Introduction to Making.
Our take
Ben Yagoda's exploration of the phrase "made three-pointers," among other redundancies in basketball commentary, is a delightful rabbit hole that unveils the quirks and frustrations of linguistic evolution. As he navigates the waters of descriptivism versus prescriptivism, Yagoda points us toward a linguistic pet peeve that resonates with anyone who's ever cringed at needless repetition in language. This is not just a casual observation; it speaks to a broader conversation about how language is shaped by those who use it, and how certain phrases can become so entrenched that they escape scrutiny. It’s a topic that dovetails nicely with other discussions around language nuance, such as those found in the Smart vs. Dumb piece.
Yagoda's claim hinges on the redundancy of the term “made.” After all, a three-pointer is, by its very nature, a shot that has successfully traversed the hoop; to specify that it was "made" feels like unnecessary padding. In the world of sports commentary, where every second counts and the adrenaline is palpable, the economy of language should be paramount. Yet, as Yagoda points out, even descriptivists—those who embrace the fluidity of language and its evolution—can’t help but develop their own pet peeves. This highlights a fascinating duality in language: we are all players in an ongoing game of linguistic evolution, yet we are also critics of how that game is played.
What’s particularly intriguing about this discussion is how it reflects our relationship with language itself. Yagoda's critique can be seen as a microcosm of a larger trend in modern communication; we are bombarded with phrases that become so pervasive they lose their original meaning. The phrase “made field goals” serves not just as a redundancy, but as a marker of a specific linguistic culture—one that thrives on shorthand yet often tips into the realm of the nonsensical. In a world increasingly defined by brevity (think of the character limits of social media), the excess of language can feel jarring. It calls to mind the ongoing debates about auto translations in platforms like YouTube, where clarity often battles with conciseness, as explored in the Auto translations in YouTube.
As we dissect the implications of Yagoda's observations, it becomes clear that this isn't just about basketball commentary; it’s about the ways in which we communicate. The redundancy he highlights serves as a reminder that language is not merely functional but also cultural. It reflects the values of the communities that use it, often revealing the underlying assumptions and shared experiences of its speakers. For sports enthusiasts, these phrases might feel familiar and comforting; to others, they may seem like a cluttering of what could be a clearer message.
Looking ahead, one wonders how such linguistic redundancies will evolve with the changing tides of communication. Will we continue to embrace phrases that add little to our understanding, or will the push for clarity become more pronounced as we navigate an increasingly crowded digital landscape? As we keep an ear to the ground, it's worth considering how the language we use shapes our interactions and perceptions—both in sports and beyond. In this game, will we finally call out the unnecessary “made” or let it linger in the air, like a three-pointer that just barely slips through the net? Stay tuned, because this is a linguistic play that’s just getting started.
Ben Yagoda discusses a niche usage that produces hilarity among a restricted group of English-speakers:
In the language wars, I am pretty firmly a descriptivist (rather than a prescriptivist) but even descriptivists have pet peeves, and one of mine is basketball announcers who refer to “made three-pointers,” “made baskets,” and “made field goals.” My problem here is redundancy—three-pointers, baskets, and field goals have by definition been made. But a separate issue is I find those phrases funny. Along with referring to a basket as a “make.”
To give you a sense of why, I quote from a message sent in 2017 to the language columnist of the Jewish magazine Tikvah, who has the pen name Philologus. The correspondent, an academic dean at MIT, wrote:
Last year, I found myself in a meeting at which the head of the entrepreneurship center was describing a new course he was excited about. Related to what has lately been described as the “Maker Movement,” it was to be a joint project of the Management and Mechanical Engineering departments that was supposed to get engineers and managers more involved in manufacturing by closing the gap between designs and products.
After stating this in his introductory remarks, the proposed giver of the course then announced its name: “Intro to Making.”
This cracked the dean up. However, he reported, “when I looked around the room, I saw that no one was smiling but me.”
Here is my litmus test. You will find “Intro to Making” and “made baskets” funny if you are a (say) 50-plus-year-old person from an Ashkenazi Jewish background and/or the New York City metropolitan area; and/or you write movies or TV shows (rubbing shoulders with many a Jew); and/or you are an avid reader of the books of Judy Blume.
Such people, you see, understand “make” as a word used to and by children (and in reference to pets) meaning “defecate.” Use it in a sentence? Sure: “I have to make,” “She is making,” “Did Fido make?” […]
It may seem that I am harping on Jewishness but it is key. Specifically, the usage comes from the Yiddish word makhn, meaning “to make.” Philologos writes in Tikvah that the defecate meaning isn’t given in most Yiddish dictionaries, but
it is listed as a toilet term in Nahum Stutchkoff’s compendious thesaurus Der Oytser fun der Yiddisher Shprakh. When I asked a friend who is a native speaker of Yiddish to confirm this, she wrote back: “Yes, we did say makhn in our very refined family. As far as I know, the verb never took a direct object. It referred only to defecation, not urination.”
And this in turn derives from the German word for make. I asked my friend and neighbor Hansjakob Werlen, a professor of Germanic studies at Swarthmore College about this, and he replied, “The term machen when on the toilet, especially kids, does indeed indicate a successful completion of Nr 2.”
This usage somehow managed to elude me, despite my long residence in NYC; is it familiar to you?
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