How many times did you promise yourself that baseball would never make
you feel so low again? How many times did you say that this would be the
last time, and that they might be crazy enough to interrupt their
game again, but you certainly won't be crazy enough to care?
Yeah, me too.
But here we stand - on broken promises - watching baseball march toward
another labor problem. I'm convinced that I'll never understand baseball's
self-destructive tendencies. Still, before yesterday's game at SkyDome, I
approached one of the game's smartest players and asked him to make a case
for his side. Pro athletes will always be the public's villains, no matter
how much they are at fault in labor showdowns. Tony Clark understands
that. He also knows that thousands of people sit at home and rant about
''spoiled'' millionaires who have no appreciation for baseball or hard
work.
''But outside of dollars and cents, it's about rights,'' Clark said
before the Red Sox lost to the Blue Jays, 5-0. ''It's about understanding
the history of the game, and understanding the rights that other players
in the past have battled for.''
In some ways, that explanation is reasonable. Twenty-six years ago, the
average big-leaguer made about $51,000 a year. That figure is $2.3 million
today. If you were a player, you wouldn't want any suggestion of a reduced
salary with gains like that. But you have to wonder how grateful
ballplayers are to their ancestors when you hear that no active player
attended Curt Flood's funeral in 1997. Flood is the reason players have
many of their rights. It would have been a tremendous statement for
solidarity if a group of players had been in attendance.
I asked Clark if the perception that the players' union is not a
''real'' union is a turnoff to the public. It's not as if athletes work
long hours in tire factories or coal mines. The rich need unity as much as
working-class folks do, but baseball's union has got to be one of the most
elite associations in North America.
''Well, I can see why people would think that way,'' Clark said, ''but
our union is a legitimate union. And we are legitimate employees.''
When Clark signs autographs before games, several fans approach him and
ask when there will be labor peace. They ask when a deal will be done so
Bud Selig and Don Fehr don't dominate the news. Clark, who calls himself
''the eternal optimist,'' usually smiles and says, ''We're working on
it.''
He is asked if it will take a miracle for owners and players to come to
an agreement without a strike.
''I don't want to use the word `miracle' because you think of a miracle
as saving someone's life,'' he said. ''As I said, I'm an optimist. What
it's going to take is both sides getting in a room and exchanging serious
proposals. I'm with you: I don't want a strike. I don't think anyone here
wants a strike.''
He said this as he sat in the Red Sox clubhouse, and the sights in the
room accentuated how sad the inevitable truly is. You should see how the
Red Sox interact. They believe they are a great team, they often go out in
groups for dinner, they play cards together, listen to music together, and
play silly jokes on each other.
Trot Nixon was walking through the clubhouse, asking which prankster
took the ''Do Not Disturb'' sign off his hotel door earlier in the day.
Taking signs off doors is the definition of Boston controversy in 2002. In
previous years, players were on the verge of throwing each other through
doors. The Sox have become serene and now it is baseball in chaos. Because
of this, there is muted excitement midway through July. Boston has the
talent to win in the postseason, but Selig and Fehr are now bigger threats
than the Yankees.
Like Clark, I probably fall into the eternal optimist category. But
it's clear that no one learned from the previous Depression. The rhetoric
and boring labor-strife stories are straight out of '94. Baseball is
fractured, leaderless, and competitively imbalanced. I wish optimism were
enough to save it.
This story ran on page F1 of the Boston Globe on 7/13/2002.
Copyright 2002 Globe Newspaper Company.