L’dor V’dor

It was the Spring of 2009; my wife had recently died. I wanted to do something special for my son. He was only six when she passed, and our relationship meant all that much more to me, as he – without knowing it – became my rock in those cold, dark days. With both the gloom of winter, and the grief of loss, starting to recede, I looked forward to longer, more joyful days ahead.

My son was, even at that young age, and still today, a massive baseball fan. As a doting father, I introduced him to the Boston Red Sox early on. He quickly became well-versed in the lore, the curse, the reverse, and – as of 2009 – the two championships in four years, after there being none the previous eighty-six.

I decided to plan a summer trip to Boston, a walk along the Freedom Trail, a visit to the Old North Church, shopping at Faneuil Hall, pizza in the North End, and, of course, his first visit to Fenway Park. This was going to be a father-son trip that neither of us would ever forget.

I casually mentioned my plans to my father. My father, born and bred in Dorchester. A man who still – throughout his sixties and well into his seventies – heads back to Boston at least once every year or two to visit friends and family; a man who – having lived in Los Angeles for 56 of the last 62 years – still drops the occasional “R” when speaking quickly or after a few too many cocktails; a man who proudly hangs a Ted Williams jersey in his dining room and brazenly wears his “B” hat into Dodger and Angel Stadiums. In short, my father is a man who loves himself some Beantown.

Moments after we spoke, my dad booked himself a flight, a rental car, and a hotel. And then he told me he was joining our trip. Truth be told, I was a bit miffed. This was going to be something special between me and my boy; a little father-son bonding time on the east coast. And now it was not that; now it was something different; and now it was not what I had envisioned. But it didn’t take long for that irritation to subside, and for me to see what this had now become, in its most simple form: a three-generation trip. In Hebrew there is an expression, “l’dor v’dor,” from generation to generation. This was that, personified.

Summer came, and so did the trip. Despite a nasty migraine on the flight to Boston, I rallied and allowed my dad to drive us forty-five minutes into the suburbs to his favorite Chinese restaurant. Calling it mediocre would be kind, but my dad insisted that the food was much better “back in the day.” There was no chance that one headache and one bad meal were going to ruin this trip.

The next day was straight out of Fodor’s, as we covered all of the tourist attractions. It is possible that I followed this same path when I was about my son’s age, but I have no recollection. So this turned out to be as much about my education as about his.

Credit where credit is due: my dad really knows the city. He knows how and where to drive – no easy feat with one-way streets and turnabouts at every intersection. He knows how and where to park – which can be tricky with narrow cobblestone and usurious parking lots. And he knows where to dine (save for one bad Chinese restaurant) – this is considerably easier insofar as you cannot throw a rock in Boston and not find something delicious to eat.

What originally seemed like my dad horning in on our vacation turned into him making it so much better. With grandpa in charge, we took a trip down (his) memory lane: we went to his old neighborhood and the vacant lot where his childhood home once stood; we strolled the halls of his middle school; and we drove to the temple where he became a bar mitzvah. My mom grew up in Boston as well, so he took us to her building, and we talked our way into a tour of her exact apartment, just two floors up. We got sodas at my father’s haunt – Simco’s on Blue Hill Avenue. We walked along the lonely roads of Southie where my father found trouble, and where trouble found him, so many years ago. Suffice it to say, I never could have done this alone; I never could have shown my son his grandparents’ childhood without my father leading the way. I never could have added the color or the context or the meaning of this heritage without my dad.

Saving his best for last, my dad had made arrangements with the Red Sox for us to have an exclusive tour of Fenway Park. The tour turned out to be not so exclusive, but it was one of the greatest afternoons any of us will ever have. As our guide led us down the grandstand to step onto the field of this beloved ballpark, I yelled out, “I am not who sure is more excited.” My father quickly responded, “I do! I am; I am excited for my grandson, my son, and for me!” He was right. He won. Three generations. L’dor v’dor, indeed.

While we were in Boston, as fate would have it, Ted Kennedy passed away. Our hotel was just down the street from the JFK Presidential Library, so we stood on line to pay our respects while Senator Kennedy lay in repose. This was the perfect historical bookend to our trip, and yet another opportunity to educate and bond with my father (who voted for Jack in 1960) and with my son (who was just old enough to conceptually understand the import of the Lion of the Senate).

As I begin to mentally and emotionally prepare for my son to leave home next year, to start his journey as a college student, I often think back to that trip. For a few days, it seemed my father reclaimed the reins on me that he had let go so many years before. I wonder if and when I will do the same with my son. And, if so, will it have the same resonance?

This much I do know: Not for the world would I trade those four days in Boston with my father and my son. Those experiences, those memories, they are with me forever, they will last for three lifetimes, they will last for generations.

PLAY BALL!!

Shame

These past few weeks I have been thinking a great deal about people. About what they do; what they think; how they act; what they say. I have been thinking about the how and why people post on social media; why they believe anyone cares about their point of view. I have been thinking about people’s inner beliefs and their inner monologues. And I have been wondering why people aren’t more judicious before they speak, before they post, before they tweet.

I get that we live in a “post it or it didn’t happen” world. I understand that people want to be heard and need that dopamine rush attendant to “likes.” But I also know that a whole lot of people do and say things that they wish they could take back – oftentimes moments, sometimes days, after they hit send or speak into a microphone.

We all know that the titular Commander in Chief has no such compunction. He has never uttered, thought, or tweeted a single thing that he regrets – there is nothing that hasn’t been “perfect.” But that is because he is completely incapable of introspection. That is because he is a narcissist, and narcissists simply don’t feel shame.

Merriam-Webster defines shame as “a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety.” We, as a society, use the word more often as a verb, and do so in a cynical fashion. And it is ugly. We, as a society, never fail to wag a finger, tsk-tsk, or hold people in contempt. We shame them. And often for no reason other than to make ourselves feel better. We don’t use shame as constructive criticism to achieve a better outcome, we do it to embarrass the wrongdoer, and make he or she feel less than.

But shame – the noun – if properly effectuated, if it forces people to look in the mirror and not like what they see, can lead to growth and change and progress.

While in quarantine I have considered the implications of shame. Specifically, I have wondered what it would look and sound like if Oliver Stone made a slight alteration in the words he wrote for Gordon Gekko. Herewith:

“Shame – for lack of a better word – is good. Shame is right. Shame works. Shame clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Shame, in all its forms – shame for how you live, shame for money, for lack of love, for lack of knowledge – has marked the upward surge of mankind. And shame – you mark my words – will save that malfunctioning experiment called the United States of America.”

Some people march, and others riot. People scream and yell and quietly protest. But it does not seem that anything or anyone really changes until they feel shame. I take no pleasure in writing these words, but more and more it seems readily apparent that they are a truism. Time and again we have seen how shame has changed people’s behaviors and their thoughts and their reactions.

