Tuesday, April 28, 2015

A Constitutional Right Deferred

As best I can tell, there were two conversations going on at the Supreme Court in today's oral arguments about gay marriage. One was on the actual merits of the issue: does the Constitution permit state marriage laws which exclude same-sex couples? And... there doesn't seem to be that much doubt that the Court thinks it does not allow this. I mean, somewhere between three and four members of the Court clearly think that it does allow this, but it doesn't seem like Anthony Kennedy, whose vote will definitely be crucial, had really any patience for the purported arguments in favor of the exclusionary state laws. He said something, for instance, about how the states' focus on the need to foster child-rearing was an interesting argument that, unfortunately, rested on totally untrue factual premises. It's really pretty clear that there aren't five votes right now to uphold these laws.

But there was also the other conversation: is the time right to declare these laws unconstitutional? This has been a popular theme in discussion about gay marriage, whether it's appropriate for the judiciary to step in and take the issue out of the hands of the democratic process. Or, alternately, at what point in the process of increasing social acceptance of homosexuality the courts should step in. A too-early ruling, the thought is, would fail to garner widespread acceptance and might spark a backlash. On this view, the courts should only declare anti-gay marriage laws unconstitutional once we can fairly say that the national conversation on the issue has concluded with a verdict in favor of marriage equality, such that all the courts are doing is enforcing that newly-forged national consensus on a few recalcitrant states.

What nonsense.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

The Mets Should Use d'Arnaud and Plawecki as a Catching Tandem

What with Travis d'Arnaud's recent hand injury, Kevin Plawecki, one of the Mets' top prospects, just made his MLB debut. The typical way to think about the d'Arnaud/Plawecki relationship is that they're competing for the same job: the Mets' starting catcher. They both seem like they're probably good enough to be starting catchers in the big leagues, so presumably one of them will get traded at some point and they'll both have starting jobs, but only one of them will have it with the Mets. I don't think that's the right way for the Mets to handle things, at least not yet. Plawecki is going to get at least about a month's audition as the Mets' starting catcher now. Let's assume he plays pretty well, like someone who definitely doesn't just deserve to be sent back down to the Minors once the team has an alternative. What I think the Mets should do in that case is use d'Arnaud and Plawecki as a catching tandem, where neither is really the "backup." Probably you'd want to give d'Arnaud somewhat more playing time than Plawecki, just because he's probably a somewhat better player right now, but it should be more like 60/40 than 80/20. Hopefully the team would also have someone else on it who could function as an emergency catcher, thus allowing them to use whichever of Plawecki and d'Arnaud didn't start on a given day as a pinch-hitter without risking having no one to play catcher should the other get injured.

The advantage of a catching tandem is basically that you don't force anyone to be an everyday catcher. Being an everyday catcher is probably a pretty bad idea: Mike Piazza has said in his recent autobiography that he wishes someone had forced him to play catcher a lot less during his early years in the big leagues, because of how it wore him down over the course of his career. By giving d'Arnaud, say, four starts a week and Plawecki three, the Mets could keep them both fresh and minimize the wear and tear on them. That would probably benefit both players in the long run, and might also benefit the Mets if they get to the playoffs. Now, there are reasons why teams don't usually do this. There's a sense that it's a "waste" to use someone good enough to be a starting player as a backup, rather than trading them for pieces of equal value. You're also going to deprive your better catcher of playing time, which might be bad for their morale. Free agent catchers are unlikely to want to take a lesser salary in return for playing only 75% as often, and teams aren't likely to want to pay full starting catcher prices for someone to play just 75% of a full workload. And they certainly won't want to pay two different people decent-sized salaries for the same position.

