A
ccording to the CDC,
permanent hearing loss
begins at decibel levels of
70. On March 11, 2023, when Yu
Chang — an infielder playing for
Chinese Taipei — hit a go-ahead
grand slam, a decibel reader
inside Taichung Intercontinental
Stadium registered 118.
En route to a 9-5 upset over the
Netherlands, Yu Chang blasted
the eardrums of 20,000 local
fans and etched himself into
Taiwanese baseball history. As
he rounded second base (with the
entirety of Taiwan on his back)
Chang stretched both hands to
the sky in disbelief and elation,
the universal sign for “look
what I’ve done.” Not a single fan
was seated. The Chinese Taipei
bench had jumped the dugout’s
protective guardrail and were
screaming in celebration. Even
the coaches let joy usurp their
usual
stoic,
administrative
demeanor.
The World Baseball Classic,
which recently concluded with
a storied battle between the
USA and Japan, is a triennial
international tournament played
among 16 countries. Although
the players do get paid for
their participation, the most a
player can walk away from the
tournament with is $50,000
— a paltry figure compared to
major league contracts. For the
most part, the players are there
to represent their country and
compete against the best athletes
from around the world.
“This is the funnest experience
I’ve had on a baseball field,” said
Los Angeles Angels center fielder
Mike Trout of his time playing
for Team USA.
San Diego Padres outfielder
Nelson
Cruz
echoed
this
sentiment, saying, “Everything
you do for your country has a
bigger significance. The WBC is
the real World Series.”
The World Baseball Classic is a
recent example of sports’ unique
ability to unite fans and players
of a specific country or region.
Even though the main prize is
bragging rights, WBC games
consistently
produce
mind-
boggling viewership numbers.
They also show how exciting
sports can be without financial
incentives. When the underlying
motivation for playing — and by
extension, winning — is money,
there is an upper bound to the
passion and intensity players and
fans bring to the stadium.
Consider
March
Madness.
The tournaments pit the best
64 teams in women’s and men’s
college basketball against each
other in a hectic, electric, wholly-
unpredictable mad dash to the
crown.
March
Madness
draws
millions of fans a year, and the
men’s
tournament
repeatedly
bests the NBA finals in terms of
total viewers. If the players on
the court are less recognizable
than their NBA counterparts,
shouldn’t there be a lot less
people watching?
Though newly instated NIL
rules undoubtedly complicate
collegiate athletes’ “amateur”
status, the fact that only two
men’s basketball players have a
valuation over $1 million and that
NIL deals are explicitly banned
from
having
performance
incentives draws a solid dividing
line between the NBA and
college basketball with respect to
financial motivation.
Why do so many fans flock to
their TVs, laptops and, if they’re
lucky, local arenas to see players
they’ve never known and colleges
they’ve only just discovered
play basketball? Because, in the
absence of a substantial financial
incentive, the athletes compete
purely for the chance to win.
About
1%
of
collegiate
basketball players will go pro,
and, of those in the NBA, just over
50% will suit up in a playoff game.
If there are 15 players per team
and 64 teams in a tournament,
that means that we’d expect just
under five players to reach the
NBA playoffs in any given March.
Five players. Ninety-nine point
five percent of the 900+ players
are participating in the biggest
games of their lives; for many of
them, the Madness is their last
chance to play in any high-level
tournament.
This is the crux of March
Madness’ wild popularity. We
watch
because
the
athletes
participating care deeply about
every half, every possession and
every second of the tournament.
There is no load management or
self-aggrandizing stat padding.
They play to advance. They play
to win.
The World Baseball Classic
and March Madness have similar
incentives on the players’ side and
equally counterintuitive, massive
viewer turnouts from fans. Their
unifying property is the intensity
and care that players display and
have for each game they play.
This intensity and this care is
nurtured, not by any financial
incentive, but by its absence.
It is not fair to say that fans
of
professional
sports
lack
excitement or that professional
players
don’t
want
to
win.
Fans’ support is not unlike
the Taiwanese in the WBC or
alumni at a March Madness
game: They feel a connection
to their community and fellow
fans. The players, though, often
don’t possess this degree of
passion. Many have no personal
connection to their teams and
play for them simply because
they were drafted and are being
paid by the owners.
This doesn’t mean that players
can’t feel love for their city and
their fans, but rarely do we see an
athlete play for their professional
club with the same passion they
bring to their amateur team.
When players show that passion,
fans naturally and instinctively
feed off of it.
Nelson Cruz’s quote was a part
of a longer interview segment
with six Dominican Republic
players before their game against
Puerto Rico. Each player, all of
whom are rostered by a major
league club, were asked whether
they would rather win the World
Baseball Classic or the World
Series. Every single one said the
WBC.
“Representing
our
country
has no price,” said Dominican
Republic outfielder Ketel Marte.
It doesn’t. As kids, winning a
sporting event instilled pride in
ourselves and in the people who
surrounded and supported us. A
win was a communal effort, and
celebrated as such.
Opinion
It just means more
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
12 — Wednesday, April 5, 2023
LUCAS SZENTGYORGYI
Opinion Columnist
Stanford Lipsey Student Publications Building
420 Maynard St.
Ann Arbor, MI 48109
tothedaily@michigandaily.com
Edited and managed by students at the University of Michigan since 1890.
