The Roger Angell Baseball Collection

by Roger Angell

  When the spring camps did at last suddenly open, on order of Commissioner Bowie Kuhn, the still unresolved dispute over the new Basic Agreement—the agreement on which every individual contract is founded, covering everything from meal money to transportation, trading procedures, schedules, and spring-training pay—receded a bit in urgency, only to be replaced by a succession of highly publicized, pugnacious salary negotiations and holdouts involving some of the topmost stars of the game (Messersmith, Tom Seaver, Reggie Jackson, and others), whose money demands soared and swooped in rumored multiples of millions of dollars. These nights, accelerated by the collapse of the reserve system, were watched with avidity by the players and with horrified anxiety by the owners—and with various emotions, as yet imperfectly understood, by the fans. At the same time, there were further commercial surprises, which, taken with the rest, caused the once elegant estate of baseball more and more to resemble a littered, slovenly Oz. The franchise of the San Francisco Giants was lost, then reprieved, then saved, then lost again, and then, at the last possible instant, won back for good. Bill Veeck, the cheerful showman, formed a partnership that purchased the Chicago White Sox, and instantly infuriated his fellow owners (just as they knew he would) with the pronouncement that his players would wear shorts on hot summer afternoons on the South Side. The American League announced its expansion to fourteen clubs in 1977; the National League announced its firm resolve to continue at the present twelve-club level, and refused also to consider the scandalous adventure, suggested by the AL, of interleague play.

  I am a baseball fan in good standing, and my first reaction on regarding the enormous and unsavory dog’s breakfast that was plunked down before me on the morning of this new season was simply to push back from the table and walk away. A lot of fans, I suspect, may be on the point of leaving the game. Even more of them will try to ignore the whole mess—the lockout, the free-agent issue, the gigantic new salaries, the franchise squabbles—and follow the sport as if it were unchanged, follow it as they did when they were children. This is tempting, I must admit, for it is the game itself—the game inside the lines, as the phrase now has it—that has always most absorbed me. Part of me, much of the fan in me, is attracted to baseball games exactly because they connect me on a long straight line to my own boyhood, and because they so often seem to be the perfect release from the daily world of money, strikes, strife, and complexity. And yet … Somehow, I sense that this can’t work for long—that games considered as pure escape can’t continue to hold us entirely, because we must keep our first and best connections with the world of today. Professional sports now form a noisy and substantial, if irrelevant and distracting, part of that world, and it seems as if baseball games taken entire—off the field as well as on it, in the courts and in the front offices as well as down on the diamonds—may now tell us more about ourselves than they ever did before. Perhaps we should stay here in the gloomy counting house a little longer, then, before we grab our shades and head for the park.

  The most radical alteration in the relations between baseball players and baseball owners may in the long run prove to have come not with the Messersmith decision but at the moment when Catfish Hunter signed a multiyear contract to pitch for the Yankees for a total (including various long-term retirement and insurance benefits) of three and a half million dollars. Hunter had been declared a free agent by Peter Seitz, the same arbitrator who later cast the deciding vote in the Messersmith case, but Hunter’s liberation had nothing to do with the reserve clause; Seitz ruled that Catfish was his own man because his former club, the Oakland A’s, had failed to make payments on an insurance policy that was an integral part of his contract. Hunter is one of the two or three best pitchers in baseball today, and the extended, scrambling, knockdown auction in late 1974 among several well-heeled clubs to sign him for almost any sum he cared to mention startled everyone, probably including Catfish himself. Suddenly there seemed to be no limit to the money that a baseball superstar could command—a realization that probably had much to do with the nastiness and anxiety of the negotiations over free-agency between owners and players this year.