But all of these problems don't apply to the Mets. d'Arnaud and Plawecki are roughly speaking as good as one another, with maybe Travis being slightly better due mostly to greater power potential, so you don't lose much by shifting some of his playing time to Plawecki. The team doesn't have any major holes that need plugging through trade, and the farm system is well-stocked, so there's no great harm in "wasting" these resources rather than trading them. Plawecki and d'Arnaud are both pre-arbitration playing for the league minimum, so it's not costly to have two solid catchers on the roster. Actually it might keep long-term costs down, by spreading out the counting stats between the two players rather than letting one of them accumulate more impressive numbers for arbitration. Oh, and also: d'Arnaud and Plawecki are said to be good friends, which would probably do a lot to mitigate the potential morale problems. The situation is, in other words, a perfect storm for using a tandem at catcher. And this would allow the Mets to ditch the replacement-level Anthony Recker, to keep their potentially All-Star caliber catcher d'Arnaud better rested, and to add one quality hitter to their bench (assuming the presence of an emergency catcher, possibly Eric Campbell). I don't really see much in the way of downside.

Assuming, that is, that Plawecki can hit at this level.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Yes, People Are Bad. They Should Become Less Bad.

So apparently there's some group trying to argue that the rise of humanity is somehow good for the rest of the planet. Or at least they're saying stuff like that (under the hashtag #GoodAnthropocene, apparently) in the context of a political document seemingly arguing in favor of increased reliance on natural gas and nuclear power (and maybe also solar), and also some stuff about using urbanization and various other supposedly modern/postmodern trends to keep human civilization thriving while reducing the "footprint" of said civilization on the environment. The headline of the Slate article in the link above describes the group as being against "people are bad" environmentalism; certainly their hashtag supports that description. But, like, if they think they're arguing that people haven't been bad, they don't really seem to be. According to the Slate article, they trumpet, basically, the awesomeness of human civilization in itself (for humans that is): "[l]ife expectancy is on the rise, infectious disease risk has plummeted, natural disasters kill fewer people, and abject poverty is on the decline." But they also acknowledge that "those gains have not come without sacrifice: We’re losing species at an incredible rate, and climate change could add ever more stress on human and natural systems." Which sounds like it adds up to, human civilization has been pretty sweet for the humans and pretty terrible for everyone else. Which is about my view, and also sounds exactly like the "people are bad" view. I mean I guess you could distinguish between people who think it was worth it and people who think it wasn't, but that's kind of a boring issue, being just about how we characterize the past rather than what we do going forward.

And on that front, isn't the answer obvious? We're not going to tear down human civilization. Maybe that's regrettable, maybe it's not, but there's nothing to be done about it. So all we can do is our level best to mitigate the damage that human civilization inflicts upon the rest of the world. Or, to put it another way, people should become less bad, as much less bad as they can manage. Maybe as these people seem to suggest, we'll be able to make human civilization genuinely harmonious with nature, or maybe we'll only be able to make it very slightly less bad. Maybe, that is to say, people are incurably bad, or maybe they're not. But surely we must try, whether or not we will eventually fail, and whether or not at the outset of the attempt we think we will fail. What's the alternative? Throw up our hands in despair? Abandon caring about the non-human part of the world, and the horrors inflicted upon it by human civilization? Abandon human civilization, which, as noted above, ain't gonna happen? There is no alternative. If we're doomed to be bad for the world, we must at the very least struggle against that doom to the utmost.

Oh, and if we're gonna try to make human civilization more harmoniously compatible with nature and our fellow species, maaybe we should stop torturing and slaughtering billions upon billions of animals per year just because we think their flesh tastes nice? Just a thought.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Why Death Is Different

