Once a showcase of baseball’s finest, the All-Star Game now feels more like a branding exercise wrapped in nostalgia and noise. The league that can’t stop patting itself on the back—yes, MLB—is now facing backlash not for who made it, but for how and why. Enter Jacob Misiorowski, the rookie fireballer whose rocket ride to Atlanta has lit up more than radar guns—it’s ignited a credibility crisis.

The All-Star is supposed to bring the fans together for a cup of beer and enjoy the best of the players playing together. But this time around, the MLB has decided, they are going to flip the script and do what they want. This time, the MLB has decided that they are going to overlook top veterans for great rookies and just snub some players. Like choosing  Jacob Misiorowski over Kodai Senga, but that is not the only thing that is causing the fans to lash out at the MLB.

In a recent article by the New York Post, which talked about the All-Star Game, it criticized the MLB for not making the right decisions. They said, “Playing pretend is what the sports media does in its annual overly enthusiastic imagined-significance emphasis on All-Star games… the discriminating sports-minded will take a pass, perhaps even clean the attic, especially in the case of MLB’s former and now self-destroyed ‘Midseason Classic.'”

Major League Baseball once celebrated legacy, but today it flirts dangerously with instant gratification hype. The All-Star Game, once sacred, now echoes with the sound of rushed stardom and spotlight spins. Jacob Misiorowski, with five starts, earned history, not for dominance, but for rapid branding. While his velocity dazzles, it’s merit—not mph—that should define All-Star standards.

Great arms like Kodai Senga and Cristopher Sánchez, battle-tested and dominant, were left behind unnoticed. Their stats tower above Misiorowski’s, but they lacked the novelty of a 99-mph debut narrative. MLB has replaced season-long excellence with click-worthy meteors and Instagram-friendly flamethrowers. In choosing storylines over resumes, the league weakens its once-unshakable All-Star fabric.

Replacements now flood the roster like a waiting room, not a shrine to baseball’s finest. Sixteen fill-ins blur the lines between All-Star honor and glorified availability contest. The “Midseason Classic” sounds nostalgic, but it’s slipping toward midseason marketing showcase with little resistance. Fans feel the shift—less tradition, more television, fewer legends, more logistics.

The hook between nostalgia and novelty has snapped, and MLB seems too distracted to notice. Once the gold standard of midseason glory, the All-Star Game now reads like a press release in cleats. When 99 mph matters more than 99 innings of dominance, the scoreboard isn’t the only thing broken. If branding is the new ballot box, then maybe next year’s MVP will be whoever trends fastest on TikTok.

Forget the fans; even players remain unhappy with MLB.

Baseball’s favorite tradition: fixing what isn’t broken while ignoring what is. Leave it to MLB to turn a showcase of talent into a participation trophy ceremony. And now, even Brandon Nimmo—usually all smiles and hustle—is calling a foul. When a guy like Nimmo says the process is “broken,” maybe the league should stop polishing the brand and start listening to its clubhouse.

Juan Soto has endured one of the most bewildering All-Star snubs in recent memory. Through 90 games, he’s slashing .266 batting average with 23 homers, 54 RBIs, and 11 stolen bases. His elite .916 OPS ranks inside MLB’s top ten, firmly justifying his selection. Yet, despite those standout numbers, Soto was left off the National League roster completely.

Brandon Nimmo responded sharply, blasting the system as fundamentally flawed. “The process is broken,” he told The Post, “It’s supposed to be All‑Stars…”. Nimmo defended Soto, calling his elite plate discipline and lineup impact undeniable. With Soto’s season rivaling All-Star reserves, MLB’s guarantee-by-team rule failed elite talent.

When the numbers scream “All-Star” and the league shrugs, something’s seriously off-base. If MLB wants the game to matter, it can’t keep rewarding mediocrity with a plane ticket. Snubbing Juan Soto isn’t just a bad look—it’s a branding blunder wrapped in a ballot. The league can sell jerseys all it wants, but credibility isn’t stitched on the sleeve. Fix the process, or stop calling it the Midsummer Classic.