So just to recap: The Major League players were put in charge of voting in the reserves for the All-Star Game, even though their ballots were due a week before the starters were even announced. The fans were to vote in the starters, gleefully stuffing ballots and tilting outcomes toward the popular and the celebrated, as they've done for years.

The managers each were to choose four pitchers and either three reserves (National League) or one reserve (American League, its other two spots already sucked up by the DH). The rosters were increased from 30 players to 32. And each league remained required to find a representative from every big-league roster no matter how ill a fit he was with the other All-Stars.

All of which would make for a decent 12-second conversation at the bagel stand were it not that the winner of this Ultimate Exhibition will now determine home-field advantage in the World Series.

In the immortal words of a friend of mine who never did make it all the way through college: That's so messed up it has to be true.

Looking back, you can see that baseball's fatal mistake was ever attaching one ounce of importance to the All-Star Game. Take away Bud Selig's amazing edict that the outcome would actually affect the World Series for each of the next two seasons, and you're looking at an otherwise purely theatrical production that honors a time-proven All-Star approach, which -- translated roughly from the Latin -- is: More cotton candy for the kid in Row 112.

The All-Star Game is a giant fraud, and a damned happy one. It's normally just a massive collection of people the People want to see, and there was never a thing wrong with that. Once baseball decided to let the fans vote, this game has shrunken in "importance" -- but grown in fun-factor -- with nearly every passing year.

Comes now the summer of 2003, and wipe that grin off your face, skipper. If N.L. manager Dusty Baker decides he wants to get everybody a half-inning of face time, is he traitoring the cause of the eventual pennant-winner? If A.L. manager Mike Scioscia has a hot pitcher, does he simply leave the guy in for four or five innings to ensure the W?

As Toronto manager Carlos Tosca noted last week, "It's no longer, 'Come out and see the stars.' It's, 'Win the game.' Are you going to take Barry Bonds out of that game? Are you going to take (Albert) Pujols out of that game? I'm not, if I'm trying to win the game."

Win the game: Is Tosca kidding? No, of course he's not. He is looking very soberly at the most hideous cross-dressing this side of "Hairspray" -- an attempt to attach significance to a mid-season Wiffle Ball Tournament and Bake-Off by grafting it onto the otherwise semi-serious mug of postseason play.

You're looking at the bespoiling of two independently fine things here. On the one hand, baseball absolutely kills its summer break by taking the relaxation out of it. Not that anyone is expecting the All-Stars to suddenly play for blood, but there will come a time in this year's game, count on it, when a decision is made or a play occurs at which point everyone suddenly realizes people are playing for stakes instead of smiles.

I'm guessing high spikes on a slide, but that's just me. One thing's for sure: There won't be any scenes out of the 1990s, when John Kruk had the Camden Yards crowd rolling in the aisles over his desperate, genuinely funny attempts to get safely away from Randy Johnson's huge, looping curveballs. Nope: This year, Kruk stands in there and grimly hacks away. After all, there's somebody else's playoff share riding on it.

And, of course, there is the more worrisome notion (for those inclined to worry over such things) that the World Series outcome might somehow be affected by the 32nd guy off Baker's bench in the All-Star Game. This is a player, remember, who doesn't even make the team a year ago, when only 30 spots existed. Now he's potentially the difference between the Giants or the Angels hosting Game 7?

This is not to suggest that there is any one safe solution to that Series home-field advantage question, by the way. Clearly, there isn't. The least controversial approach is to alternate the privilege between the leagues. More controversial, but at least rooted in the games themselves, is the idea that the team with the best record hosts -- period.

This All-Star stuff, this is something else again. The whole thing sounded absurd the moment it was announced months ago. Given time, space and air for the concept to breathe, we now see that it really was just precisely that absurd. An All-Star Game with something riding on it? Heck, why not just tell us they're using the "Friends" season-ender to elect the junior senator from Wisconsin?

Oh, and by the way: That final roster spot, No. 32 -- it's to be determined via Internet fan-vote. Happy hunting, and see you in October.

Mark Kreidler is a columnist with the Sacramento Bee and a regular contributor to ESPN.com