Drew Brees went on television and spoke from his heart. And then the backlash began. It is my sincere hope that he heard the words of the people in his community, in his sport, in his locker room, and gave himself that hard look in the mirror. And maybe, just maybe, he felt some level of shame for what he said and how he said it. And, as such, he woke the next day woke. He changed his view and his tone so much so that he was willing to take on that titular Commander in Chief.

Here, shame “worked.”

Why do we think Bill Barr, all high and mighty with his ordering the code red on peaceful protesters in Lafayette Square suddenly claimed “it wasn’t me”? Or Mark Esper going from standing next to the president in front of St. John’s Church for a photo-op to claiming he didn’t know where he was going, to giving a press conference wherein he denounced the president’s plan to use the military to police our city streets. They both saw the reactions to their actions and felt shame. And then they attempted to Ginger Rogers their way back into good social standing.

Per Gekko, “shame was right.”

A few weeks ago I (and many others) wrote about the owner of the Oakland Athletics, a billionaire named John Fisher, and his parsimonious decision to refuse to pay his minor league players $400/week throughout the summer. As of early last week, 29 of 30 teams had agreed to fund their minor league players through at least June. Fisher was the lone miser. When 29 other billionaires think you are being Scrooge McDuck, it is time to revise your thinking. So Fisher changed his tune and agreed to pay his players through August. And he agreed to set up a fund for furloughed employees.

This “shame for money” led Fisher to change course.

Shame is the cornerstone of everything happening in this country today. The City of Minneapolis feels great shame – not that their police committed an atrocious murder in broad daylight – but that the world saw them commit an atrocious murder in broad daylight. In all of the officer-involved killings from 2013-2019, only 1% have led to arrests, let alone convictions. Why, because they weren’t caught on tape; because the municipalities were not forced to feel shame.

Why were Ahmaud Arbery’s hunters finally arrested – two months after-the-fact? Because a videotape of the horrible incident went viral and the city officials felt shame. The world saw their inaction – their lack of investigation – and they felt compelled to do the right thing. In fact, the highly-regarded mayor of Atlanta, Keisha Lance Bottoms, acknowledged that but for the uprising, she wouldn’t have even reviewed the tape. She didn’t need to say it, but to not review the tape in the present environment would have been shameful.

She felt shame for her “lack of knowledge.”

Let’s take a look at the NFL. On May 30th the league issued an anodyne statement expressing condolences for George Floyd’s death and that they were “committed to continuing the important work to address these systemic issues.” It was roughly the same bromide as nearly every other organization. Unfortunately for “the shield,” they hold a unique position in this battle. Seventy percent of the league is black, the teams paid a massive collusion claim to Colin Kaepernick for effectively blackballing him for kneeling during the national anthem, and they are viewed as being behind the curve on issues of racial justice. The NFL players would not allow the league off that easy. So last Friday night, Commissioner Roger Goodell sat in his basement and offered a mea culpa. He apologized for the league’s past behavior. He said the magic words: “we were wrong” for not listening earlier and encouraging players to speak out. Did Roger find his inner DeRay McKesson in less than a week? Or was something else at play? From New York Magazine:

“[The league] was forced by a powerful video, shared Thursday night on social media, in which New Orleans Saints star Michael Thomas and numerous other black players called out the league, called attention to the killing of Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and other African-Americans killed by police — and demanded the league stand behind them. ‘What if I was George Floyd?’ many of the players asked, insisting that they will ‘not be silenced’ anymore.

“Twenty-four hours later, with apparently little input from team owners, Goodell did what the players told him to do, in some cases saying verbatim what they had demanded he say. They published a ‘message on behalf of the NFL’ and forced the NFL to literally repeat what they said.”

Goddell saw he was on the wrong side of history (again), and as such, shame “cut through and captured the essence of the evolutionary spirit.”

The Buffalo Police Department claimed a 75-year old man tripped and fell and was injured in a confrontation with approaching officers. Then two different videos of the incident went viral. The BPD then suspended two officers. While the powers-that-be felt shame for their inaction, 57 fellow police felt no such embarrassment, as they resigned as a result of the suspensions. One can only hope that when those 57 officers go home or to church or to the grocery store, their neighbors can provide a level of opprobrium that their senior officials could not; maybe they will at some point feel shame for encouraging their comrades to walk past an old man bleeding from the head. Maybe that shame will cause them to un-resign and acknowledge that orders or not, their actions were not acceptable behavior on our streets or anywhere else on this planet. We need a some men in blue in western New York to feel a level of shame.

How about the NBA owners who looked the other way and turned a deaf ear to the racism spewing from Donald Sterling’s mouth for so many years? Or the Hollywood executives and actors who laughed off the “rumors” of Harvey Weinstein’s alleged indiscretions? This list could go on and on.

As we move into mid-June, as the NBA plans to resume its season at the end of July and the NHL some time shortly thereafter, we must ask ourselves if the MLB owners can be forced to feel some form of shame. What will it take for them to look in the mirror and realize that they are self-fulfilling their prophesy? They want to claim “baseball isn’t very profitable” (the Cardinals Bill DeWitt, Jr.) or “the league itself does not make a lot of cash” (the Cubs Tom Ricketts). Well one way to ensure both of those statements are true is to squander this opportunity to own the month of July – to be the first and only of the big four sports to be playing real games. You want to have your clubs lose money and lose value, either (a) not have baseball in 2020 over financial considerations and/or (b) have this dispute end so acrimoniously (e.g., Rob Manfred imposes a 48-game season) that we have a strike or a lockout after the 2021 season. If that were to happen, then these owners’ words will look prescient. But can someone, somewhere, say something that will force these billionaire penny-pinchers to feel the shame of their inaction, of their intransigence, of their…wait for it…greed?

Because that type of shame is what is needed to “save that malfunctioning experiment called Major League Baseball.”

PLAY BALL!!

 

 

Major League Problems – Minor League Owners

When Memorial Day broke, there was a great echo in the world of sports that this was THE week. This was the week that the NBA was going to figure out its plan to finish their season and hold playoffs – ostensibly in the bubble (er, campus) of Disney World. This was the week that the NHL was going to make a decision about (not) restarting its season, and moving right into their playoff tournament. And this was going to the week that MLB decided whether or not it wanted to have a 2020 season.

The NBA has been communicating in lockstep with their player union reps and their broadcast partners. It has not been perfect, to be sure, but there is little rancor. The NHL plan was essentially met with universal applause. The MLB, well the MLB did what it always does – it bickered, it squabbled, and it leaked. And as we move closer to the artificial June 1 deadline, there is very little hope in site.

