The Game Is Still On, But Our Soul Is Gone

The Game Is Still On, But Our Soul Is Gone
By Spyridon Andrews

About two weeks before Christmas in 1991, a 75-year-old man by the name of Ken Keltner died of a heart attack in New Berlin, Wisconsin. In 2025, not many people remember Ken Keltner, but on July 17, 1941, he was perhaps the most famous man in America. It was six months before Pearl Harbor, the last sweet summer before the War, and it was a summer of watching and waiting. Just the previous month, on June 22, 1941, Hitler invaded the Soviet Union with over three million troops, the largest invasion of Russia in history. Uncle Joe Stalin was caught off guard by his former ally, Adolf Hitler, and the Red Army suffered early catastrophic losses. Over on the other side of the world, Japan, which already occupied China, was now in French Indochina. Americans nervously watched the developments as the U.S. supplied Churchill and Britain with war materials under the Lend-Lease program. American manufacturing ramped up for war and we nervously focused on the fate of our young men and whether they would again be put in harm’s way for a war that was no fault of our own.

That summer, when my father was just 17 years old, was notable for one other drama that kept all of America on the edge of its seat: the 56-game hitting streak of Joe DiMaggio. It was a feat that was superhuman. The streak began on May 15, 1941, against who else? The Chicago White Sox. At a time when headlines were mostly about the horrors of the new World War, DiMaggio galvanized the nation, remaining calm and gentlemanlike the entire time, even as he faced military duty of his own. While my father, like most men, went on to serve, DiMaggio’s streak was the welcome distraction the nation needed.

During that streak, DiMaggio hit .408 in 91 games, had 15 home runs and 55 RBIs. The Yankees went 41-12-2 during that stretch, and DiMaggio’s record has never even come close to being equaled. Even the Babe’s record fell, even Ty Cobb’s, but DiMaggio’s record may never be broken.

But what will live with baseball fans—true baseball fans—was the way the streak ended. And that is answered in two words: Ken Keltner. On the day the streak ended, there were 67,000 people in Cleveland Stadium. The box score—DiMaggio 0-3—doesn’t tell the whole story. Because Joe would have been 2-3 that day if it hadn’t been for what have been considered two of the greatest plays ever made by a third baseman.

In the first play, DiMaggio scorched a ball down the third baseline. Keltner, who was playing unusually deep and close to the line, dove to his right, backhanded the ball near foul territory, and then rose to his feet and made a long, off-balance throw across his body to nail DiMaggio by a step.

The second play, in the late innings, was just as theatrical if not more. This time Joe hit a sizzling ground ball toward the hole. Keltner moved like lightning, snagged the ball, and fired a bullet to first. DiMaggio stared in disbelief as he never even made it to first base. Later, not one to dole out praise, Joe his hat and said, “Those were the two finest plays I’ve ever seen made by a third baseman.”

That time has receded into the past, but it stays with me because of the stories my father told me. Joe DiMaggio went on to greatness, stardom, controversy, and the Hall of Fame. Keltner, a seven-time All-Star, had a career batting average of .276. Today, Keltner would have made millions in free agency, but in 1941, he worked odd jobs to feed his family in the offseason—in a factory, in a clothing store, and by making the occasional personal appearance. He never made it to the Hall of Fame, despite clearly deserving to be there. Keltner and DiMaggio both served in the military, and when Keltner returned, he helped lead the Cleveland Indians to their last World Series win since 1948. That year, Keltner hit 31 home runs and 119 RBIs, on a team with Lou Boudreau, the legendary Satchel Paige, and Larry Doby, the first black ballplayer in the American League. And who can ever forget their visionary owner, Bill Veeck?

There are hundreds of stories like this in college and professional sports. Willis Reed’s heroic entrance to the Championship game in 1970. Roberto Clemente leading the Pirates back from a heavily favored Baltimore Orioles team in 1971. And the Pittsburgh Steelers’ “Immaculate Reception” in the 1972 AFC Playoffs against the fearsome Oakland Raiders.

That world, the one my father knew, is almost gone. The games are still televised, the uniforms still worn—but the spirit is missing. We used to tell stories of grit and grace. Now we argue about hashtags and highlight reels. Ken Keltner made $6,500 in 1941. Today’s benchwarmers make millions—and still manage to complain.

