CLEVELAND - A main characteristic of 21st century sports is a volume of statistics and factoids so enormous that it requires the mind-numbing gymnastics of parsing what matters and what ridiculously does not.
Game 1 will be the first time the Cleveland Indians have hosted a World Series opener in their 116-year history ... The Cubs are 8-1 when scoring first on days ending with "y" ... Terry Francona owns a 66-10 record as manager when he leans 7 degrees to his left, when both starting pitchers are right-handed, but only 44-20 when he leans to his right. To the surprise of no one paying attention during ninth-grade physics, it only stands to reason that a ball hit hard enough to travel 385 feet for a home run would travel faster than the speed with which it was pitched, yet exit velocity is a "thing."
There then, within this framework of numbers and history both meaningful and ephemeral, sat Dexter Fowler, the 30-year old Chicago Cubs outfielder, born in 1986, 41 years after the Cubs were last in the World Series, laughing that his parents weren't born in 1945 when the Cubs lost to the Tigers, and his grandparents were really, really young. As the Chicago leadoff hitter, Fowler was enjoying his expected place in history when he steps into the batter's box Tuesday night as the first African-American to take the field for the Cubs in a World Series game in their 140-year history. But nevertheless, like most of the people asking him questions, he was unable to say for certain whether his place in history is significant or simply cool.
The cool factors are apparent. As much as baseball has an industry-wide complex about the NFL, the lineage of the game, its ability to reach back and tie history together is baseball's power; its magic lines of dead ball eras and integration link families as much as history. That baseball, football, basketball, the military and hundreds of school districts were segregated and World War II had ended only 38 days earlier is a social studies class by itself. That the Cubs still play in the same ballpark where they lost 9-3 in Game 7 to Hal Newhouser on Oct. 10, 1945 certainly qualifies as cool.
Through the innocence of Fowler's smile, happy and proud to be a pioneer -- a word he mentioned more than a dozen times Monday -- the cruelty of the game was also obvious: Ernie Banks, the greatest of the Cubs, never played in the Series. Banks was 14 years old in 1945, died in 2015, and never got to see any Cub of any stripe, black or white, play in the Series once he joined the organization. Neither did Buck O'Neil, who was the first black scout in major league baseball history. O'Neil was hired by, yes, the Cubs, in 1961. Leon Durham could have been first, but in 1984 the Cubs -- oh, never mind. Dusty Baker's 2003 team had its shot, too. The picture is clear. The game creates its own river of time.
Yet Fowler stepping to the plate Tuesday night does not only represent celebratory trivia, a chance to remind ourselves that Velcro did not exist in 1945. There is more than a cool factor to his presence. It matters because this is a broken and heartbroken country, fractured by the rhetoric of the bitterest election cycle most Americans have ever witnessed, where African-Americans have been essentially told to shut up about racial conditions. Yet there are still so many basic things that black people have yet to experience. Fowler's groundbreaking moment will be more a result of mediocrity than racism. And on scale, a black person playing baseball in a Cubs uniform is at its core a first-world problem. Nevertheless, it's part of a list that has never happened before. And it matters.
It matters because of the impatience and rage of so much of the white public, so often offended by the mere mention of a racial component in American culture. The white response to the black request -- no, the demand -- for equality has been to insist that the existence of these historical barriers is merely coincidental and not designed. The Red Sox, Phillies, Cardinals, Yankees, Braves, A's, Tigers and Twins, all of which, in one city or another, have been around since at least 1901, have never had a black manager. And the Dodgers, established in 1884, hired its first in 2016. The insistence of fairness and the nonexistence of racism is loud and hostile and whites feel aggrieved, yet in addition to those eight teams, four more -- the Diamondbacks, Padres, Angels and Marlins -- have also never hired a black manager. As tired as people may be of hearing about race, African-Americans are equally tired of talking about it, but the facts cannot be shouted away: 12 of 30 teams have never lifted the barrier.
It matters because baseball is not only talking about its past through Fowler but tacitly, its future. Fowler was once accepted to attend Harvard but chose to play baseball, an interesting intersection in a sport that has, through its demand of Ivy League credentials as the pathway to the front office, virtually guaranteed a racial disparity in hiring. Only in baseball, with its winnowing of black participation, is it entirely possible for the Cubs to make the World Series five years from now, and the group of Fowler, Carl Edwards Jr., Jason Heyward and Addison Russell to still have been the only blacks on a Cubs World Series roster.
It matters because Fowler's pride of being a nice answer to a trivia question has often been met by a white response not of shared pride but of telling African-Americans to not make such a big deal out of everything, even as the black presence is being erased in the game. That Dexter Fowler, in 2016, refers to himself as a pioneer speaks to a different truth. While baseball celebrates a cool linkage of the past and present with the Cubs, it also knows the underbelly of the celebration is quite serious -- a permanent seat at the table for African-Americans in baseball has never felt less secure.