Since I previously wrote on the topic, things have only gotten worse. For years baseball has been accused of not doing enough to “sell the game.” The theme being that MLB has not worked to make its players stars. There have been fleeting attempts – like when Rob Manfred called out Mike Trout for being too private. But, by and large, that has been a weak spot. So what did the owners propose this week – after their revenue sharing model was dead prior to arrival – they tried to cut the salaries of their biggest stars by nearly 80%. Now, to be fair, there is an interesting idea in there somewhere. If you are rookie making the minimum, you take a 10% haircut – that seems fair. If you are a superstar making north of $20M, you lose more hair as, theoretically, you can afford that. Here is the problem, it is not up to the owners to tell the players who should take what discount.

In a perfect world, in a world where the players trusted the owners and the owners trusted the players, in a world where it wasn’t the Hatfields and the McCoys every time any issue arises, in a world where back-channeling was possible, someone from the league office could have floated this to the union in a casual, off-handed way, and allowed the players to come up with their own plan. Let Nolan Arenado and Clayton Kershaw and Zack Greinke and Miguel Cabrera be magnanimous and offer to cut their salaries for the benefit of the younger, poorer players. I doubt that would have happened, but in the words of Jim Carrey, at least there would be “a chance.” As it stands, there is no chance.

And no sooner than we were faced with the prospect of no deal being on the horizon, we got even more bad news. I have previously written about the deal that the owners and players closed in March with respect to compensation and other matters. Included in that deal was that all minor leaguers would get paid $400/week through May. Well, May is about to come to an end, and the Oakland Athletics, for one, are done paying.

So, as of June 1st, if you are a minor leaguer in the A’s system, you are still employed but you are not getting paid. And, because all baseball transactions are frozen, a player in the A’s system cannot get released and find another team. And, because they have not been let go, depending on where they play, the player may or may not be entitled to unemployment benefits (believe it or not, each state has different eligibility requirements under the “Save America’s Pastime Act” (which was oxymoronic from its inception) and through the CARES Act). Good times!

[Ed. Note: The A’s are owned by John J. Fisher, a businessman who has a net worth of $2.2 billion. Some back of the napkin math: if JJ Fisher were to earn 2.5% on his net worth, he would earn about $4.5 million per month. But he cannot find $400/week for players sleeping on air mattresses and eating PB&Js? And, lest we forget, these players who he refuses to pay are not panhandlers, they are his assets.]

To channel John Krasinski, here is some good news: As of this writing, the following teams have agreed to pay their players through June: Braves, Brewers, Cardinals, Cubs, Diamondbacks, Dodgers, Mets, Orioles, Phillies, Rangers, Rays, and the White Sox.

More good news: These teams have agreed to pay their players through August: Astros, Mariners, Marlins, Padres, Reds, Royals, and the Twins. What makes this list so interesting is that none of these are large-market teams, at least three of them have had severe financial issues in the recent past, and four of them haven’t been to the post-season for years. And yet, each team was able to find the extra $1M* to make peoples’ lives just a little bit better throughout the summer.

*Each team has between 200-220 players in their minor league system. At $400/week/player, that is about $84K/week. Paying the players through August would cost a little over $1M. MLB had revenues of $10.7 billion last year.

We are still waiting to hear what the other 10 teams will be doing.

But wait, there’s more. Yesterday, teams started a bloodletting of their minor league players – just cutting them outright. Now, in some cases, this may actually be better, as those players for sure will be eligible for unemployment benefits plus the additional $600/week from the CARES Act. So, we have a situation where billion dollar corporations just gave a bunch of their “employees” (technically, “seasonal apprentices”) a raise by firing them. I think that says more about their original wages than anything else, but I digress.

Teams typically release a bunch of minor leaguers at the end of spring training, but not to this degree. With no minor league season on the horizon, this week teams cut hundreds of players, with hundreds more to go (according to Jeff Passan, the number may reach one thousand). This is devastating for the individual players, many of whom have played their last professional game. But it is – in the long run – potentially devastating to the teams. They have thinned their most prized asset – their farm system, the crop of underpaid (see above) labor that they “control” and have the ability to exploit for years at below market rates. Losing just one or two diamonds in the rough in these mass firings, players who could have helped the big league club could turn out to be extremely costly.

To put this into context, understand that 1 bWAR is worth about $8M on the open market. Now, let’s take a look at the type of player who may have been cut this week (again, to save either $0 (looking at you, Oakland) or to save $400/week (everyone else)):

  • R.A. Dickey (First +bWAR season at age 29), 23 career WAR; potential lost value: $184M (I don’t want to do a regression analysis of what bWAR was worth each year of his career; we can fudge the numbers to make a point.)
  • Jose Bautista (First +bWAR season at age 28), 36.7 career WAR; potential lost value: $293.6M
  • Max Muncy (First +bWAR season at age 27), 9.4 career WAR (to date); potential lost value: $75.2M (to date)
  • Evan Gattis (First +bWAR season at age 26), 8.5 career WAR; potential lost value: $68M

Sure, it is quite possible that none of the players cut this week would have ever become Muncy or Gattis, or Dante Bichette or Joe Nathan, but there is a chance. And for a few hundred thousand bucks, teams were willing to light their lottery tickets on fire, they were willing to flush their assets down the toilet, they were willing to be misers and look like gonifs. In a battle of millionaires vs. billionaires, they certainly took the low road, and are rightly taking the public relations hit along with it.

With everything going on in the world; with Minneapolis on fire and people shot in Louisville; with at least 1,000 people still dying every day from this invisible virus; with 40 million people unemployed and the economy on the brink of a depression; with a president who seems to have his (little) hands on the rudder and is aiming straight for the iceberg; one would hope that cooler heads could prevail and the people in charge would make it their responsibility to bring a little joy to the hearts and minds of fans across this great land. It seems as if only Adam Silver and Gary Bettman got that memo. It seems as if Rob Manfred and his cadre of owners have lost their senses and their moral compass. It seems – more and more – like we will not have baseball in 2020.

And, to put the cherry on this shit sundae, if we don’t have baseball in 2020 over pay/revenues, and thus the 2021 free agent market is depressed and more players are cut or asked to take smaller salaries, look for a strike or a lockout before the 2022 season. As I said, good times!

Get your shit together so you can all…

PLAY BALL!!

Fighting Over Dollars Doesn’t Make Sense

Money, they say, is the root of all evil. The question is, is it also the root of all stupidity?

On Monday, MLB owners approved a proposal that Commissioner Rob Manfred presented to the MLBPA on Tuesday. There were a bunch of goodies in that proposal, including a potential 82-game schedule beginning in early July; expanding the playoffs to include 14, rather than 10, teams; universal use of a designated hitter in both leagues; playing only in your geographical area (e.g., AL East plays only against the AL East and the NL East); a 30-man roster, with up to 50 players being available. But the biggest item on the list is the one that may derail the whole enchilada: the owners want to put in place a one-season revenue sharing model, wherein the teams and the players would split all revenues on a 50/50 basis.

