s side of this argument (which is a surprisingly large contingent) say that, yes, he should, of course, be regarded as the official record holder. Steroids or no steroids, they say, 756 homeruns is a big deal: an achievement that will never again be duplicated. Their logic is that only an athlete of the highest order could accomplish such a feat and he therefore deserves to be regarded as the greatest homerun hitter of all-time.

Meanwhile, people in the anti-Barry world will suggest that Barry is a cheat akin to Pete Rose, whose gambling on baseball got him banned from the MLB, banned from the Hall of Fame, and ostracized by all baseball fans; even though Rose, to this day, is still, and likely will always remain, the record holder for the most hits in a major league career.

People who are interested in sports debate this Barry Bonds steroid issue like Sean Hannity and Alan Colmes debate embryonic stem cell research. And invariably, when this steroid/homerun topic arises, one of these two aforementioned sides is taken and its premise is supported by either of the above arguments.

The odd thing, though, is that while it seems like it is an absolute certainty that this historic event will transpire, the question is not usually posed as: “Do you think Barry Bonds deserves credit as the homerun king once he breaks the record?” but instead, it is usually posed as: “Do you want to see Barry Bonds break the homerun record?”

And, not surprisingly at all, I found myself facing this very question just the other day.

It should be divulged that I really haven’t put much thought into the issue. I really don’t (at least not consciously) care that much about the event. BUT…when I was asked whether I did, or did not, want to see Barry Bonds break the homerun record, I found that my visceral response was: “No.” However, while I found I was prone to dismiss Bonds, I realized very quickly that my reasoning for not wanting to see this gargantuan man hit his 756th ball over a fence and into the San Francisco Bay is not because I don’t want to see Barry Bonds get the homerun record, but instead, it is because I don’t want to see Hank Aaron lose it.

I find this remarkably telling about myself, and moreover, is remarkably telling about human nature as a whole.

Here’s why: because I never actually saw Hank Aaron play a single game of baseball in my life. And while I don’t know a thing about Hank Aaron (other than that he holds the homerun record and he owns a car dealership in Atlanta) I feel as if I know everything about the guy’s career. But I don’t know whether Hammerin’ Hank bats right-handed or left, I don’t know what teams he played for (save the Braves), and probably most tellingly, I don’t even know what position the guy played (I think right field, but one can’t be sure). Meanwhile, I can cite the answer to these same questions about Barry Bonds like I’m Al Gore testifying before a Congressional Senate committee on Global Warming. Shoot, I even still have rookie cards from when Barry Bonds played for the Pittsburgh Pirates and was about as physically intimidating as Danny Tanner from Full House.

My point being: All logic triangulates toward the idea that I should be (assuming I’m not one of those who’s up in arms over the steroid controversy, which I’m honestly not) actively rooting for Mr. Bonds to break the coveted record. But I’m not, and I think my reason for why I’m not rooting for him actually says more about human nature than it does about a stupid baseball milestone or a stupid steroid controversy.

I don’t want to see Barry Bonds break the record because I don’t want him to tarnish the puritanical illusion of baseball I have unconsciously constructed in my head. I don’t want to see Barry Bonds hit his 756th homerun because when he does, I’ll be forced to acknowledge that there is nothing special about baseball.

Sure baseball’s a fun game, and it’s a blast to watch the post-season (especially if the Yankees and Red Sox are in it), but since I am actively living in the present and esoterically cognizant of what’s going on in sports and aware of how impure the sport is and how trivial baseball really is in the scheme of everyday life, I can not foster any quixotic feelings for the game.

But for some reason, despite the fact that I know that baseball was just as corrupt (well, if not just as, then very close as) in Hank Aaron’s day as it is now, I am still able to manufacture an illusion that baseball meant something back then (even though I know it really didn’t). And as long as Barry Bonds doesn’t go and break the last significant record linking the “good-ol’-days” of baseball to the present, I can ascribe meaning to the game of baseball and I can use it as a metaphor for American life and democracy and idealism and the undying competitive nature of the human spirit. But the moment that the 756th crack of Barry’s bat takes place, I’ll be forced to face a fact I already know to be true, but don’t, as of yet, have to consciously admit: baseball, like human nature, is not beautiful.

Leading me to my ultimate point…

I think we as humans have a propensity…no scratch that, we have an intrinsic need, to ascribe undeserved meaning to things, people, and events from the past to provide meaning and hope for our own lives. We subconsciously alter reality and change its context to fit an ideal we want the past to represent for our present.

We do it all throughout culture. Always have.

Take music for example. It is common understanding that Nirvana, fronted by future suicide candidate Kurt Cobain, is the greatest band of, if not just the 1990’s, the last quarter of the twentieth century. Nirvana is credited with ushering in the grunge culture and today, a decade and change after Cobain’s suicide, the band has more street cred than Jack Nicholson on Sunset Boulevard. But what people forget is that until Kurt Cobain blew his head off, Nirvana was being suddenly turned against by a number of rock critics, and people were suddenly calling Pearl Jam (a band fronted by a much saner…and much better vocalist, Eddie Vedder) the better of the two bands.

However, once Cobain killed himself, people started lionizing Cobain as a rock god and considering Nirvana the Beatles of their generation. It was quickly brushed under the rug and is now virtually forgotten that anyone ever thought that the guy who sang about Jeremy’s suicide was ever considered cooler than the guy who actually committed suicide himself. And this was because once Kurt offed himself, we suddenly had reason to create a romantic (read: tragic) image of what he, and by extension his band, represented about life.