The central problem of capital punishment law, or at least of capital punishment doctrine, is the tension between the demand for rational, consistent sentencing free from arbitrariness or bias on the one hand and individualized sentencing on the other hand. The former idea was the basis for the Furman v. Georgia decision that briefly instituted a national moratorium on capital punishment, and the idea in that case was that it was simply unacceptable that, of the large number of people out there convicted of capital offenses, only a small number were chosen to die and there didn't seem to be any apparent acceptable reason why these people, and not those other people who committed the exact same crime, ought to die. There were of course readily apparent unacceptable reasons, namely that if you were poor or black you were probably one of the ones who "ought" to die. The Court didn't really grapple with those issues, but it did say that arbitrary imposition of the death penalty was unacceptable, and that something must be done to limit the ability of sentencing juries (for it is juries, not judges, doing the sentencing in most every capital scheme these days*). However, the Court has also held that a capital sentencing scheme must allow the jury the essentially unlimited ability to exercise mercy: that is to say, to look at the particular defendant as an individual and decide that, despite their crimes, they do not deserve to die. There is of course a problem here, and as Justice Blackmun observed in his dissent from the denial of certiorari in Callins v. Collins, in which he wrote his famous "From this day forward I no longer shall tinker with the machinery of death" line, the end result has just been to subject a (slightly) smaller number of people to the same kind of arbitrary sentencing that was at issue in Furman.

One natural response to that whole discussion is to say, well, how is this problem in any way peculiar to capital cases? Doesn't the tension between the demands for consistency and for individualized mercy manifest itself in any kind of criminal case? What's different, in other words, about death? And I've never had a great answer to that. I mean, there are obvious reasons why the death penalty is different in general, mostly the irreversibility of a wrongly imposed sentence. But I think I only just realized why death is different specifically as regards this specific little paradox. And the reason, I think, is a line that a number of different death penalty advocates use; a quick search shows it being used by Bryan Stevenson and by Helen Prejean:
Each of us is more than the worst thing we've ever done.
And I submit that this incredibly powerful idea is simply not relevant in non-capital cases. It is always true. The criminal is always more than just the crime, no matter what the crime. But that doesn't mean they shouldn't be punished for the crime. Except when the punishment in question is their total destruction. Then this idea becomes relevant in a big way. And it makes us feel the need to ask of each capital defendant, well, how much more? The way the penalty phase of most capital trials proceeds these days, I believe, is basically that the defendant tries to show the jury something in them that's worth saving, to show the jury that they are meaningfully more than the worst thing they've ever done. Whereas, say, a proper psychopathic serial killer may really just not be appreciably more than all the murders they've committed, and is hence seen as not worth saving.

And so the demand for sentencing to be individual really is peculiar to capital cases. In every other kind of case we're happy, more or less, to just say, y'know what, you did the crime, so you have to do the time, no matter how much of a worthwhile person you might otherwise be. But we can't quite bring ourselves to say that when we're talking about killing the person. But that kind of thinking is just anathema to what our legal system is supposed to be. This isn't to say that the same issues of racial bias don't find ways to manifest themselves at the lower levels of criminal cases; they surely do. But it's not just racial bias that's wrong with capital sentencing: it's the feeling that, of the set of people who committed certain crimes formally denoted the "worst of the worst" (although that designation is basically a joke given that most jurisdictions include felony murder), some are being executed and others aren't basically just on the basis of whether the jury likes them or not. That kind of stops feeling like the rule of law, and it only does so because we (rightly) can't bring ourselves to kill someone who has anything worth saving in them, even if they may have committed terrible, terrible crimes. Because we recognize, on some level, that people are—or at least can be—more than the worst thing they've ever done.

And that's why death is different (in this regard).


*In a few places judges can "override" a jury's verdict. In even fewer places that can include overriding a life imprisonment verdict and having the judge himself impose a death sentence.