We all used to love sports. But, more and more I run into people and they tell me, “I don’t watch anymore.” Or, “They’ve ruined it.” In the ’70s—the last great decade before the big money—the games were clean, the rules made sense, and the athletes looked like they gave a damn. Now baseball does everything but give participation trophies. The 10th inning begins by gifting a runner second base like it’s tee ball. In basketball, players “rest” healthy knees, football players take a knee for the anthem, and the only thing consistent about athletes anymore is their sense of entitlement.

There was a time when sports were a shared ritual of civic life. Kids wore team jerseys with reverence. Fathers and sons watched the games together in a kind of secular liturgy. Now it’s mostly ads, posturing, and sportswriters tweeting about some third-string tight end’s pronouns. Sportswriters had the ability to stop this, or at least slow it down. Instead, they cashed in and sold out the fans.

Today’s athlete is a global brand before they make varsity. They have agents, stylists, vegan chefs, and publicists—oh, and occasionally they practice. They’re covered in more ink than the Declaration of Independence and are about as committed to one team as a Tinder user is to monogamy. Their hair flaps around like a shampoo commercial, their socks are pulled up to their knees, and their shorts are long enough to qualify as culottes.

They want to be loved—but not by a city, just by their social media followers. They want respect—but not the kind you earn through discipline, just the kind you demand after missing three free throws and posting a selfie about your “grind.”

The rules are made up and the points don’t matter. Baseball, that most sacred of American pastimes, now features ghost runners, pitch clocks, and designated hitters who haven’t touched a glove since the Reagan administration. Kids don’t grow up dreaming of pitching a complete game or a no-hitter. They are taught about pitch counts. “Don't throw too many pitches son, or someone might not offer you a contract.”

Basketball has abandoned defense altogether. It’s now a series of choreographed dunks, three-point heaves, and half-hearted closeouts. It’s not a game—it’s performance art in sneakers. Defense is now considered rude, almost a microaggression.

And football—oh, football. Players used to bleed for their city. Now they kneel, pout, and tweet mid-game. The Super Bowl is more about Doritos commercials than the actual game, and the Pro Bowl has all the intensity of a backyard pool noodle fight.

The writers have left the building. Sports journalism is now the domain of lifestyle columnists who wouldn’t know an offside trap from a dance move. They don’t write about the game—they write about the players' feelings, their Spotify playlists, and whether their politics are sufficiently enlightened.

Where are the real analysts? Where are the commentators who loved the game more than they feared getting canceled? They’re gone—replaced by bloggers, brand managers, and podcast hosts who say things like “vibes were off” and call a 2-for-5 performance “slay.”

If Joe DiMaggio walked into a locker room today, what would he see? A man who once wore a suit to dinner and polished his shoes before every game would be confronted by millionaires with diamond earrings, personal branding consultants, and complaints about “mental load.” He might watch a player take himself out of a game to “rest” and wonder if courage was now optional. He wouldn’t say much—he rarely did. But maybe he’d glance around, give a small shake of his head, and say what he once said to reporters when they asked why he always played hard:

“Because there might be a kid in the stands who’s never seen me play before.”

Today, that same kid would be handed a bobblehead, see three dunks, five hashtags, and a TikTok dance—but not a moment worth remembering for life.

“I used to care,” says a close family member. “But it’s awful now.”I hop in a cab on the way home from LAX and ask the cab driver, a sixty something African-American man, if he saw the NBA All-Star game. He said it was the most shameful thing he’d ever seen in his life. I try to watch baseball when I can. But, I can’t get Bob Gibson’s 300 innings out of my mind while I am forced to endure announcers brag about a “quality game” of 3 runs and 6 innings by a pitcher that is paid $25 million a year.

No matter what I tell myself, I have lost interest. Team loyalty is pointless, because the team has no loyalty to the fans. Now your favorite player jumps teams more often than a money launderer moves offshore accounts. Kids used to go and sit in the bleachers after school. Now, a father needs to sell his kidney to go to a game with his family.

Athletics was the heart of a country that once believed in excellence, sacrifice, and community. Now we see our horrifying reflection—entitlement, mediocrity, and grievance.

And we don’t like what we see.