Bud Selig’s decision to call the All-Star Game is such an unmitigated disaster that it almost boggles the mind to think how he thought he could possibly get away with it. This decision upsets me more than the strike talk and steroid allegations.

Labor problems I can understand. The owners believe they can’t survive unless there’s some kind of salary cap and revenue sharing. The players think the owners are lying and, more importantly, don’t think they can lose. All of this is ugly, sure, and another “work” stoppage (ahem, it’s a “play” stoppage, actually — and that’s not merely a semantic difference) would bring me great sadness. And while it would affect the game in the most obvious way, the roots of the problem lie beyond the game itself and belong in the realm of industrial and labor economics.

How can I get angry about the economic realities of the game and the incentives each side faces to keep fighting and not give in to the other side? Those are the facts, and they probably won’t change anytime soon (if what we know about game theory is true). They impact the game, but they are not about the game.

As for steroids, I think that if major-league baseball has a rule against their use, it ought to do random testing to enforce the rule. It’s only common sense. But I don’t see it as a black mark on the game that some players (to speculate on how many seems irresponsible and silly at this point) use steroids to give themselves an advantage. Players in all sports have always done just about everything to give themselves an advantage, and performance-enhancing drugs are no exception.

There are certain things we think should be allowed (bigger mitts, pine tar, batting gloves and gear, etc.) and others that shouldn’t (spitballs, nail files, steroids, etc.). It’s not a black mark on the game that some folks try to cheat, especially when the game is so unserious about enforcing the rules. Again, steroid use impacts the game, but in the end it’s not about the game.

What Bud Selig, Joe Torre, Bob Brenly & co. did to the All-Star Game is another matter entirely. It was a calculated decision to change the rules of the game — while the game was in progress! — for the convenience of the players and against the interests of the fans both in the ballpark and at home. No, that’s too weak a condemnation. It doesn’t even come close to describing the bile that rises in my throat when I think about what they did.

Baseball, unlike most other sports, is timeless. Part of its charm is that, conceivably, a game could go on forever. The average game may last too long, but I’ve never heard a paying fan complain about an extra-inning game. It’s one of baseball’s little devilish tricks that just when you — as a manager, as a player, as a fan — think you’ve got the right strategy figured out to win the game, something can come up and bite you in the ass.

That big bopper you replaced with a light-hitting, speedy defensive replacement — you’re stuck with him and his .240 on-base percentage for the rest of the game. The star catcher you replaced with a rookie so the old-timer could rest his knees — the only good he can do now is wear a rally cap and yell from the bench, as helpless as a fan in the last row of the park.

That is the essence of managing — making decisions that will be second-guessed as soon as you make them and that just as often go well as badly. The constraint on all of your free-wheeling is that you know that the game must be played. No matter what, a conclusion must be had. It ain’t over ’til the last man is out or the winning run crosses the plate.

That’s the game. That’s the way it has been for about 150 years now. Unless there’s bad weather or there aren’t enough players on the field to finish the game, it goes on. The toil of the player continues, for the pleasure of the spectator. Until last night.

“Oh, but what about the players? They might get hurt!” it’s said. “Oh, but what about the players’ regular managers? They’ll be upset!” it’s said. Yes, they might get hurt — that’s known going in. Every game carries the risk that a player might get hurt. No one must participate in the All-Star Game. Players bluff injuries all the time to get out of it. You don’t have to be at the game. You don’t have to start the game. But you’ve got to finish it.

“Oh, but it’s just an exhibition!” it’s said. Yes, it was. It was an exemplary exhibition of a kind of unthinking arrogance which believes it can go around changing the rules willy-nilly without any repercussions, and without any consideration of the game’s true trustees, the fans who cherish it so deeply.

On very few occasions, I’ve left a ballgame early. Usually, it was because I was so tired or sick that I just couldn’t stick it out. I’ve regretted every single time. Sure, I felt bad because I wasted my money or someone else’s, but more so because when I go to a game I like to watch it from start to end. There is a wholeness to it that I find somehow satisfying in a way I’m not sure how to express.

