Paul Skenes: The 102-MPH Export That’s Faster Than Diplomacy

A 6’6″ Floridian with a fastball that could puncture the ozone layer lands in Pittsburgh and the planet tilts—imperceptibly, of course, yet just enough for the international baseball-industrial complex to recalibrate. Paul Skenes, the freshly drafted LSU ace whose surname sounds like a Scandinavian crime series, is the latest proof that the United States still exports its most effective propaganda in the form of sport rather than democracy. From Seoul’s batting cages to D.R. sandlots, kids now dream in Skenes-brand radar-gun readings, blissfully unaware that the same velocity will one day be measured in missile ranges.

Baseball—once the quaint pastime of flannelled colonials—has become a rare growth stock in the portfolio of global soft power. Japan’s posting system, Korea’s KBO TikTok virality, and Cuba’s defector pipeline all orbit the MLB mothership like grim little moons. Into this constellation steps Skenes, whose right arm is already being valued somewhere between a small Baltic GDP and whatever Elon Musk paid for Twitter. The Pirates, bless their rust-belt hearts, signed him for a bonus that could fund three Moldovan parliaments; in exchange they receive a human highlight reel capable of reviving a franchise whose last championship predates the fall of the Berlin Wall. Somewhere, a Swiss banker updates a spreadsheet titled “Assets With Seams.”

Europeans, who treat baseball the way Americans treat opera, might shrug—until they remember every Skenes strikeout is another data point for Statcast, itself owned by a media conglomerate that also streams Bundesliga, Ligue 1, and the latest Korean zombie rom-com. The same algorithmic eye that clocks Skenes’s 100-mph heater also recommends Bordeaux to a teenager in Bogotá. Imperialism has diversified; it now comes with launch angle.

Down in Venezuela, where inflation makes MLB arbitration figures look quaint, scouts speak of Skenes in hushed tones normally reserved for saints or sanctions. A single signing bonus could bankroll a Caracas academy for a decade, producing the next Ronald Acuña Jr. or, failing that, the next geopolitical bargaining chip. After all, nothing says hemispheric diplomacy quite like shipping 16-year-olds north in exchange for remittances and the occasional World Baseball Classic quarterfinal.

Asia watches through a different lens. In Taiwan, where military drills and baseball practice share the same afternoon slot, Skenes is a living metaphor: a precision weapon wrapped in Nike swooshes. Chinese state media, never missing a chance to flex, notes that while America invests millions in one pitcher’s UCL, it neglects bridges, trains, and basic literacy. Fair point, but then again the same could be said about aircraft carriers, and nobody’s suggesting we defund those to pay for textbooks.

Australia, ever the conscientious middle child, debates whether to poach Skenes for a winter league stint, thereby proving that even the Southern Cross can be rented by the hour. Meanwhile, in the United Kingdom—where cricket still pretends it isn’t baseball in a bowtie—tabloids run breathless explainers on “How Fast Is 102 MPH in Proper Units?” The answer, naturally, is “fast enough to reignite the Empire.”

All of which brings us back to the man himself, currently doing post-draft interviews in a navy suit cut like he’s about to testify before Congress. He flashes the practiced humility of someone who knows the cameras are already measuring the distance between his smile and a sneaker deal. Somewhere in the bowels of CAA, an agent calculates endorsement potential in yen, pesos, and crypto. History suggests the elbow is the real stakeholder here; ligaments rarely negotiate.

Still, for a brief moment before the inevitable surgery and the rehab and the talk-show redemption arc, Paul Skenes represents what the world pretends to want: raw, unmarketed excellence. We will, of course, market it anyway. Because if there’s one thing humanity agrees on across borders, languages, and tariffs, it’s that 100 miles per hour is the same in any dialect—and so, regrettably, is the price tag.