Ships of Theseus

The St. Louis Blues are playing the Boston Bruins in the Stanley Cup Final. In the world of hockey, it's a pretty big deal. It's their World Series, so whoever wins the best-of-7 games is pretty much the NHL champion for the 2018-19 season. At least, that's as much as yours truly can glean from things, given that I'm not all that into sports. I root for the Illini teams by virtue of where I was born. The St. Louis Cardinals are a family tradition on my mom's side. And the Blues (and hockey) were introduced by way of someone who means a lot to me, so that explains why I like those teams.

Why all this talk about sports in general, and the St. Louis Blues in particular? It's because much has been made of how this could potentially be the Blues' first Stanley Cup win in their fifty-two year history. And they last played for the Cup some forty-nine years ago, so what's happening this week is bit of a rare occurrence (kind of like when the Cubs actually get to the World Series. Sorry, couldn't resist). At any rate, all of this talk of the Blues' history has reminded me of when other sports teams' records are discussed, and it occurred to me how fluid such institutions really are.

This put me in mind of the old Ship of Theseus thought experiment, wherein the vessel of mythic hero Theseus has been put on display as an attraction, of sorts. Over the years, wooden pieces of the ship begin to rot and needed replacing. After a certain point, all of the original parts of the ship have been replaced. This begs the question: Is it still the same ship? Is it the same St. Louis Blues who are vying for their first Stanley Cup trophy, when it's a different coach, a different roster of players, and a different home arena? It is a corporation going by the same name it did fifty-two years ago, so... yes? maybe?

Of course, I shouldn't just pick on the Blues. This is a situation applicable to a myriad of entities and situations: sports teams, cities, countries, governments, etc. No one is alive who was part of the founding of the United States (or most any nation of a certain age). Generations have come and gone, and now here we are. But it's always been the United States of America, no? The inhabitants of cities have turned over many a time, but the city still bears its name, correct? Sports team rosters have changed more often than one can easily count, yet the team goes on.

In the early '90s, I read Children of Men by P.D. James, my favorite author. Some of you may have seen the film adaptation. The movie is good, though tends to dwell more heavily on the violence element than its source material does. The story goes that, for some unknown reason, no births have occurred for a generation. The book explores the many themes inherent in such a concept, and for the first time it made me think about how so much of what we do isn't for the present, but for the future. And, when you take away hope for that future, madness and despair can ensue.

I mention Children of Men because it served as a reminder that humanity has its own through line. Biologically, it is in our DNA. Artificially, it can range anywhere from the structures we erect, to the nations we develop, to the sports teams we root for. Whether we do it consciously or not, we look to the future and, sometimes, revere our collective past. Bygone success can perhaps mean current, or future success. We endeavor to pursue things under the same name. The wood may have been replaced, but the Ship of Theseus remains intact.

And the Blues will win the Stanley Cup.