If you like math, or you want more specific details, I encourage you to read Jeff Passan’s article from Tuesday. Before this proposal even made it to the MLBPA, its president, Tony Clark, shot it down. Here is the quote that is getting a lot of press, and tells you the starting position of the players:

“A system that restricts player pay based on revenues is a salary cap, period. This is not the first salary-cap proposal our union has received. It probably won’t be the last. That the league is trying to take advantage of a global health crisis to get what they’ve failed to achieve in the past — and to anonymously negotiate through the media for the last several days — suggests they know exactly how this will be received. None of this is beneficial to the process of finding a way for us to safely get back on the field and resume the 2020 season — which continues to be our sole focus.”

This does not bode well.

It is necessary – or it certainly will become necessary – to parse Tony’s words to separate the fact from the hyperbole. While it is true that all other sports that have revenue sharing also have a salary cap, that is not necessarily the case here. If a vaccine for Covid-19 were discovered tomorrow, and the season were able to start in 30 days, then based on what the owners have offered, the players could potentially make more than they would under either the current 162-game construct, or the revised version wherein they get a prorated portion of their salary. Now, we all know that a vaccine is not coming that soon, so I have merely presented that as a strawman to thwart Clark’s rhetoric. In short, under this proposal, salaries would technically be capped by the total amount (actually 50% of the total amount) of revenues this season; but it is not, technically, a salary cap. This is because the salaries would be predicated on an unknown number (2020 revenues), and not prior year revenues (as utilized for the NBA and the NFL). But, let’s not get too deep into “Capanomics” here.

The union’s reasoning seems to be: we don’t get an uptick in salaries when the league, on the whole, does better in a given season, so we shouldn’t be penalized when the league, on the whole, does worse in a given season (which, without question, will be the case for 2020). This is a fair point, in a vacuum, but misguided in the current situation and under the current proposal. Again, this is a one-year fix in the face of a worldwide pandemic; not a reworking of the entire collective bargaining agreement. I know, I know, I can already hear the slippery slope arguments.

The better argument is that the player and owners already agreed to a new deal. You may have noticed the words “revised version” a few paragraphs above. Maybe you read right past them; but they are important. Although it may seem like several lifetimes ago, it was less than seven weeks ago that the two sides came to an agreement about salaries for the coming season. Or, at least they thought they did. That deal provided that the players would get $170M to be shared and allocated based on service time, and then those amounts would be applicable against any eventual salary for the season. The deal also provided that the players would get a prorated portion of their contracted salaries depending on the number of games played. So, in the 82-game version, players would get 50.6% of their 2020 contract amount. As far as the players are concerned, this issue was done and settled.

As an attorney, I live in fear that a contract I drafted or negotiated has some ambiguous language or some loophole that is only discovered after-the-fact. If this has ever happened to you, you can feel that pit in your stomach as you read these words. That must be what a bunch of high-priced lawyers in New York must be experiencing right now.

On Page 1 of the March 26th agreement between the players and the owners, the first point of the “Resumption of Play” section states: “[T]he 2020 championship season shall not be commenced unless and until each of the following conditions is satisfied.” It should be noted here that among the conditions is a laundry list of health and safety measures. Neither side was willing to take unnecessary risks just to play baseball; and, at present, none of those terms appear to be at issue.

However, one of the conditions ends with the following words: “[T]he Office of the Commissioner and Players Association will discuss in good faith the economic feasibility of playing games in the absence of spectators or at appropriate substitute neutral sites.” And that is where we find ourselves today – playing games without fans.

You can read that contract language ten times and still not be exactly certain what those words were intended to mean. ESPN sent the language to four attorneys not involved in the negotiation, and they got two in favor of the owners and two in favor of the players. But any posturing about the intent or specificity of that language is irrelevant. If we ever get to a point where we are determining which side has a the “correct” interpretation, the season is lost; and so too may be the sport as we know it.

Gordon Gekko once proclaimed that “Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit.” But, in this particular case, greed may take that evolutionary spirit to its logical conclusion: extinction. There are 30 million people out of work in this country; unemployment is headed towards 20%. More than 85,000 Americans have lost their lives in the last few months alone. No one, and I feel pretty confident in using those particular words, wants to hear that baseball wasn’t played in 2020 because millionaire players (and, yes, I know, not all of them are millionaires) and billionaire owners stood on principle claiming they were “right.”

They are so many smart ways to square this circle – without relying on courts to interpret contract language. There are too many smart people involved in these negotiations to allow it to go that far. The New York Post’s Joel Sherman posited that, as with this upcoming draft, players agree to a base salary for this season, with the remainder deferred and paid over the next two years. This solves the teams’ cash flow issues in what is a $10.7 billion industry. Agree to that concept, and then all you have to argue about is the interest rate.

The owners have stated – without actually opening their books – that if the games are played without fans, they will lose 40% of their revenue, and some teams will lose more than if the entire season is simply canceled. Okay, then open those books. Maybe seeing their actual revenues is worth the financial hit this year, giving the players ample ammunition when they start their collective bargaining after the 2021 season.

If the owners are going to lose 40% (again, for our purposes we will take them at their word), propose to split the baby with the players, and each player takes a 20% reduction in salary. Now we could be getting somewhere. And, in return, each player gets a hotel suite on the road. Or each player is allotted an additional 20% of service time for the upcoming season. Or the players agree to a 25% haircut, but the owners agree that free agency can begin after five years, rather than the current six. Give and take; back and forth. This isn’t hard. But, as we have seen all too often, egos get in the way of practical solutions.

It was heartening that after Tuesday’s meeting with the players, there were no leaks to the press. That is a step in the right direction. This battle cannot be won in public; it can only be lost. And, to be sure, a loss for either side is a loss for both.

On this morning’s Baseball Tonight podcast, Buster Olney said that Rob Manfred and Tony Clark should lock themselves in a conference room and not come out until they have a deal. I couldn’t agree more.

I won’t go as far as Scott Boras or J.B. Pritzker, but we need baseball this summer. We need it for the collective good. We need it for a feel-good distraction. We need it for civic pride. We need it for television content. The coronavirus is an actual life and death situation; baseball negotiations are not.

As Carl Fox says to his son Bud in that same seminal movie, “Money’s only something you need in case you don’t die tomorrow.” In this time of great uncertainty, player and owners would be wise to heed those words.

PLAY BALL!!

Wally’s World

People really seem to be nostalgic these days. As I previously wrote, it could be The Last Dance or it could be being cooped up at home and finally going through those old family photos, or it simply could be that because we have no “present” sports, we need to look to the past. Whatever the reason, it is our current state of mind.

One of my daughters turned fourteen this week, which got me thinking about when I turned fourteen (there is that nostalgia again). The year was 1986, and baseball was great. Now, this article will make no reference to October of that year, nor will it mention a defunct stadium near La Guardia Airport, nor will you read the first name of the Dodgers’ (in theory, anyway) new right fielder. No, this piece will hearken back to the beginning of the season, and a player who captured everyone’s attention – seemingly out of the blue.