What Kind of God Is This

I'm doing the last set of readings for my Capital Punishment class, one chunk of which is about innocence, that is to say, about the process of getting people out of prison and out from under a death sentence on the grounds that they actually didn't commit the crime. And some of the readings are about the case of Anthony Ray Hinton, recently exonerated off of Alabama's death row after nearly three decades. Hinton was surprisingly honest about how angry he was, saying, for instance:
"The State of Alabama let me down tremendously. I have no respect for the prosecutors, the judges. And I say that not with malice in my heart. I say it because they took 30 years from me."
And:
"When the very people that you've been taught to believe in, the police, the D.A., these are the people that are supposed to stand for justice, and when you know that they lied to you, it's hard for you to have trust in anybody."
Pretty, y'know, reasonable, right? I share his sentiments, basically, though I've never suffered from the problems he's talking about. But then there's this:
"I've got to forgive. I lived in hell for 30 years, so I don't want to die and go to hell. So I've got to forgive. I don't have a choice."
And can I just say, f*ck that. That is so effing messed up. I mean, look, some people find it therapeutic or whatever to forgive those who have wronged them; certainly there's something to be said for not carrying your anger around with you forever. But, like, the people in question do not on the merits deserve forgiveness (at least, unless any of them have fessed up and admitted that they made a mistake, as the original prosecutor in another one of these cases did). They did something that was not so different from a murder, when you think about it, in robbing a person of the ability to pursue any happiness at all for the better part of his adult life and probably making it damned difficult for him to do so even after he's been released.

And the idea is that God, the Almighty and Benevolent, will punish Hinton with an eternity of damnation and torment if he does not forgive these people? That's just... that's just sick. Whatever there can be said for forgiveness, I think it just cannot be something that anyone gets to demand of you. Forgiveness is an act of grace, a fact which I believe is a big part of Christian theology.* And this is worse than just the various prosecutors and judges and the like demanding forgiveness from Hinton as of right. The idea here is that failing to forgive in Hinton's situation would be a sin, an offense not against those who wronged him but against the sovereign, so to speak. What kind of sovereign makes that a crime? What kind of sovereign turns to the victim of such a horrid injustice and says, look matey, if you don't find it in your heart to forgive your oppressors, I will consider that an offense against me and I will punish you for it, harshly? Like, what the hell? A god who demanded such of his subjects would not deserve words like "benevolent," to my mind; no, he would deserve words like "tyrant." Certainly he would not deserve our allegiance, let alone our love; perhaps our obedience, simply through raw brute-force deterrence, but that's not a very awe-inspiring figure.

Fortunately, the god in question (almost certainly) does not exist. But the people who propagate the idea of that god do exist. And really it's them I'm angry at. Anthony Ray Hinton should not be required to forgive the judges and prosecutors who robbed him of the better part of his life on pain of damnation; that's obvious. But equally, Anthony Ray Hinton should not be led to believe that he has to forgive those judges and prosecutors on pain of damnation. They don't necessarily have as much to answer for as the judges and prosecutors themselves, but the people who lead other people to believe in a tyrant god like this have an awful lot to answer for.



*Okay, yes, there is or at least has been a big split over whether salvation is a matter of grace or a matter of doing good works. But I'd say that the latter camp basically doesn't believe that salvation is a matter of forgiveness, of god's forgiving people for their sins, but rather sort of a matter of weighing a person's sins against their good works and seeing which predominates. I think. But don't really ask me, it's really not my area.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Moral Certainty and the Constitution

Criminal defendants are innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's the standard formulation, the modern one at least. The idea is pretty simple: criminal convictions carry severe penalties, usually imprisonment, these days for lengthy terms, and so if there's doubt as to whether or not the defendant is guilty, we shouldn't impose those penalties on them. Except that there's always some doubt about everything, so we limit it to reasonable doubt. Makes sense. Another version of the same idea, which I believe may have been used in criminal cases in the old days, is the idea of proof "to a moral certainty." Moral certainty is an old idea that seems to have been inspired as a defense against, like, philosophical skepticism. The idea is, well, okay, yes, we never really know anything absolutely for certain, but we can know things to a degree of certainty that's enough to act on. Moral certainty is basically, I would think, that degree of certainty upon which it is morally acceptable/defensible/correct to act. And of course, this standard will be more or less strict depending on the action being contemplated. Sometimes we might think it correct to act on little more than just a hunch or a suspicion, because it's not that bad if we're wrong, or because it could be very bad if we don't act and should have. In, say, the criminal law context, however, we really don't want to convict someone who doesn't deserve it, for the reasons given above, and so it takes a lot of proof to prove guilt to a moral certainty. It's all one standard, but the work it does varies by context.

