Abbott & Costello: Who's On First?

Who's On First?

If one dares to listen to the droning praise heaped upon "Who’s On First?"—the purported pinnacle of American humor—one might be tempted to conclude that the routine represents the very essence of comedic genius. "Best Comedy Sketch of the 20th Century," declared Time magazine in 1999, as if we had collectively forgotten a century's worth of vibrant comedic innovation. The routine, performed by Bud Abbott and Lou Costello, is the kind of cultural relic that refuses to die, dragging itself through the decades, perpetually glorified and perpetually misunderstood. This highly lauded sketch, which has inspired rock band names, political gags, and even transcended into foreign languages and sign language, begs the question: does it truly deserve its halo, or are we all just pawns in a cosmic comedy of miscommunication? 

Let us delve into the farcical world of "Who’s On First?", a routine that takes the concept of misunderstanding—the epitome of wit, supposedly—and stretches it into infinity. In essence, the sketch revolves around a dialogue in which Abbott, the straight man, attempts to explain the names of baseball players to Costello, the buffoon. As Abbott lists the names of players—"Who’s on first, What’s on second, and I Don’t Know is on third"—Costello, predictably, misinterprets every word, creating a spiraling confusion that, in the eyes of many, epitomizes comedy’s finest form.

For decades, this “comedy masterpiece” has been revered as the paragon of humor. Yet, it’s hard to ignore the gut-wrenching absurdity of elevating a routine rooted in wordplay misunderstandings to such unattainable heights. The routine’s longevity is often lauded as evidence of its brilliance, but let’s pause to examine why this sketch has endured. Could it be because its humor resides not in cleverness or ingenuity, but in an almost nauseatingly simplistic formula that elicits repeated, almost Pavlovian reactions from audiences starved for anything resembling a joke? The trick here isn’t wit, but repetitive absurdity—the comedy equivalent of a hamster on a wheel, frantically spinning without ever actually going anywhere. Incongruity theory is one of the most fundamental humor theories, which posits that humor arises when there is a mismatch between expectations and reality. “Who’s On First?” exploits this theory masterfully through its play on words. The audience expects that Abbott’s explanations of baseball players will be straightforward, but Costello’s continuous misunderstandings create a disconnect between what is expected and what actually occurs. The names of the players—“Who,” “What,” and “I Don’t Know”—are ordinary words that take on absurd, multiple meanings when placed in a baseball context. The audience is prepared for simple, logical answers, but the routine deliberately defies these expectations, creating the humor. As Costello grows increasingly confused, the incongruity between Abbott’s calm explanations and Costello’s frantic misunderstandings deepens, causing the humor to escalate. The situation starts as a small misunderstanding and spirals into an outlandish sequence of errors, each more absurd than the last, heightening the incongruity.

Is the praise for "Who’s On First?" simply a reflection of how easily we, as a society, will accept the preposterous as profound? Consider its cultural ubiquity: From Google Assistant responses to performances in high school Spanish class, the routine has somehow wormed its way into the fabric of American life, touted as timeless while simultaneously contributing nothing of substance. A glance at modern takes on the routine—from The Simpsons to Jimmy Fallon’s parody—reveals how overexposed and painfully drawn-out the joke has become. Once a clever subversion of language, it has since morphed into a tired relic that seems to have aged as poorly as the stale vaudeville performances from which it sprung.

The role of language in Who’s On First? is often heralded as a beacon of linguistic brilliance. Abbott and Costello’s use of homophonic confusion—where “Who” is the name of a player, “What” is on second, and “I Don’t Know” is on third—appears at first glance to be a masterclass in wordplay. But let's peel back the layers of this “genius,” shall we? At its core, this routine is little more than a linguistic snafu, an overindulgent and shallow punning exercise that relies on the assumption that “confusion” equals humor. Here, we are not confronted with subversive or intellectually stimulating comedy but with the comedic equivalent of a puzzle that begs us to miss the point with increasing desperation. The same trick, performed ad nauseam, is never a step forward but rather a perpetual slide into the abyss of the banal. 

