The strangest thing about Bud Selig's decision to determine home-field advantage in the World Series on the outcome of the All-Star Game was how backward the connection was. The World Series comprises the seven most important games of the baseball season. The All-Star Game, judging by how its rosters are constructed and its play managed, is the least important. Short of granting home field to the winner of spring training split-squad games, or a pregame cow-milking contest, it'd be hard to envision a sillier example of a tail wagging the dog.

Before Selig's decision, it was determined by random chance -- more recently, an even/odd year alternation, and before that, a literal coin flip. Given the opportunity to overrule this, Selig chose an almost identical philosophy -- that home field is a mostly meaningless advantage that need not be earned, only inherited. The only explanation? That home-field advantage in the World Series doesn't actually matter.

That's the most generous justification of Selig's scheme, which will be unwound by baseball's new collective bargaining agreement. It's actually a rational position, with a sound foundation and some historical evidence backing it. A smart person could justifiably believe this position.

It's also wrong, in a way that has arbitrarily tilted October baseball for almost a century and that might more systematically tilt October baseball for (at least) the next five years.

It's important to briefly lay the foundation for the Home Field Advantage Doesn't Really Matter position: The advantage does not, logically, matter unless the series goes seven games. If a home team wins in fewer than seven, it didn't need its advantage -- it won without its advantage. And most series don't go to seven games. Since 1925, when the current 2-3-2 format became permanent, 62 percent were over before the final "if necessary" game could be made necessary.

That still leaves 38 percent that did, 35 Game 7s, and home-field advantage was certainly desirable in those. But home-field advantage in baseball is a relatively weak force, promising the home team only about a 54-46 edge. Generously, we might bump that to 55-45, to reflect a slightly higher historical edge in the high-stakes World Series games. Applying that small edge to all the seventh games since 1925, we'd expect one or two series outcomes to flip ... in nearly a century. For Selig, that's one unjust outcome every 53 years, a pretty small price to pay for your pet project (or better television ratings). The fact that seventh games have, in fact, gone 18-17 in favor of the visitors confirms that baseball's decision not to seriously grapple with the right way to determine home-field advantage has left few victims.

So this is the logical/historical argument: The advantage rarely matters -- and when it does, it barely makes a difference. But this argument gets it super wrong.

Before Bill Mazeroski ended the 1960 World Series with his walk-off homer in the bottom of the ninth in Pittsburgh, the home teams had lost four of the six games in the series. AP Photo/Harry Harris

The key to understanding the true advantage comes not in Game 7, when the fourth and advantage-deciding home game takes place, but in the first. Home-field advantage seems to be less about getting a fourth game at home and more about getting the 2s in the 2-3-2.

Remember that home-field advantage overall is only about 54 percent to 46 percent? If we break the World Series down by game, the results have been radically different. Since 1925:

• Game 1: 57-34

• Game 2: 55-36

• Game 3: 50-41

• Game 4: 44-47

• Game 5: 37-36

• Game 6: 35-19

• Game 7: 17-18

Or, if we group them by legs of the trip:

• Games 1-2: .615 home winning percentage

• Games 3-5: .514 home winning percentage

• Games 6-7: .584 home winning percentage

"Well, sure," the brain wants to say, "the team that starts at home must be better." But throughout these 92 years (91 series), home field has been determined either randomly or by a factor (All-Star Game victor) that has virtually nothing to do with the teams involved. There is no reason to think that the teams that had home field in Game 1 were better, and yet they have been, as a group, a postseason powerhouse. Teams that have started at home were twice as likely to sweep the World Series (12 times to six times) and nearly twice as likely to win the series in five games (12 times to seven times) -- even though these victors ended up with the home field disadvantage, playing three games at road and only two at home. In fact, after five games, the team that has played fewer games at home has clinched or led the series 49 times to 42.

Which gets us here: The team that starts at home has won 59 percent of the World Series since 1925. If we have identified a real effect, this advantage is far greater than any typical understanding of home field. And we've found a more or less randomly determined variable that has swung almost nine World Series in one direction.

"If we have identified a real effect."

This is the hard part. Statistical flukes happen! But let's try to find a good reason to accept this as truth, recognizing that each of these hypotheses could justify a separate study on its own:

1. Game 1 is just different

Inevitably, the announcers at next year's World Series will mention how nervous everybody is. They'll say that nothing can prepare you for the feeling of being in the World Series, and that it'll take a few innings before the butterflies settle down. Perhaps this is even true! If it is, it would be reasonable to hypothesize that baseball players would prefer to be nervous among friends, in a home park, than nervous among enemies. Perhaps this amplifies the difference between home and road. Perhaps this explains why the advantage in Game 1 is bigger than the advantage in Game 3 (or in Game 7), when the players have become accustomed to the brighter lights of the World Series and it has gone back to being just baseball.

2. Momentum, or something like it

If a team loses one game, it has been about 53 percent likely to lose the next -- not a particularly big difference, especially because the team that lost is most likely a little bit worse (which is why they lost).

Overall, the World Series spread is right in line with the normal home/road gap: If a team lost a game and then got to play the next one at home -- either returning home (as from Game 2 to Game 3) or staying home (as from Game 1 to 2, Game 3 to 4, etc.) -- it won about 50 percent of its games. If a team lost a game and then had to play a game on the road, it won only 43 percent of its games. But one important exception: Home teams that lose Game 1 have come back to win 22 of 34 Games 2s.

3. The advantage has a powerful subconscious, or barely conscious, effect all by itself

Although the Cardinals and Red Sox each hosted three games in the 2013 World Series, some Cardinals felt Boston had home-field advantage with the first two games at Fenway Park. Alex Trautwig/Getty Images

Perhaps, knowing that they're the underdogs, teams who start on the road enter the series with a sense of frustration, resignation, self-pity. We're getting extremely speculative now. But consider this quote from pitcher Chris Carpenter, talking about the 2013 World Series that his Cardinals played against the Red Sox:

"I think it's very important to grab that home field. Last year we saw it play out in Boston. They had the opportunity to play more games there than we did in St. Louis."

That quote came after the Series was over. The Series went six games. The Red Sox and Cardinals played exactly as many home games as each other, three apiece. And yet, "We saw it play out." Carpenter describes it as though the Red Sox's numerical advantage manifested anyway, as though it were a factor well before Game 7. For some reason or another, it has been.

In 2003, Bud Selig had a chance to fix the way home-field advantage is determined, and he tried to fix the All-Star Game instead. For the latter, he failed; the All-Star Game is played with no more competitive imperative now, and ratings have continued to sink. In the four years before Selig changed the rules, the All-Star Game drew 59 percent as many viewers as the first game of the same season's World Series. In the four years after, that share dropped to 52 percent. In the past four years, it's down to 43 percent. Nothing got fixed.

It's wise and obvious that baseball would undo the change, and wiser and more obvious that they'd also find a less arbitrary way of awarding home-field advantage, an important thing. It's not necessarily clear that awarding it to the team with the best record is any more just, though; the difference between the leagues remains staggering, as the National League had a worse winning percentage in interleague play this year (.450) than the Angels had overall. It might actually be more just to award home field to whichever league has the best interleague record, though that would be a lot less convincing in years where the difference between leagues is slim.

Whether it is or isn't perfect is maybe less important than that it makes sense. Bud Selig surely knew when he made his decision that he wasn't actually going to change the way that the All-Star Game was played; he was going to change the way the All-Star Game was watched. Whether or not the best record truly deserves home-field advantage, it at least makes sense. It gives the audience something it can believe in. It's the fan-friendly solution to the dilemma that Selig skipped over.