I've just been reading McCleskey v. Kemp for my Capital Punishment class. That's the case where the Supreme Court rejected a challenge to the Georgia death penalty as racially discriminatory and hence a violation of the Equal Protection Clause despite an incredibly sophisticated statistical study demonstrating that death-eligible killers whose victims were white got the death penalty a lot more often than those whose victims were black. The Court was basically applying standard (twisted) Equal Protection doctrine, which holds (under the Washington v. Davis standard) that a challenge under the Equal Protection Clause bears the burden of demonstrating intentional discrimination on the basis of race or some other improper factor. Merely showing that a policy has a "disparate impact," i.e. that it's worse for black people/women/etc. than for whites/men/etc., is not enough, although a sufficiently stark disparity can be circumstantial evidence of discriminatory intent. So in McCleskey, the Court says that this study shows only the risk that race may infect capital sentencing decisions, not that any given sentence was the product of intentional racial discrimination. After all, the authors of the study conceded that they cannot prove "to a moral certainty" that race influenced any particular case.

And when I read that phrase, I just had to think, like, what does moral certainty require in this case? I mean, I actually think that the idea of moral certainty ought to doom the death penalty altogether,* but let's set that aside. The Court was asked in this case to set aside McCleskey's death sentence as having been improperly influenced by race. If McCleskey is wrong and his sentence was totally race-free, but the Court found for him anyway, well, horror of horrors, he would spend the rest of his life in jail. That's, I mean, if we consider that a by-hypothesis fair jury thought he should hang, then I guess that's not a great result, but certainly, Warren McCleskey's being imprisoned rather than executed isn't in any way repugnant to our fundamental laws or principles of justice. If, on the other hand, he was right, and his sentence was discriminatory, but the Court didn't act, well then, a black man would be executed for the specific crime of killing a white person. And that is a constitutional abomination. And so it seems to me that this is a case where the "moral certainty" standard is very low. In fact I think the "moral certainty" standard should basically be on the other side, that unless we could say to a moral certainty that race was not the deciding factor in McCleskey's case we should grant him his reprieve.

And this, I think, should hold true across constitutional law generally. People often say that our Constitution, with its multiple veto points between the bicameralism-and-presentment legislative system, the President's pardon and prosecutorial discretion powers, judicial review, etc., is designed to minimize the amount of legislating that goes on, that it is inherently biased in favor of government inaction. As Akhil Amar I think rightly notes, however, the system is not really designed to prevent any laws from passing but to prevent unconstitutional laws from passing: everyone gets a chance to disapprove a law if they think it's unconstitutional. And if we buy that understanding of the Constitution's overarching priorities, then shouldn't we have a general rule that we won't accept the risk of a constitutional violation? We already do this in places: the Miranda rule, for instance, is a clear case where the constitutional violation is not interrogating a suspect without having first informed them of their rights, it's tricking someone into confessing who doesn't know that they have a right not to, and we can't know that this isn't happening unless we provide a warning. There are other examples, but there are also lots of places where we take the opposite approach, where the Court in essence seems to view the wrongful exercise of judicial review as this terrible tragedy that we must be so very careful to avoid. But that just seems backwards. The tragedy is letting constitutional violations happen right under our noses, when we know that they might be happening, just because we can't be sure that they are. We should err, in other words, on the side of not violating the Constitution, and judges are supposed to play their part in making sure that we do.^