Another critical element in the humor of “Who’s On First?” is its use of rhetorical devices, particularly wordplay. The names of the players—“Who,” “What,” and “I Don’t Know”—are perfect examples of ambiguous language, leading to multiple interpretations. These words can be read both as interrogatives and as names, which allows the comedy to emerge naturally from the dialogue. The misunderstanding of these names is the foundation for the entireexchange, and the rapid verbal back-and-forth creates an almost musical rhythm that keeps the audience engaged. The play on language, mixed with clever misdirection, is a key rhetorical device in driving the humor, as each response builds on the confusion introduced by the previous line. In addition to content, the delivery of the routine by Abbott and Costello is reliant to comedic timing and interaction. Abbott’s calm, matter-of-fact explanations contrast with Costello’s frantic confusion, and this imbalance creates a comedic energy that drives the routine forward. Abbott’s role as the straight man allows Costello’s bewilderment to shine. The juxtaposition between the two performers—the steady, unflappable Abbott and the increasingly flustered Costello—is what makes the exchange so entertaining. Abbott’s deadpan delivery amplifies Costello’s antics, turning every utterance into a comedy set-up that Costello’s subsequent confusion knocks out of the park. Furthermore, the actors’ use of escalation is vital in maintaining the comedic momentum. The routine starts with a simple misunderstanding and gradually builds, as Costello’s frustration increases, reaching a fever pitch. This escalation not only amplifies the absurdity of the situation but also taps into the theory of “comic timing,” which suggests that comedy is often about how quickly or slowly a punchline is delivered. Abbott and Costello expertly play with pacing, allowing Costello’s reactions to build to the point where his exasperation becomes just as much a part of the humor as the words themselves. The faster the dialogue accelerates, the funnier the miscommunication becomes. One key factor in the routine’s humor is its repetitive structure. The repetition of the same core misunderstanding, where Costello continuously fails to comprehend Abbott’s explanation, plays into the theory of “humor through repetition.” Each time the misunderstanding repeats, it becomes funnier, not because the content itself changes, but because Costello’s frustration grows, adding an emotional layer that deepens the comedic impact. The repetition also mirrors the inevitability of miscommunication in everyday life, allowing the audience to recognize the humor in the predictability of the routine, even though the specific outcomes are new each time. Abbott and Costello, hailing from the burlesque tradition, may have been aware that their material was rooted in the grotesque language games once employed to caricature the immigrant struggle. The misunderstanding of language, after all, was once a key element of American comedy’s cultural landscape, as comedians mined the struggles of new arrivals trying to navigate a foreign tongue. But does this history justify the continued reverence for such a sketch? Perhaps we should reconsider our infatuation with a routine that glorifies not only linguistic confusion but a smug sense of superiority over the perceived linguistic inadequacies of others. Indeed, the history of the routine reveals a chilling legacy. As Abbott and Costello carried their skit through vaudeville and burlesque theaters, they capitalized on the very same ethnic and cultural anxieties that early comedians used to mock immigrants. If this sketch was truly revolutionary in its time, why does its humor seem to have aged as poorly as a century-old racial trope? Could we really consider it timeless, or is it simply that our collective memory of what constitutes great comedy is remarkably short? And then there’s the routine’s persistent undercurrent of laziness. In its most basic form, Who’s On First? is a variation on a tired, oft-repeated joke. Abbott and Costello’s performances—marked by repetition and relentless insistence on misunderstanding—rarely evolve beyond the initial set-up. While they may have “refined” the routine over time (and, for the record, they did), the very nature of this refinement reveals the sketch’s limitations: it was always a house of cards, never a building of substance. The very same structure, with different variations of lines and situations, was performed repeatedly, like a production line of wit, turning each performance into a lifeless echo of the one before. Let us not, however, be too harsh in our judgment. There is something undeniably fascinating about the persistence of “Who’s On First?”—its ability to continue its dominance even as the cultural context in which it flourished has long since faded. Perhaps there is some merit in revisiting the seemingly simplistic nature of the sketch, as an artifact of its time, a piece of comedy history with its own place in the canon of American humor. But let’s be real: Who’s On First? is more an enduring testament to the power of repetition and nostalgia than to any genuinely revolutionary comedic impulse. In the final analysis, if we accept the premise that comedy is about creating discomfort through subversion, then "Who’s On First?" is less a groundbreaking commentary on language and more a perpetual loop, endlessly performed, like some comedic Sisyphean task. It is the idea of a joke, not the joke itself, that has been immortalized—and therein lies the true tragedy. In 1938, it may have been fresh, but by now, it is nothing more than an overhyped cultural artifact—long past its expiration date, yet clung to as if it were a sacred text.