  Tom Seaver, the Mets’ shining paladin, this spring demanded something in the neighborhood of $275,000 per year over a span of three years—a pay level that caused M. Donald Grant, the chairman of the Mets’ board, to open immediate discussions with the Dodgers about the possibility of a Seaver trade. This move is believed to have been made either in sudden pure anger or as a considered corporate warning to Seaver and other high-priced stars. After a short, tense holdout, Seaver settled for a base of $225,000 a year (he had been getting $170,000), which could come to another $30,000 or $40,000, because of various bonus stipulations, if he sustains his normal high level of performance. Andy Messersmith, after nearly coming to terms with the Yankees, the Padres, and the Angels (he received other offers, too, but many of these were halfhearted publicity gestures), signed with the Atlanta Braves for a three-year, no-cut contract worth about a million dollars. Reggie Jackson, suddenly traded to the Orioles last month by Oakland (with whom he had not yet signed for the current year), has not reported to his new club; he will play in Baltimore, he is reported as saying, only for an extended contract of considerable proportions—say, five years for something like three million dollars. Dick Allen, who in 1973 became the first player to earn a quarter of a million dollars for a single season, has not come to any agreement with his current club, the Phillies. And so on. A decade ago, there were fewer than half a dozen players in the majors who earned over $100,000 per year. Last year, there were three stars (Catfish Hunter, Dick Allen, and Hank Aaron) who earned $200,000 or more per year, and forty-five who earned between $100,000 and $200,000; both groups have grown much larger this year. The world-champion Cincinnati Reds now have two stars, Johnny Bench and Joe Morgan, in the $200,000 class, and two others, Pete Rose and Tony Perez, who earn well over $100,000. (Pete Rose, whom many consider to be the team’s main man, has always seemed to be somewhat slighted by the Reds at contract time.) On the other hand, the average pay for a major-league baseball player last year was $46,000. (Salaries for other professional team sports in 1975, according to a survey made by the Washington Post, averaged $42,000 for players in the National Football League, $75,000 for players in the National Hockey League, $95,000 for players in the American Basketball Association, and, up on top, $110,000 for players in the National Basketball Association.)

  The size of the money game has changed, and a lot of other baseball values are changing as a result. The most interesting alteration may be among the fans. I know of no reliable or continuing system of fan-polling, and much of what I can conclude here is intuitive or based on conversations with and letters from friends who care about sports. There seems to be absolutely no doubt that large numbers of fans are disturbed about the level of some player salaries, and that they are angry about the curtailment of spring training this year. (Many of them referred to the lockout as a strike—a startling one-hundred-and-eighty-degree error that was also repeatedly made by some sportswriters.) The reader mail received by the Sporting News, the ancient, extremely conservative weekly sports paper published in St. Louis, ran very heavily against the players; one typical letter—typical except for the mildness of its tone—said, “Professional athletes are overestimating their value. Unless they begin to realize this, they are going to continue the already downhill relationship with the fans and ultimately destroy spectator sports.” Fan-in-the-street interviews in many big-league-city newspapers turned up similar expressions of this view. The anti-money, anti-player feeling does not seem to carry over to the box office, however; early-season attendance this year has been unusually healthy. It is significant, I think, that there was no major outcry from fans last year when Catfish Hunter signed for his epochal three and a half million. Nor do I recall many shouts of rage when Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier each cleared more than two million dollars for their heavyweight-title fight in Manila last autumn, or when Jimmy Con
nors took down a quarter of a million for a one-sided three-set victory in a televised tennis match a couple of months ago. On almost any weekend, some golfer or other can be seen on our television sets in the act of winning $30,000 or $40,000, and one of them, Hubert Green, recently hit a hot streak and ran up winnings of $118,000 in three weeks. Money won on television, to be sure, has always seemed a trifle unreal, more like Monopoly dollars than the real thing, but what I think we can begin to understand is that there is an enormous difference between our attitude toward the individual great athlete—the superstar, the hero-entrepreneur, the nonpareil—and what we feel about the team player. We seem to derive excitement and deep pleasure from the accomplishments of a single performer. (“This putt—sh-h-h—may be worth twenty-two-thousand dollars.…”) The multimillion-dollar heavyweight-title fight involves not just the biggest, toughest men anywhere but an almost unimaginable prize for the winner, and the two elements are somehow the same. When I was growing up, the fact that Babe Ruth was paid a salary of $80,000 was almost as awesome to me as his feat of hitting sixty home runs in a single season; I memorized both figures. But large payments to athletes are not enjoyed or approved of by us, the fans, if the payment is made broadly, to all the athletes engaged in a particular trade at the big-league level—all basketball players, all hockey players, and so on. “The players have gotten too greedy,” “They’re all paid too much”—these are current grandstand convictions, which I also hear from many other people, in and out of the sports world. As I pick up this complaint, however, it seems to apply more to a well-paid journeyman than to the superstar—more to Rusty Staub or Roy White, say, than to Johnny Bench or Jim Palmer. It would be extremely interesting to measure this, if we could. What it means, I think, is that high pay for athletes is resented if they are seen as employees. And when these employees behave like contemporary workmen, trying to extract the most money and the most favorable working conditions and retirement benefits from a typically reluctant and unsympathetic employer, and forming a union to press their demands—which is what the baseball and football and basketball players have all done in recent years—then they are resented even more deeply, almost to the point of hatred. This is an extraordinary turn of events in a labor-conscious, success-oriented society like ours.