This is, I think, one of the strongest forms of my problem with modern equal protection doctrine and the Washington v. Davis standard: discrimination on the basis of race is, like, the greatest constitutional evil there is. It's America's original sin, we literally fought a war that culminated in a series of amendments designed to eradicate it, and the only thing that lets us even pretend to be a decent country is that beginning in 1954 we actually started trying to live up to those amendments. So why the bloody hell is the burden on the challenger to prove that there was intentional racial discrimination? Maybe some of the time when policies have a racially disparate impact it will be completely innocent, but like, so what? If we assume ad arguendo that there's this vast swath of racially disparate things governments do where we just can't tell whether or not they have discriminatory purpose, shouldn't we just not do any of those things? Like, even when we're wrong, I'm not too cut up about having governments no longer do things that disparately hurt black people. If that is the cost of my false positives, and the cost of false negatives is allowing deliberate racial discrimination to proceed, like, even under the Washington v. Davis theory that the Constitution only forbids the latter, shouldn't we still be willing to swallow an awful lot of false positives to avoid false negatives? Now, I actually think we can be somewhat more, ahem, discriminating between different disparate-impact policies, and sort out which ones are okay and which ones aren't (basically by putting stronger and stronger burdens on the government to justify its policy choices as the disparities grow wider), but the prime directive of our equal protection doctrine has just got to be making sure that, as far as is possible, we not let organs of the American government do racially discriminatory things.

And in general that we not allow constitutional violations to happen. We, the American people acting through our federal and state governments, don't have to do things. We could not do things. And so, I think, we shouldn't require moral certainty, in any very stringent sense, before courts will stop us from doing things in the name of the Constitution; rather, we should demand moral certainty that our actions are constitutional before we do them. And courts should be similarly hesitant to allow any government action, particularly action that deprives any person of life, liberty, or property, to proceed if they cannot satisfy themselves that it is constitutional. Perhaps there should be some prudential exceptions to that rule, where the practical consequences of inaction in a field of constitutional uncertainty will be truly dire, or--if this is a thing--where the potential violations feel somewhat de minimis. And the rule isn't that all legislation must prove its constitutionality beyond a reasonable doubt, as we mean that in the criminal context. But the judicial attitude should be one of vigilance, of caution not toward wielding the awesome power of constitutional review but toward failing to wield that power when the Constitution's defense required it.




*Once we admit that there's any possibility of wrongful convictions, which at this point is on par with admitting that the earth is round, then, well, we just don't have to execute people; even in cases with the most overwhelming proof of guilt of the most reprehensible crimes, we can just lock people up, presumptively forever, but then retain the ability to at least partially fix our mistakes if it turns out we made one.
^Of course, judges aren't the only ones with this responsibility; in at least some senses, legislatures have primary responsibilities for not passing unconstitutional laws in the first place. This doesn't mean, however, that legislatures should decline to pass any law that they worry the courts will invalidate; doing so would result in a gap between those laws that the courts actually do think are unconstitutional and those that the legislature can actually pass, which would be a needless limitation on the people's ability to self-govern. Rather it means that a legislature should obviously not pass any law which it itself believes to be unconstitutional, and (zooming in one level) legislators oughtn't vote for laws they think are unconstitutional. That includes laws that the courts would predictably uphold!

Things I Didn't Know About Murder

Apparently the original meaning of the English word "murder" was a secret killing. Like, a killing where there are no witnesses, perhaps prototypically during the middle of the night. "There's been a murder!" then, is said when someone discovers a body, with the murderer nowhere in sight. Just, like, killing someone in the middle of the street in broad daylight was not part of the definition, no matter how "premediated" or however much "malice aforethought," the terms of art that form the standard modern definition. And apparently the reason why this was the original meaning of the word came from, like, Norse/Germanic culture, where such open killings weren't considered especially shameful. Oh, you'd be subject to the weregild, the price a killer had to pay to their victim's family (which, of course, varied as a matter of law with the relative statuses of the victim and the killer), and perhaps you might start a blood feud, but you weren't viewed as having committed a real crime. (It kind of sounds like murder, secret killing, was seen as an offense against the state and hence covered by the criminal laws, whereas ordinary killing was just a private offense and hence subject to something more like civil law.)

I never knew that before, and I wonder how much path dependence there's been in the way we define "murder" as a subset of homicides. That old value system, wherein just killing someone in the street wasn't shameful/wasn't an offense against the state, is long dead, but the law still views cold-blooded, deliberate, planned killings as worse than impulsive or impassioned ones, and many definitions still explicitly include murder by poison, say, as a form of first-degree murder. How much of that is the baleful influence of the barbaric culture from which we got the literal word murder? I wonder.