But whether or not I can stick out the end of a game (and I almost always do), I take for granted that it goes on. Like the sun and the moon and the tides, it started without me and will go on when I’m gone. And like our silly little universe, it too will fade into nothingness eventually. The game will go on no matter how many play stoppages we have, because the love we have for the game far exceeds the greed of the owners and the players.

The only way the game will be destroyed is if the game itself changes. And though I’m sure that superficial changes will be made to make sure that this won’t happen again, the fact that Bud Selig would even think it permissible to unnecessarily conclude a game without conclusion speaks very poorly of his understanding of what makes the game so special.

It’s all about the game. If we forget that, we are truly lost. Selig and friends may have forgotten momentarily, but those 41,000-plus fans in Miller Park (paid for with their tax dollars, incidentally) didn’t forget.

“Let them play!” they chanted. “Let them play!” Music to my ears.

I’ve often wondered to myself, “Self, what would it be like to live in a sauna?” Now I know the answer.

I attended last night’s Orioles-Phillies game as part of a Fund outing. Aside from getting us to the game late, parking the charter bus about five miles away from the park, and seating us in a reserve section only slightly closer to the field, the game was a complete blowout.

The Orioles were led by, of all people, former Cub Gary Matthews Jr. He went 5-for-5 with two runs and two RBI. He batted third in the lineup, which tells you something about the quality of the Orioles’ lineup this year. After struggling to stay above the Mendoza line for parts of two seasons with the Cubs, Sarge Jr. is hitting .292 with three home runs and 15 RBI. Not great, but not terrible either.

After about the fourth inning, with O’s up 5-1, I decided to take a walk around the park, heading downstairs and toward Eutaw Street by the brick warehouse which serves as the backrop for the right field bleachers and also houses a few stores and pubs. I’ve been there once before, in 1994 with the Stris. I had my camera and took lots of pictures, at least a few of which might turn out decent.

I bought a turkey sandwich and beer at Boog’s Barbecue and stopped by the Orioles Baseball Store in the warehouse. I remember I bought a beautiful Orioles cap when I was last at Camden Yards, before I developed my policy of not wearing any sports paraphernalia for teams I don’t actually root for.

I wandered around the store, and what did I see? Encased in glass was a variety of autographed baseball and Orioles memorabilia, including some things signed by Alex Rodriguez and, of course, Cal Ripken Jr. But the prize item? Without a doubt, it had to be the autographed 8-by-10 inch glossy of none other than former Oriole and current Chicago Cub Delino DeShields. As you may recall, I don’t much care for Mr. DeShields.

I thought briefly of buying the picture only to perhaps burn it or shred it or use it a dartboard at home, but I decided against it. I try not to let petty hatreds occupy so much psychic energy. That’s what the blog’s for, after all.

A so-so fireworks display after the game did little to redeem the evening, but the nachos were good.

When Enron imploded, the Astros took down the big ‘E’ that marked Enron Field and put up new signage for the newly christened Minute Maid Park. A friend of Karen’s affectionately refers to it as Juice Box Park.

Now, WorldCom has imploded. WorldCom owns MCI, and MCI owns the rights to D.C.’s basketball/hockey/concert arena, the MCI Center. Will it be renamed as well? Capri-Sun Center has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

Thankfully, I didn’t even have the chance to see this tragedy unfold on my television set.

So says Sally Jenkins of Pete Sampras, and she’s right. Like other greats such as Larry Bird and Ryne Sandberg, Pete Sampras didn’t have a lot to say, but he respected the game he played and in that way gave us the best he could. That said, it’s time for him to retire. I hope he makes one last run at the U.S. Open, but he should go home now and enjoy his money. He left a great legacy: it’s called the entire decade of the 1990s in men’s tennis.