The same thing applies to Biggie Smalls (AKA: Notorious Big, AKA: Christopher Wallace, AKA: A million other monikers). After Biggie was gunned down, he solidified a god-like stature in rap history when otherwise (i.e. had he had lived on), he may now be mentioned in the same breath (strike that, he would be mentioned in the same breath) as Jay-Z (which, considering the fact that Jigga is brilliant and is dating the hottest woman on the planet, I guess that comparison isn’t such a bad thing; but the point is, Jay-Z is not seen on a god-like pedestal like Biggie). **

I could go on with examples like this all day, but there’s a specific person I want to concentrate on, especially since I want to take this essay in a Christian direction.

I want to talk about my uncle Tate.

My uncle Tate, who was the third of five boys in his family (my dad being the fifth), died of cancer over ten years ago. He was in his mid-forties when he passed.

Tate, more so than any human being I’ve personally known, was a real Christian. I mean, this guy was the genuine article. There was nothing religious about Tate. Tate’s brand of Christianity was personal. Tate loved the Lord with all his heart, and that commitment carried through to all of his other relationships. I’ve never known a person who was more loving, and consequently, more loved, than was my uncle Tate.

His death was, for many in our community, tragic.

But, I have lately noticed something interesting regarding Tate: when anyone from Tate’s past (i.e. family, church members, friends, etc.) speak of Tate, it is done so in a manner that almost suggests he was flawless. And this is not to take anything away from Tate, because as I’ve just explained, Tate was an amazing guy.

But what I have observed is that those of us who are left in the wake of his death, those of us who are having to deal with the harsh realities of this present world, those of us who are having to come to grips with the idea that maybe the Christian life isn’t the joyride we’d naively thought it was going to be in our younger days…we have somehow, unconsciously, turned Tate into a martyr-like figure.

Meaning: we have subconsciously chosen to forget that Tate was just as human and flawed as the rest of us, and instead, have begun remembering him as the perfect Christian. We have used our shifted reality of who Tate really was as a standard toward which we wish we could live, even though we know (somewhere deep inside) we never will actually reach this standard.

The reason we subconsciously do this (in my opinion) is that it gives us hope. If we can believe that someone was able to buck the system and rise above the human weaknesses of sin, and depression, and debt, and second-guessing-all-of-life’s-decisions, and was, as a result, able to enjoy a Christian life of complete happiness and tranquility, then it gives us the peace of believing that even though we won’t ever be able to be that person, someone was able to, and therefore, our lives doesn’t seem so arbitrary, and God doesn’t seem so cruel.
If we are able to filter life through this prism, the problem become us (mankind) as opposed to an idea that because of God’s separation from us at The Fall, we were born with a sin nature that precludes us from ever being perfect. It is much more pacifying to believe our problem is that we, personally, of our own accord, haven’t been able to attain perfection, than it is to believe that we, actually, are born incapable of achieving this perfection in the first place.

Bringing me to Jesus.

Jesus Christ is the only human being who ever lived who was (is) worthy of martyr-like status. Jesus is the only human being who actually did live a perfect life. And the only way he was able to do this was because, he was, in fact, God (which gave him a bit of a leg up on the rest of us).

I have found recently that one of the most beautiful things about being a Jesus freak is that whatever love and admiration we feel for Jesus is never, and can never be, over-deserved or over-exaggerated.

With our feelings for any other human being we have the innate capacity to over-exaggerate or shift the realities of what we think of them, or love about them, or envy of them. But, with Jesus, we can never go beyond the truth of how great he is. No matter how much we build him up, we can never outthink his greatness.

Bringing me back to Barry Bonds.

If Barry Bonds breaks this homerun record in the coming months, then suddenly, baseball will suddenly be nothing more than a silly game (at least to me), and I can never again view it as something greater than it really is. Watching Barry hit his 756th homerun will be, for me, like accidentally finding an old home video from twenty years ago that features my uncle Tate drinking beers and using profanities (which I highly doubt I’d ever find). My point being: it would destroy the perfect image I have subconsciously created in my head, rendering me incapable of ever viewing Tate, again, as the perfect Christian.

Any event that makes one feel like something that was, for cultural purposes, once important and is now, suddenly irrelevant (like Barry’s record breaking homerun); any event that seems to undermine a clear central hierarchy, or an understood sense of meaning, defines the idea of postmodernism.

Postmodernism refers to the idea that all things and thoughts have begun to bleed together, and in so doing, have made the life experience become more ambiguous, and feelings therefore, less worthy of distinction.

Like I said, I don’t really care about the argument of postmodernism. It just seems like a lot of talk, to me.

But, I do care about Jesus Christ.

Therefore, I’m going to give over my desire to see Hank Aaron keep the homerun record because I’m going to force myself to come to grips with the idea that baseball, like life, was never beautiful in the first place.

Meanwhile, I’m going to force myself to acknowledge that while my uncle Tate was a tremendous man of God, he was never perfect. Therefore, I will now have to face the reality that being perfect and, as a consequence of that perfection, being constantly happy and at peace, is never going to happen in my earthly life.

And finally, after watching “Unknown,” I’m going to have to force myself to face one more reality, and it’s going to pain me to do so…

…I’m going to have to face the idea that maybe Greg Kinear never was as great an actor as I made him out to be in the first place.

* And by “situation” I mean: being a conformist and denying all capacities of logic and reason and picking up a movie with a crappy title and a crappy cover and a crappy plot and a crappy cast, all because one of the actors was marginally brilliant once alongside power players such as Jack Nicholson and Cuba Gooding Jr.

** It would seem obvious to mention Tupac Shakur in this same breath, but it would not be a valid argument. Tupac, whether he lived another forty years, or conversely, had he actually died three years earlier than he did, would always be considered brilliant.