The game of any game is after all simply a game. The glory of the individual whose skill or talent or perseverance or courage in concert with or competition against other such combatants reinforce the character of man under pressure. Or that is what the traditional Modernists, those who revere the purity of the contest, the status quo, would have you believe. But playing to win no longer holds as much sway within this context because popular culture elucidly identifies a newer motivation of the participant which demands, "show me the money." A not-so-sudden shift in attitude that elicits much misunderstanding among the underinformed minions who form the ticket-buying public. And where better than to hear their rantings than listening to sports talk radio while driving about as caller after caller bends over and grabs their ankles, spouting their particularly vituperative brand of homily, an American anti-intellectualism incapable of distinguishing their income from that of their often tragic heroes overinflated by the excesses of their undeserved accomplishments. For them, money (in vast and unjustifiable sums in compensation for services rendered or specifically lack thereof) corrupts aptly describes the current state of sports affairs. So blame the messenger instead. How can they be paid so much for doing so little?
It certainly functions as the perennial soap box from which the vox populi self-righteously pollute the airwaves propagating the hackneyed accusation of the ballplayer as overpaid, underachieving lout as if in this day and age to simply play professional sports for the love of the game ought to suffice. Ever inflicting their archetypal blue collar logic that demands equating hitting or shooting a ball as labor, a job to be done. Does it matter that their salary is based on what the market bears? But misbegoten economic theory that badly account for play notwithstanding, who can blame the postmodern athlete for intuitively understanding how the nature of sports evolved into spectacle.
But more troubling is the underlying tone of racism disguised as accusations of showboating. For how often do veiled remarks abound denigrating the inner city nee undisciplined athlete freelancing outside the constraints of proper coaching, disrespectful of authority in favor and praise of the precious and sacred "system", team players with "lunch bucket" ethics schooled in the fundamentals. Or of the underprivileged star being manipulated and exploited by the almighty dollar too soon into self-destruction. It now represents a politics of representation, an individualized identity dependent on capitalism, on creative expression bordering on entertainment. Is it that difficult to sway with the wind and accept that Jim Crow ended a long while ago? And you can thank Curt Flood profusely for that. But still corn rows and Sharpies as touchdown dance prop logically validate a demonstrative egotism indicative of a postmodern sense of irony inevitably affecting popular culture including sports. Why not superimpose and juxtapose these variant cultural elements to harken the self? It pays to look good. Style as Madison Avenue taught us sells and in droves. Who notices a two-handed chest pass when the crowd goes bonkers over a thunderous windmill tomahawk dunk? And therein lies the contradiction for the so-called, self-acknowledged true fan of the game who deride the trash-talker as cocky but applaud the no-look, behind the back pass as artistry.
So in order to get paid, he got game.