After having a break-out winter in Puerto Rico, the California Angels chose Wally Joyner, the fresh-faced kid from BYU, as their starting first baseman over team stalwarts Juan Beniquez, Daryl Sconiers, and “Hall of Famer Rod Carew.” And the rookie did not disappoint.

Many of us can still remember Wally Joyner’s first month in the big leagues. He was – in a word – incredible. Joyner went hitless in his first three Major League at bats before doubling for the first of his 2,060 career hits. And that double got him going. He hit in 20 of his first 25 games, collecting 35 hits, with a slash line of .337/.386/.615 and a 1.001 OPS, to go along with eight homeruns. It is hard to say if that is the best first four weeks of a MLB career, but it is up there.

Joyner’s hot start got him a feature article in the May 26th edition of Sports Illustrated, back when that meant something. By the end of May, Wally had played 48 games, hit 16 dingers, was batting .305, and had an OPS of .928. By the time we reached the All-Star break (where Wally was voted the starter over Don Mattingly and Eddie Murray), he was hitting .313 , with 20 homeruns, 72 RBI, and a .904 OPS. The kid was flying high.

And then the second half of the season happened. Wally hit .257 with only two more round-trippers and a .664 OPS. What was once a lock Rookie of Year season was passed on the outside by Jose Canseco (not the only time steroid use affected a year-end award).

By the end of the season, Canseco had the same slugging percentage as Joyner (.457) and a worse OPS (.775 vs. .805), but he hit 11 more homeruns and drove in 17 more runs. Canseco’s second half fell off as much as Joyner’s, but back in 1986, voters looked at counting stats, and Wally didn’t match up to Jose. Had Wally hit five or six more dingers, or drove in 10 or 15 more runs, there is great chance he walks away with the hardware. But the baseline for his career was set. It would be 14 years before Wally had a season with an OPS+ of less than 101, averaging a 120 OPS+ in that span (i.e., on average, Joyner was 20% better than the typical Major Leaguer for those 14 years).

We all remember that rookie season, and maybe we can still picture him in those Royals or Padres uniforms later on, but I don’t think we accurately recall what a totally consistent player he was for a decade and a half.

Wally finished his career with 11 seasons in which he hit .280 or better; 12 seasons with an OBP above .350; 12 seasons slugging at least .400; and 12 seasons with an OPS of .750 or higher (including eight with an OPS in the .800s). And yet, we remember Canseco’s career more fondly. We think he was the better player because he was a Bash Brother, won a World Series, and went 40/40.

A little thought experiment:

Player A (career): .266/.353/.515/.867; 42.4 bWAR
Player B (career): .289/.362/.440/.802; 35.8 bWAR

One additional fact, Player A played one more season than Player B, which may account for some of that bWAR discrepancy.

You are all smart readers, so by looking at that third column, you know that Canseco is Player A. But Joyner’s career is pretty comparable – on paper. He never dated Madonna or wrote a tell-all book or had a ball bounce off his head for a homerun in Cleveland. His name is Wally for heaven’s sake; he is easy to forget.

But Wally Joyner went about his business each and every day and put up solid Major League numbers. He was a joy to watch. He played the game the right way. He was slick defensively, and had a beautiful lefty stroke. I just wish more people remembered him, his game, and his career. Had he kept up the pace he started with, we would be talking about “Hall of Famer Wally Joyner.” But he wasn’t meant to be a superstar, just a super player. My guess is, at the end of the day, he is perfectly okay with that.

PLAY BALL!!

1982: What a Glorious Year

Sure, “The Last Dance” is on everyone’s lips as it taps our mental keg for nostalgia in this time of nothingness – sports-wise, at least. I watched those two hours last Sunday night, just like six million other people. And I will do the same for the next five weekends.

But what has really tickled my fancy, what has really brought me back to my youth, to the days of boat shoes and non-ironic trucker hats, has been a little gift from FS1. In our time of need – when there is no baseball and no baseball on the immediate horizon – FS1 has filled my Saturday mornings with…

Well, let’s just say: “Hello there everybody, this is Mel Allen.” If you cannot hear those words as you read them, if you cannot hear that theme song behind those words that you hear as you read them, if you do not get a tingle up your spine when you hear that theme song behind those words that you hear as you read them, then to quote Mrs. Landingham, “then, G-d, Jed, I don’t even want to know you.”

In an effort to find a silver lining in this cloud of corona virus, I have discovered watching my childhood unfold on the MLB Network every night and on FS1 every weekend. I am still amazed at what a thrill these are to watch, and how many players I still remember (Lenn Sakata, anyone?). And the beauty of TWIB is that FS1 has neither rhyme nor reason in their airing schedule – they are random shows from random years in the early ‘80s. Last weekend we were treated to an episode from September of 1982. The Brew Crew and the Cards were surging, but so too were the Orioles and the Braves. After the first commercial break – before we got to bloopers and great plays – Mel took us around the league to visit the best rookies of 1982. Oh my! I had long since forgotten – if I ever even knew – the murderers row of players who got their start in the second year of the Reagan Administration.

In case your memory is as foggy as mine, here is a list of the Top 20 from 1982 (ordered by career bWar; with an (*) denoting Rookie of the Year winner):

1. Cal Ripken, Jr.*
2. Wade Boggs
3. Tony Gwynn
4. Ryne Sandberg
5. Brett Butler
6. Frank Viola
7. Gary Gaetti
8. Jesse Barfield
9. Kent Hrbek
10. Chili Davis
11. Willie McGee
12. Von Hayes
13. Mike Moore
14. Dave Henderson
15. Dave Stewart
16. Steve Sax*
17. Johnny Ray (anyone remember JR?)
18. Howard Johnson
19. Tom Brunansky
20. Bud Black

That is a ridiculous group of players, with four Hall of Famers and 94 career All-Star appearances. By way of comparison, here are the three seasons on either side of 1982:

  • 1979: Rickey Henderson (HOF); 41 All-Star appearances
  • 1980: Harold Baines (HOF)?!; 40 All-Star appearances
  • 1981: Tim Raines, Lee Smith (HOF); 51 All-Star appearances
  • 1982: Ripken, Gwynn, Boggs, Sandberg (HOF); 94 All-Star appearances
  • 1983: No HOF; 35 All-Star appearances
  • 1984: Kirby Puckett (in fairness, Roger Clemens was in this class as well); 77 All-Star appearances
  • 1985: No HOF; 26 All-Star appearances

And, oh, by the way, here is a short list of players whom you may remember from 1982 that didn’t make the bWar Top 20:

• Wally Backman (he could have been on the manager list below, but he got fired by the Diamondbacks three days after he was hired due to his failure to disclose a bunch of personal issues (legal, financial, domestic))
• Bob Dernier (only included him on this list because I loved watching him on WGN when I got home from school)
• Jack Perconte (only included him here because I love the “what if” between him and Steve Sax)
• Onix Concepcion (only included because what list isn’t better with Onix Concepcion?)
• Rusty Kuntz (because, why not?)
• Eric Show (only included because he sat down on the rubber after giving up hit #4,192 to Pete Rose)

And here is a list of players who debuted in 1982 who have gone to manage in the big leagues:

• Bud Black (#20 above)
• Bob Brenly
• Terry Francona
• Ron Gardenhire
• Brad Mills
• Ron Roenicke
• Ron Washington

There is really no point of this other then to look back with fondness at Harvey’s Wallbangers and appreciate the greatness that was Darrell Porter, Tommy Herr, and Ken Oberkfell. There will be more This Week in Baseball on FS1 this weekend. It is strong recommendation that you tune in and flash back.