In case you didn’t know, Bob Dylan is starring in an upcoming theatrical release called “Masked & Anonymous,” about a “wandering troubadour brought out of prison for one last charity concert.” Luke Wilson, Angela Bassett and Jeff Bridges also star. It’s supposed to go into production in July. Let’s just hope it’s as good as “Hearts of Fire.”

This is just too much to believe.

R. Kelly has released a new song called “Heaven, I Need A Hug,” in which he pleads, “Is there anybody out there willing to embrace a thug?” It seems it’s his thuggish embraces of underaged girls that got Kelly in trouble in the first place.

The last in Michael Leahy’s series on Michael Jordan’s season with the Washington Wizards is a humdinger. The series appeared in the Washington Post’s Style section and you can access all the earlier stories from the link provided above.

In this story, Leahy provides pretty strong evidence to show that the Wizards violated NBA rules to keep practices closed so they could cover up Jordan’s injury. He also shows how because he was injured, Jordan rarely practiced and the Wizards, consequently, rarely had a full scrimmage where they could, presumably, learn how to play with Jordan and improve as a team. Further, Leahy provides several examples of how Jordan distanced himself from his young teammates and humiliated them in many of his cutthroat gambling games.

Does that mean that the comeback was a bad idea and actually made the Wizards worse in the long run? I don’t think so, when you consider how much money Jordan made the Wizards and the NBA even in the aborted season he played. Sure, he worsened the Wizards draft spot, but he brought excitement to Washington basketball that hadn’t been seen since the late 1970s. Sure, there will be a dropoff of interest once Jordan retires (that’s assuming he returns next season), and it just may be that the the young punks didn’t learn much or get better playing with Jordan.

But that excitement will carry over into whomever takes over when Jordan’s gone, and that money will come in handy on the free agent market.

The Washington City Paper’s Erik Wemple writes that Leahy’s breaking this story is a perfect example of how the Post’s sportswriters, and sportswriters generally, suck up to big stars. Well, yes and no. It is obviously true that Michael Wilbon, in particular, has long been an uncritical fan of Jordan’s. And there are certain points when it’s in the interest of a sportswriter to be an adoring fan, especially when it comes to possible book deals — as Wilbon almost landed with Jordan. Why do you think the Tribune’s Bob Greene was picked to co-write a book with Jordan, and not Sam Smith?

But there are other factors here. Leahy had the luxury of not having to file stories every day or several times a week, as a beat writer or columnist does. Leahy had the luxury of time. He also didn’t need to stay on anybody’s good side. Jordan was the only story he was covering, and once he was done with this series he’d probably never write about the man or the team again. He could afford to burn bridges in order to expose the truth. You expect a daily stream of information from beat writers, and if they’re lucky they might break a big story, but it’s not a big secret that beat writers have a symbiotic relationship with their sources.

One cannot afford to piss off the other. The source has to give a certain amount of time to the writer and at least humor him, but the beat writer in turn must pick and choose what’s really crucial to write about. Is it worth writing that Jordan can be a prick toward his teammates when it means you won’t get another quote from him all year as the Wizards beat writer?

That’s precisely why you assign people like Leahy the job. That’s why newspapers and TV stations have investigative teams. They are given the resources (time and money) and the protection to expose what doesn’t get reported every day. That doesn’t mean the beat writer or columnist is falling down on the job. It just means that their job is different. Journalists understand that, and so do intelligent news consumers, I think. We don’t expect Peter Jennings to play exactly the same role as Bob Woodward.

That’s what you’ve got to love about baseball — how some guys just seem to come out of nowhere. Hitting streaks are so precarious. Even a great hitter — which Castillo is not — can have an off night or face a really tough pitcher and go 0-for-4.

But when you’re hot, you’re hot. You may be a mediocre player, but if you get into a groove and the ball starts looking like a grapefruit up there, people start mixing you up with Rogers Hornsby and Joe DiMaggio. Castillo’s streak won’t get past 40, however.