  I think that the view of the athlete as an employee and a card-carrying union man violates our fan vision of the athlete as a mythic figure, a lone hero. The athlete should live and perform by himself, in a place far removed from our own mundane concerns for good working hours and fair pay. What he does should be impossible, or nearly so, and it is quite acceptable that his reward for this great deed should be unbelievable, beyond our measuring. If, on the other hand, we see the athlete as a mere clock-puncher and then compare his pay scale with ours, we feel envy and rage. Our indignation is deepened when we realize that he is being paid all that bread for something that is probably much more pleasurable than whatever it is we do. Come to think of it, by God, he is being paid for having fun! This gnawing ill humor is at its worst, surely, when the athlete on view is a ballplayer, for baseball looks like the easiest of all professional sports—almost easy enough for us to have been hired to play it ourselves, except that … if only … The fact that the game is in reality extraordinarily difficult results in the very same rancor, for everybody, including the best-paid star, is bound to fall on his face if we only wait long enough. There—look at that! And we pay him two hundred grand for that! This is the way the old sour-mouthed Yankee fans used to sound, back when the Yankees won every year. All of us have become that sort of fan now, I think, and the kind of understanding affection we once had for the hopeless, losing Mets, who so resembled ourselves, has been lost, probably for good.

  I should add, of course, that there are many people who despise high pay for athletes on principle—because such gigantic funds and such exorbitant passions are expended for such trivial ends, in a time when so many areas of our country and our social fabric are deteriorating or dying for lack of money and attention. For myself, I can say only that I think of this irony almost every day but that it no longer seems to have the capacity to shock me, or even surprise me. These polarities do not seem reversible—there is no way to siphon the purse for the Indianapolis 500 into Bedford-Stuyvesant—and it may even be that they are inevitable, locked into our society. Professional sports are an escape—probably our prime national escape just now. During the Depression, we happily paid the largest salaries in the country to Clark Gable and Mickey Rooney and Jean Harlow; today, we pay them to Kareem Jabbar and Richard Petty and Catfish Hunter. I see no difference.

  The Messersmith case was the latest in a long series of tests challenging the courts’ habitual protection of baseball’s monopoly status. In 1972, Supreme Court Justice Harry Blackmun, delivering the 5–3 majority opinion that upheld the owners in a suit brought by Cardinal outfielder Curt Flood, wrote, “Professional baseball is a business and it is engaged in interstate commerce”—and thus normally subject to federal business law. But it is “in a very distinct sense an exception and an anomaly,” and he added, “The aberration is an established one.” This curious logic soon impelled other players to challenge the reserve clause by appealing to the arbitration panel—a body set up in the Basic Agreement of 1970 and reluctantly accepted by the owners. Separate tests were undertaken by Ted Simmons, Sparky Lyle, and Bobby Tolan, but dropped when each of the players ultimately signed a new contract. The Messersmith-McNally grievance, when it arrived last year, had accumulated a considerable momentum. The issue in the case was straightforward—whether the standard player contract should be taken literally (as Messersmith and McNally claimed) in its provisions that seemed to say a player completing the full term of his contract and then playing one additional season under the same terms was thus freed of all obligation to his club, or whether (as the owners claimed) the obligation and the contract were infinitely extensible under the precedents of the reserve clause. Suddenly aware of a very dark shadow on the road ahead, the owners hurried to court to request that the entire arbitration process be enjoined. The action was denied, but Peter Seitz, the neutral third arbitrator (along with the owners’ labor adviser, John Gaherin, and Marvin Miller, the executive director of the Players Association), seized the occasion to urge all parties to take the immense issue out of his hands by negotiating their differences. Not a bit of it, the owners responded; mind your own business and press on to a decision. Seitz obliged, and, on December 23, cast the deciding vote that sustained Messersmith and McNally in their grievance. The reserve clause was dead. The owners reacted at once, firing Seitz from his job—an action within their rights under the rules of the arbitration panel. The bad news had come, and the messenger was put to the sword.