PLAY BALL!!

Is Dave Roberts That Bad?

My dad is in good company. Although he LOVES Dave Roberts for that certain stolen base in Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS, he DESPISES Dave Roberts as the manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers. He is at times exasperated by moves that Roberts makes, or – just as often – moves he doesn’t make. He quibbles with Roberts’ lineup construction, his bullpen usage, and the positioning of the defense. My father vacillates between thinking that Roberts makes all of these bad decisions on his own, and the idea that he is merely a pawn for the “propeller heads” in the front office (my dad is fond of phrases that could easily appear in Halt and Catch Fire and were certainly said at Comdex in the mid-80s). Regardless, my dad no like Dave Roberts.

Contra to the Roberts-haters, Tommy Lasorda is universally beloved in Los Angeles. Maybe it is his jovial manner; maybe it is his raspy voice; maybe it is expletive-fueled tirades; maybe it is his beating the hell out of the Phillie Phanatic; maybe it is how he reacted with Gibby hit his dinger in ’88. Or maybe it is just that time heals all wounds, and now we view Tommy as an institution; carefully positioned in his dugout level seat behind the Dodgers’ on-deck circle, waiting for the camera to catch him so the crowd can whoop and holler, and then he can make his way under the stadium and back home again. Regardless, everyone loves Tommy.

On a recent Effectively Wild podcast, I was reminded of such hagiography. Sam Miller was recounting some amazingly bad managerial decisions from World Series past. And there were some doozies. Sam walked through Game 3 of the 1981 World Series in some detail, which I will expand upon here. After reading, ask yourself how you would feel about Tommy if you knew then what you know now about pitch counts, platoon advantages, times through the order penalties, and just plain ol’ common sense. Here goes:

The Yankees pulled into Dodger Stadium with a two games to none lead in the 1981 World Series. They won the opener 5-3, and had a 3-0 shutout the next night. The Dodgers were thus left in a must-win situation.

Jerry Reuss was 10-4 with a 2.30 ERA in 1981, so he was the logical choice to start Game 1. He gave up four earned runs in less than three innings. Burt Hooten, with a 11-6 record and 2.71 ERA was a perfect starter for Game 2. And he did not disappoint – going six innings, allowing three hits, and no earned runs. But Steve Howe brought his gas can to the mound in the 8th, facing three batters and giving up two runs to contribute to the loss.

Which brings us to the make-or-break Game 3. On the hill for the Bums was rookie sensation Fernando Valenzuela. It made perfect sense for Lasorda to wait for a home game to pitch Valenzuela. Fernando was 7-2 with a 1.57 ERA in 12 home starts during the regular season when Fernando Mania swept through the Southland. The Mexican sensation tossed eight shutouts, completed eleven games, and struck out 180 batters in 192 innings. Freddie won the Rookie of the Year and the Cy Young Award.

So the Dodgers must have felt [insert Larry David voice] pretty, pretty, pretty good going into Game 3 against Dave Righetti.

1st INNING

Fernando started the game by walking Willie Randolph; and with one out, walked Dave Winfield. But a pitcher’s best friend courtesy of Lou Piniella got him out of trouble. And when the Dodgers scored three times with two outs in the bottom half, Valenzuela was staked to a nice lead.

2nd INNING

So much for that lead. A homerun, a double, and a single made the score 3-2 after one and a half.

3rd INNING

Two singles, an intentional walk, and a homerun gave the Yankees a one-run lead. So, after three innings, Valenzuela had given up 4 runs on 6 hits, with 4 walks and 2 strikeouts, on 72 pitches. Not what Tommy or the hometown faithful were hoping for.

4th INNING

Fernando settled down in the fourth, and got out of there throwing only 12 pitches (which included another walk).

5th INNING

The fifth inning included yet another walk, but also a strikeout. By the end of the frame, Freddie was up to 101 pitches.

The Dodgers took the lead in the bottom of the 5th on a Pedro Guerrero double and a Mike Scioscia double play. Valenzuela, allowed to hit with two outs and Guerrero on third, grounded out to short. First moment of indecision: If Scioscia merely flies out so there are runners on first and second with one out, does Valenzuela still hit for himself? My guess is yes, as Tommy most likely would have had him bunt the runners into scoring position for Davey Lopes. But, with 101 pitches under his ample belt, and an important insurance run 90 feet away, would it have made sense to hit for Fernando in that moment? That wouldn’t have been a crazy idea. Alas, the fun was just beginning.

6th INNING

Fernando started the top of the 6th by walking Randolph again. 107 pitches, the tying run on via the walk, the 2-3-4 hitters coming up. Time for the hook? Nah. Randolph got caught stealing, and Valenzuela got out of the inning throwing only 14 pitches.

7th INNING

The 7th was a cakewalk, with Fernando getting Piniella, Bob Watson, and Rick Cerone on 10 pitches. At the stretch, #34 was up to 125 pitches.

This is a good time to point out that while the Dodgers bullpen had been a little shaky, they did have arms available. Tom Niedenfuer threw 24 pitches over three innings in Game 1, but did not pitch in Game 2. Dave Goltz threw two whole pitches in Game 1. Terry Forster threw six pitches in one inning of work in Game 2. But with Howe’s meltdown in Game 2, maybe Tommy was hoping to get at least eight out of his workhorse.

8th INNING

Tommy’s best laid plans seemed to go awry when the Yankees led off the top half with two straight singles, with a pinch hitter for the pitcher due up. Should Fernando have been pulled after the lead-off single and 126 pitches? Should he have been pulled after 132 pitches and the potential tying and lead runners on base? Apparently not. The Yankees, doing their level best not to win, had Bobby Murcer pinch hit, and he promptly bunted into a double play. Five pitches later Willie Randolph grounded to third and Fernando wiggled out of yet another jam.

