On Folarin Balogun

In June 2010, Detroit Tiger Armando Galarraga was one out away from throwing Major League Baseball’s 21st Perfect Game against the Cleveland Indians (now Guardians as of writing in 2026). Baseball history goes back to 1871, and if Galarraga got the out, he would join only 20 other men (now 24 as of writing in 2026) with names like Sandy Koufax, Nolan Ryan, and Cy Young who accomplished the feat.

Jason Donald for Cleveland grounded a lazy ball to 1st. Tigers 1st-Baseman Miguel Cabrera scooped it up with glee and tossed it to Galarraga covering 1st who beat Donald to the bag.

But the umpire, Jim Joyce, called Donald safe despite Galarraga beating him by half-a-foot.

Galarraga only believed that he’d done it for .5 seconds and you can see it in the video. His arms, ready to rocket in the air while his teammates mobbed him, only made it to his shoulders as he saw Joyce signal safe.

Everyone knew the call was blown; even Jason Donald put his hand on his head as if he’d just witnessed a crime.

There was no instant replay back then, the call stood. Many petitioned Major League Baseball and Commissioner Bud Selig to reverse the call and award Galarraga the perfect game.

But with a game whose history dates back to 1871, precedent has to be acknowledged. Baseball had always operated by “These are the rules, and we can’t change them no matter what the emotional incentive might be to do so.”

I remember my outraged 19-year old tweet “Bud Selig should quit his job.”

Yesterday, when the news broke that Folarin Balogun’s suspension for receiving a Red Card was lifted, allowing him to play against Belgium, I didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, as a US fan, I was elated; I thought the red card was harsh for the circumstances of the World Cup, and that to deprive a young player a chance to play in the biggest game of his life over something that just happens in full speed sport was an injustice.

But the ethical gymnastics to assure myself this was fair proved to be not unlike my real ability to do gymnastics: nonexistent.

I watch sports for the stories, sports are at their best when they tell me a story that reveals something about who we are as people, and stories are at their best when they have something to say about heartache, and hope, brilliance, and decrepitude, failure, and grace.

Put simply: I watch sports for those moments where I shout to whoever is watching with me “Wow! Did you see that?”

And to do that, every game thrives on the most important element of narrative: jeopardy.

Jeopardy means “exposure to the possibility of loss or injury.” But a better way of saying it is to look at the word’s roots: it comes from a French slang term, jeu parti, which means divided game — as in, the game could go either way.

And that’s the fun, the joy, the heartache, and the moment you’re walking around your neighborhood at 10 p.m. wondering why your quarterback can’t seem to throw the ball to the team in his own color jersey, especially when playing against the University of Florida (Their jerseys are bright blue at home, how do you not see them?).

But it’s not just that the game could go either way, it’s that it’s humans, real people putting every ounce of their strength into trying to overcome their opponent. It’s like those games where both teams are so evenly matched that you don’t want either to lose; as if the most important thing in jeopardy was whether both teams would give everything they had.

But it’s not just humans, it’s humans who I feel are me. It’s not just any football team, it’s the one from my university representing my small corner of the world. It’s not just any baseball team, it’s the one I chose as a 9-year-old. And it’s not just any soccer team, it’s my countrymen out there battling the greatest odds: winning at a sport in which the rest of the world is convinced that we’re trash.

Because that’s the real narrative: the underdog. I feel most akin to the men and women who take the field with the odds stacked against them. They are the ones I want to see win because it says to my guts, maybe I could do that too. Not on the athletic field, but in my own battles in life.

And that’s why I don’t like the red card being overturned.

Bad breaks happen; it’s part of life, and it’s part of the game.

To me, the United States team got a bad break. The true test of character is how you respond. I wanted to see our team go out there and beat Belgium anyway. They’re already legends for facing down Bosnia with 10 men and not only shutting them down, but scoring another goal anyways.

Something about that felt so distinctly American: that’s who we are, that’s my team.

This World Cup has felt like a gift to our country. There have been amazing stories: Cape Verde shocking everyone and getting out of the group and very nearly toppling the closest thing we have to a mythological being in Lionel Messi; Paraguay knocking out Germany; Erling Haaland shoving all the other players off the oars and rowing a Viking longship from Norway to our shores by himself.

And off the field, we saw the world coming together in American cities, and acting like old cousins who were friends as kids, had a falling out as teenagers, and introduced their children to each other at a party and picked back up like nothing had happened. The World was realizing that the story that’s been told about our country wasn’t true. And we were realizing the stories told about the rest of the world weren’t true.

But I’m afraid now, a different story is told (one that feels far more true about us): our politics will invade anything if it gets us an edge, regardless of the fallout.

There’s a sense in which sports always have to remain human: not just that it’s played by human beings, but that the ones officiating the games are also humans. And sometimes, humans have to make judgements that others interpret differently, and sometimes, God forbid we forget this fact about our species: we make mistakes.

Jim Joyce had to umpire the game the next day between the Tigers and the Indians. He’d reviewed the call in the clubhouse after the game and realized he’d blown it and admitted as much to the media; he’d even called the MLB front office offering to do anything to get the call changed.

The media blasted Joyce, the fans booed him, and he even received death threats.

As the home plate ump the next day, Joyce had to get the lineup cards from both teams. Detroit had Armando Galarraga carry theirs to the plate.

Joyce stood there in tears staring at the ground like a scolded 4-year old, his red face puffing out behind his thick gray handlebar mustache. Joyce couldn’t look Galarraga in the eyes; he stared down at the lineup cards seeing blurry smudges in ink.

And Galarraga smiled, and patted him on the shoulder. After the game Galarraga said this:

“I say many times: Nobody’s perfect, Everybody makes a mistake. I’m sure he don’t want to make that call. You see that guy last night, he feels really bad. He don’t even change. The other umpires shower, eat. He was sitting in the seat (and saying), ‘I’m so sorry.’”

Wow.

Did you see that?