  The group behavior of the owners—by turns stiff-necked, contradictory, apprehensive, and vengeful, and always accompanied by loud offstage trumpetings of defiance and rage from their small Tarquin minority—sometimes invites irreverence, but the truth remains that the Messersmith ruling violently disrupted their once somnolent nineteenth-century industry. Their worst ancient fear, the family nightmare, had come to pass, and other frights now seemed sure to follow. From the beginning, they had defended the reserve clause—in the courts and in the newspapers and at congressional hearings—by claiming that its removal would invite hundreds of ballplayers, including most of the great stars, to sell themselves each year to the highest bidder, thus assuring an automatic championship to the franchise holder who had the largest bankroll, and also making it certain that no club could hope to maintain the year-to-year personnel and identifying character that preserve fan loyalty. Although there is new evidence every day to suggest that this is not happening, and not about to happen, in either league, the fear of it is still very much alive among the owners, and does much to explain their recent behavior. Their second difficulty is much more concrete. Baseball, they point out, is such a demanding game that the average player must spend four years (far more than in
any other sport) at the minor-league and rookie levels before he attains major-league competence and begins to pay off his owner’s considerable investment in him. It would be unconscionable to allow the player to walk away at that moment and sell his services to a rival club.

  The owners, having applied unsuccessfully to the United States District Court in Kansas City to have the Messersmith ruling overturned, and having also failed in the same plea in the Circuit Court of Appeals, now slowly tried to come to grips with the horrid new reality. Their Player Relations Committee had been negotiating with a committee of the Players Association in a foot-dragging sort of way since the previous August, and not until last February 11 did the owners come up with their first version of a new reserve clause—free-agent status for a player after nine years’ service in the major leagues (where the average player’s tenure is just over four and a half years). The players, who, of course, had no legal obligation to accept any modification of the basic contract-plus-one-year formula, nonetheless agreed in principle that some form of player continuity seemed essential, and suggested a six-year term, with a year’s advance notice if a player then intended to cut loose from his club.

  The distance separating the two sides was canyonlike, with an entirely different economic view of things from each rim, and now there came into the discussions a legal dispute of true complexity—the so-called liability issue. Marvin Miller, having asserted the Players Association’s willingness to settle on a minimum tour of duty with a particular ball club, asked what he was expected to do about any player or players who would not agree to such a compromise—who, in fact, would be prepared to sue for damages if their basic contract-plus-one-year rights, achieved in the Messersmith decision, were bargained away. (One player, the notoriously prickly Mike Marshall, of the Dodgers, had already said that he was prepared to fight it out on just those lines.) Not our concern, replied John Gaherin for the owners. All these issues are of concern to both groups and have to be faced, said Miller. Then, even as the two sides seemed to be inching closer together, the owners announced the lockout, on the eve of spring training. The stated motive—to forestall another players’ strike—was an empty one, since the Players Association had offered a four-year no-strike pledge while any new form of reserve clause was being tested. It must thus be assumed that the owners’ purpose was simply to submit the negotiations to severe pressure, in hopes that public opinion would turn against the players—as it did, in fact—and that the players, for their part, would become anxious about the impasse and the onrushing season and press their union for a quick compromise. A public-relations firm, T. J. Ross & Associates, was engaged by the owners, and players and reporters were subjected to frequent news releases depicting management’s plight and sweet reasonableness.