Mike Scoscia led off the bottom of the 8th with a single. Pinch hit Fernando here, hoping to get the insurance run? How about just having him sacrifice Scioscia into scoring position? Both were too logical. Tommy let Fernando swing away; and he grounded into a force out. Now the abdominous pitcher had to run the bases. Sure, the Dodgers had a few players who were better suited to score from first on a gapper (Derrel Thomas, Jay Johnstone), but Tommy chose to stick with his guy – through thick and not so thin. Davey Lopes struck out and Bill Russell popped out, and Fernando had a short walk from first base back to the mound.

9th INNING

Fernando had walked seven, struck out five, given up nine hits and four runs as he toed the rubber for the final frame. He had thrown 134 pitches. He was about to face the 2-3-4 hitters – all right handed. I guess there was no need to call to the pen.

And such is the brilliance of Tommy Lasorda. A groundball to second, a flyout to right, and strikeout for the exclamation point brought the crowd to its feet. It took 15 more pitches to finish the job, but finish it he did.

If the Internet was functioning in 1981, if Twitter was alive in 1981, both may have broken as the innings and the pitches and the pressure kept ratcheting up. But Fernando Mania was a real thing, and Tommy knew best. But getting the right result with bad process doesn’t make you a genius – it just makes you lucky. That said, with one of only two World Series titles over the last forty years, I imagine Dodger fans would rather be lucky than good.

But it still begs the question: Was Tommy Lasorda a better manager than Dave Roberts?

PLAY BALL!!

Baseball is Hard

Baseball is hard. There remains nothing more difficult to do in sports than hit a round ball with a round bat.

Case in point, one Mr. Shaq Thompson. That name may sound familiar to you, as he has played five seasons as a linebacker for the Carolina Panthers. But before Thompson was collecting 356 combined tackles in the NFL, he was a three-sport star in high school – football, track, and baseball.

Shaq was good enough in spikes that the Red Sox drafted him in the 18th round of the 2012 draft. So before heading to Seattle to play football for the University of Washington, Mr. Thompson headed to the Sox’ rookie-level team in the Gulf Coast League. He played in 13 games and had 39 official at bats. He struck out 37 times. You read that correctly. An athlete who was a first-team All-American according to Rivals.com, Parade, and the USA Today, and who was a second-team All-American according to MaxPreps.com and Sports Illustrated; an athlete who was able to run 100 meters in less than 11 seconds and 200 meters in less than 22; an athlete so highly thought of that a storied professional baseball organization drafted him before Alex Bregman (out of high school), Josh Hader, Dansby Swanson (out of high school), Mike Yastrzemski, and Andrew Triggs. And yet, this athlete didn’t put a ball in play until his ninth game; and this against the lowest level of professional competition.

All was not lost: Shaq Thompson did draw eight walks in those 39 games. So when, in his final game, he made solid contact, but was retired on a line drive to right, Thompson ended his professional baseball career. He walked off the diamond and onto the gridiron where he would find a lot of success…and a lot of money (he recently signed a 4/$54M contract extension).

I love the Shaq Thompson story because it says so much about how difficult this game is to play. A 6 foot, 225 pound specimen of an athlete jogs on to the baseball field on top of the world, and walks off humbled, if not defeated. Who can’t relate?

There are many of these stories – athletes who went on to become stars in other sports but could not do so in baseball. Danny Ainge, Tracy McGrady, Tim Tebow, Russell Wilson, and, of course, Michael Jordan. So the next time you catch an old game on the MLB Network and see a player you hadn’t thought about in a long time (like this lineup: Jim Clancy (P), Alan Ashby (C), Jim Presley (1B), Mark Lemke (2B), Ernie Riles (3B), Iván DeJesús (SS), Kal Daniels (LF), Stan Javier (CF), Iván Calderón (RF), Steve Balboni (DH)), know that regardless of your individual recollection, he was an incredible baseball player. For a time, he was one of the best of the best. So even if our memory needs to be jogged from time to time, these guys deserve our reverence. Because, man, baseball is hard.

PLAY BALL!!

Opening Nay

As we all know, today was supposed to be Opening Day. Yes, I capitalized it because for those of us who love baseball more than any other pastime, Opening Day is every bit as sacred – and considerably less profane – than the Super Bowl. No one ever bitches about the “S”uper “B”owl.

All over the airwaves today we were peppered with baseball from years past. MLB did a heck of a job trying to lift our spirits with unforgettable games on the MLB Network, FS1, two of MLB’s YouTube channels, two Facebook feeds, and three different Twitter accounts. You had your choice of Giants v. Dodgers, four different Home Run Derby competitions, classic World Series games, no-hitters, perfectos, and even the A’s 20th straight win. It was all there, and it was nothing more than a cupcake for the kid whose birthday party was otherwise ruined.

In 1998, Bart Giamatti first read “The Green Fields of the Mind.” It, like the man himself, is a national treasure. The poem starts with the line: “It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart.” And with everything going on in the world today – like right now, today, tonight – baseball in many ways should be the furthest thing from our collective minds. But it is not. It is not because today is supposed to be Opening Day – a day of renewal, a day of hope. So, it not being here today – today of all days, when the U.S. death toll from this nasty pandemic nears 1,200 – like Bart said, breaks your heart. Under the current circumstances, what could be better to take our minds off the news, allow us to literally and figuratively change the channel to something less grim, than baseball.

The next line of the poem reads: “The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again…”

But, this year, we cannot be certain there is any truth to that statement. Many writers, from Ken Rosenthal to Jayson Stark to Jeff Passan have written extensively on when this season may begin, but Stark owned it with a simple “we have no idea.” So Giamatti may end up being wrong this year, it may not begin in spring – hell, it may not begin at all.

Next up is “You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time…”

Man do we need something to buffer the passage of time right now. We live in a moment where days roll into each other, with kids and partners home – locked in our homes – with no legal form of escape. No mental or theoretical escape from the body count and lack of testing and the lies – so many lies – and the worry when you wake at 3am with a dry throat wondering “is it my turn?”. The old adage is you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. But we all knew. We love baseball, we revere it. We treat it with respect; we have bought the hats and the jerseys and the tickets. More than that, we have bought in. We have bought in to the myth; we have bought in to the idea that the game could change our day, our week, and sometimes even our year (looking at you, 2004 and 2016).

And now it is gone. And who the hell knows for how long.

For those of us living in Los Angeles, we were looking forward to the redeveloped Dodger Stadium and the All-Star Game. Now only one of those is assured.

For those of you in New York, you had a chance (not a great one, especially after Thor went down) for a Subway Series. The Yankees – if healthy – look unbeatable this year. And now you just have sickness, and death, and fear. But there is another saying that I have been repeating to my kids a lot these past few weeks: “This too shall pass.”

So maybe, if the baseball (and other) gods are willing to smile down upon all of us, we will soon have pinstripes on the field and not just on face masks.