SHANNON STOCKING
AND KATE WEILAND
Co-Editors in Chief
QUIN ZAPOLI AND
JULIAN BARNARD
Editorial Page Editors
Unsigned editorials reflect the official position of The Daily’s Editorial Board.
All other signed articles and illustrations represent solely the views of their authors.
EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS
Ammar Ahmad
Julian Barnard
Brandon Cowit
Jess D’Agostino
Ben Davis
Shubhum Giroti
Devon Hesano
Jack Kapcar
Sophia Lehrbaum
Olivia Mouradian
Siddharth Parmar
Rushabh Shah
Zhane Yamin
Nikhil Sharma
Lindsey Spencer
Evan Stern
Anna Trupiano
Jack Tumpowsky
Alex Yee
Quin Zapoli
JULIA VERKLAN AND
ZOE STORER
Managing Editors
Debates
on the
Diag
Content warning: this article
contains mentions of suicide.
T
ragedy does not wait
for a convenient time or
place to strike. It can be
anything from the compounding
effects
of
untreated
mental
health issues to a kidnapping in
broad daylight, neither of which
are anticipated by their victim.
Prior to the rise of smartphone
technology, medical personnel
and law enforcement were the
primary care providers on scene
during a crisis. In the event
that an elderly person fell or a
teenager was hypoxic, protocols
were nearly muscle memory
to the millions of licensed
professionals that chose a career
in first response. Officers would
clear
the
surrounding
area
while paramedics bandaged the
wound.
However, smartphones with
messaging capabilities and an
appeal to younger people opened
a new avenue of crisis response:
text lines. At the most basic level,
someone in need simply sends
an initial text to a short hotline
number that assigns them an
operator to chat with for the
duration of their crisis.
The diversity and breadth of
services offered by crisis text
lines is quite remarkable. They
can offer tailored help — for
domestic violence, trafficking,
eating
disorders,
suicide
or
LGBTQ+ support — at different
times of day, at national or
local levels, anonymously or
with police themselves. The
University of Michigan is proud
to offer its own 24/7 hotline
through the Counseling and
Psychological Services.
The core function of crisis
text line operators is to diffuse
or deescalate situations of self-
harm or violence, with the
ultimate goal of transferring
care. At first glance, crisis text
lines seem like an amazing and
life-saving resource to turn to,
especially when people would
otherwise
lack
immediate
mental health resources or the
comfort of anonymity. However,
these same selling points are
also the reason why text lines
don’t work well.
The
very
nature
of
messaging
platforms
reveals
a glaring limitation of crisis
text
lines.
Text
messaging
lacks the nuances of verbal
communication, such as tone
of voice and facial expression,
which can make it difficult for
crisis operators to understand
the full extent of an individual’s
distress. Research demonstrates
that
physical
gestures
send
crucial
information
between
parties, such as feelings of
trust and confirmed empathy.
Additionally, delays in between
messages can make it difficult
for
counselors
to
respond
quickly and effectively to an
individual in crisis as well as
provide follow-up support. That
is, if you are even paired with an
operator in a timely manner to
begin with.
In 2022, I reached out to a
crisis text line for the first time.
I had witnessed the graphic
death of three teenagers (people
my age) who my colleagues and
I were unable to resuscitate
during a routine EMT shift, and
I knew I needed help processing
my guilt and blame. After texting
HOME to 741741, I was put in a
queue that lasted 37 minutes.
This length of time was perfectly
acceptable for someone in my
“shoulder to lean on” situation.
Had I been in imminent danger,
however, it’s clear that lethal
outcomes
could’ve
resulted
in that time frame. Harvard
University reports that in a
study of 153 nearly-lethal suicide
attempts, one in four survivors
noted that their duration of
suicidal ideation lasted less than
five minutes before the real
attempt.
To make matters worse, the
short and surface-level training
that operators receive prior to
taking the stand generally offer
band-aid solutions to victims,
once they are finally connected
to the platform. During roughly
30 hours of training, crisis
operators are taught scripts,
how to gather information, build
rapport and refer to licensed
mental
health
professionals.
These tasks aren’t something
that just anyone with empathy
and communication skills can do
efficiently, let alone accomplish
without any prior experience or
licensure.
Additionally, the volunteer
nature of text lines almost
devalues the work of mental
health clinicians — as if anyone
can just pick up a laptop and
triage the exact kind of help
victims need. Operators are
also in a catch-22 of sorts — if
they deviate from the scripted
responses, they risk providing
advice inappropriate for that
specific crisis, but on the flip
side sound like a robot if they
stick to the generic “I hear you”
and “That must be tough.” It
is important to note that if the
texter has a means, intent and a
plan for self-harm, supervisors
can step in to make the call of
an active rescue. But why have
we collectively let mental health
services become so distant and
electronic in the first place?
Crisis text lines don’t work
MOSES NELAPUDI
Opinion Columnist
Design by Edith Hanlon
Share your ideas with the Inclusive History Project
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order to better understand our successes and failures in creating a truly
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more about the IHP and to share your feedback.
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Wednesday, April 12, 12-1 pm
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Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com