Monday, April 6, 2015

Big Government Revisited

A while ago I announced on this blog that I Hate "Big Government." Specifically, in that post I argued against the usage of the phrase "big government" to refer to a government specifically defined as having a large budget, compared to its country's economy, e.g. when Medicare, a large federal spending program financed by ordinary taxes, is attacked as being a form of "big government." To me, the phrase is meant to conjure up visions of George Orwell's 1984 and a big surveillance state that has infringed the liberties of its subjects, but general taxes, I argued, don't really infringe on people's liberty very much (setting aside the question of whether they're economically desirable) and once the government has its hands on the money, well, it can spend it however it wants without violating anyone's liberties. And I still think that's basically correct, but I recently gained a deeper appreciation of what the "big government (a.k.a. big budget)" complaint is. The thing is, it's not about the tax side of the equation, it's about the spending side.

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Regarding the Braves

The Atlanta Braves had a rather dramatic off-season, and it laid the team's priorities bare: they don't care at all about putting a good team on the field in the 2015 season, or in the 2016 season. They do care about putting a good team on the field in 2017, and thereafter. And honestly, many of their moves have been savvy ones, within that framework: they've shed a lot of talent for the 2015-16 seasons (Jason Heyward, Justin Upton, Evan Gattis, and now Craig Kimbrel) while stockpiling a lot of future value and increasing their flexibility going forward. (They also signed Nick Markakis to a four-year deal, which is a little weird but shouldn't be any crippling difficulty in 2017-18 anyway.) One possible criticism of their off-season would be that they didn't get good enough value out of their deals; for instance, many thought the return in the Jason Heyward trade was just too light. Another possible criticism would be this kind of rebuild is just generally improper: that it's a betrayal of the fans and/or the players to deliberately spend a couple of years slashing payroll below capacity and, therefore, sucking. I'm not especially interested in either of those criticisms, honestly: as to the former, who can say?, and as to the latter, I think a genuine, Andrew Mellon-style, liquidationist rebuild, wherein the team accepts being truly terrible for a few seasons while trying to build a strong organization for the future, can be the right thing to do in certain circumstances. So, especially since it results in the Mets' chief rival over the course of my lifetime being terrible for the next couple of years, I would normally not have any great problem with what the Braves are doing.

Except that it's so racist.

Because, you see, the Braves were not forced into this rebuild. This wasn't a situation where the team had drained its farm system and saddled itself with bad contracts to aging veterans and was on a path that would lead to perpetual awfulness without a rebuild. The Braves weren't great last year, tying for second place with the Mets with 79 wins, and their farm system, even prior to the supplementation it's received over the off-season, was not what you'd call barren, though also perhaps not one of the top systems in the league. Certainly the team had some problems, but going into this off-season they could quite plausibly have done the usual thing and tried to make their 2015 team a potential contender without harming the organization's long-term prospects. The thinking was that they would probably pick one of Upton or Heyward to extend long-term and trade the other, striking that delicate balance between preserving current assets and using some of those assets to replenish the pipeline. That would've been a conventional off-season for the Atlanta Braves. In other words, nothing about the baseball end of things forced them to decide that 2015 wins and 2016 wins don't matter.

No, the reason why 2015 and 2016 wins don't matter is that for those years, they'll still be stuck in their current stadium, Turner Field. It opened in 1997 (I'm practically old enough to remember!), but will be replaced before it can reach 20 years of age, and the team will move from the city proper of Atlanta to the Cobb County suburbs. A little thing about Atlanta proper versus Cobb County: the former has way more black people in it. The decision to get this new stadium build has been subject to enough criticism along racial grounds as is. I can't help but feeling like that is just compounded by their really quite flagrant declaration that they don't care about their two remaining years in the city, that they have made the completely discretionary decision to sacrifice those years that they may be better in their debut season before their new rich, white audience.

It's hard not to root for their scheme to fail--even if I weren't a Mets fan.