I woke up today and wanted to find joy. I truly did. But as I sat in my home office and Zoomed with my colleagues, I couldn’t do it. I avoided all manner of old baseball except this.

There was no joy in Mudville today. Damn Casey never got to bat.

I hope you all are safe, a safe distance from others, and trying to find some pleasure in being with your families for dinner every night. And, who knows, maybe we will build enough family-time equity to enjoy a few extra ballgames this summer without feeling an ounce of guilt. Read as one man’s search for any potential silver lining.

Here’s to hoping that someday soon we will hear the words:

PLAY BALL!!

Anatomy of an Apology

About ten days ago I was on the phone with a friend when I got an alert on my computer that Carlos Beltrán and the Mets had agreed to part ways. One can parse that statement any way they want, but there is simply no denying that Beltrán was fired…before he managed a single game for the club. How very “Mets”.

My friend was devastated. It turns out that his son is a massive Carlos Beltrán fan; he even has a Beltrán bat framed in his bedroom. He didn’t know what to tell his son, how to break the news.

We were on the phone for a bit – long enough for Beltrán’s statement to be issued. I quickly read it and reported back that this was an easy one. Based on Beltrán’s own words, you can easily explain to your child that actions have consequences, that one must own their mistakes, apologize for their behavior, and vow to be better. In short, Beltrán’s statement covered all the bases. As poor as his decision to cheat, was how great his expression of regret.

“Over my 20 years in the game, I’ve always taken pride in being a leader and doing things the right way, and in this situation, I failed. As a veteran player on the team I should’ve recognized the severity of the issue and truly regret the actions that were taken. I am a man of faith and integrity and what took place did not demonstrate those characteristics that are so very important to me and my family.

“I’m very sorry. It’s not who I am as a father, a husband, a teammate and as an educator. The Mets organization and I mutually agreed to part ways, moving forward for the greater good with no further distractions. I hope that at some point in time, I’ll have the opportunity to return to this game that I love so much.”

Beltrán’s apology was all the more shocking (and heartening) because we have not seen that level of self-awareness in the recent past. Time and again athletes and executives do wrong, and time and again they fail to show the proper contrition. But not Beltrán. He may have lost his right to manage (for now), but he hasn’t lost his moral authority. This is an “A+” example of a proper apology; it is a confession we can share with our kids as a learning tool; and a model that others caught in the crosshairs would be wise to follow.

Now, contrast Beltrán’s words with the various and sundry apologies and non-apologies we have heard in the past few months:

Here is Jeff Luhnow, the suspended and now-fired GM of the Astros (condensed for brevity, the emphases are mine):

“I accept responsibility for rules violations that occurred on my watch…I apologize to the Astros organization, Astros fans and the Houston community for the shame and embarrassment this has caused…

“I am not a cheater. Anybody who has worked closely with me during my 32-year career inside and outside baseball can attest to my integrity…I did not know rules were being broken…I did not personally direct, oversee or engage in any misconduct: The sign-stealing initiative was not planned or directed by baseball management; the trash-can banging was driven and executed by players, and the video decoding of signs originated and was executed by lower-level employees working with the bench coach. I am deeply upset that I wasn’t informed of any misconduct because I would have stopped it…”

The statement started well, with Luhnow owning the issue. But it quickly devolved into a “not my fault” recitation. This reeks of a “I am only apologizing because it is the *right* thing to do, but not because I am truly sorry” proclamation. He had the memo from the Commissioner; he spent time in the clubhouse and in the dugout. He knew or should have known what was happening over the course of two seasons. In this case, less would have been more. He could and should have ended the statement at “integrity,” and he would have received an “A”. As it stands, this is a “C+” at best.

AJ Hinch, the suspended and now-fired manager said the following (again, condensed with my emphasis):

“As a leader and Major League Manager, it is my responsibility to lead players and staff with integrity that represents the game in the best possible way. While the evidence consistently showed I didn’t participate in the sign stealing practices, I failed to stop them and I am deeply sorry.

“I apologize to Mr. Crane for all negative reflections this may have had on him and the Astros organization. To the fans, thank you for your continued support through this challenging time – and for this team. I apologize to all of you for our mistakes but I’m confident we will learn from it – and I personally commit to work tireless to ensure I do.”

This one is a little tricky in that Hinch was punished for essentially turning a blind eye to his coach’s and his team’s behavior. He certainly seemed to own his mistake, but he cannot help but add a little “but it wasn’t me” in there, which does take away a smidge of the repentance. Throughout the various Astros scandals, Hinch has been a voice of reason and remorse, so it was just a bummer that in trying to take the fall, he also had to try to clear his name. That said, this is still an “A-”.

Speaking of other Astros scandals, we all remember the case of Brandon Taubman. When he finally had to admit his wrongdoing, this is what he offered:

“This past Saturday, during our clubhouse celebration, I used inappropriate language for which I am deeply sorry and embarrassed. In retrospect, I realized that my comments were unprofessional and inappropriate. My overexuberance in support of a player has been misinterpreted as a demonstration of a regressive attitude about an important social issue. Those that know me know that I am a progressive and charitable member of the community, and a loving and committed husband and father. I hope that those who do not know me understand that the Sports Illustrated article does not reflect who I am or my values. I am sorry if anyone was offended by my actions.”

Did he really end this with the “I am sorry if anyone was offended by my actions” bromide? He knows people were offended. He said it to offend. Criminal law has the concept of mens rea (the intention or knowledge of wrongdoing). By all accounts, Taubman had the sufficient mens rea to be guilty, so his many-days-too-late non-apology simply doesn’t cut it. Only if you get points for trying will he earn a “D-”.

In the days after the Taubman clubhouse incident, not only did the Astros not apologize to the women affected, they attempted to obfuscate and impugn the reputation of a well-respected journalist. When the story became too large and too well known to slip under the champagne-soaked rug, after a five-day delay, Astros owner Jim Crane said the following:

“On behalf of the entire Astros organization, I want to personally apologize for the statement we issued on Monday October 21st. We were wrong and I am sorry that we initially questioned your professionalism. We retract that statement, and I assure you that the Houston Astros will learn from this experience.”

Rare is the captain of industry who can utter the word “wrong,” so Crane gets kudos for doing so. But even what appears to be a full-throated and well-meaning apology falls short. Crane, while acknowledging his organization questioned writer Stephanie Apstein’s professionalism, never acknowledges that what she wrote, and what the team denied for nearly a week, was absolutely correct. That would have gone a long way toward healing the wounds inflicted by the Astros’ callous indifference to the facts. Crane is a billionaire; he is a leader in at least three major business fields (energy, shipping, professional sports); the bar for him is considerably higher. So his statement gets a “B-”.

Last week, the Astros held their annual FanFest, and reporters, as they are wont to do, asked Jose Altuve and Alex Bregman about the sign-stealing scandal.

Altuve didn’t try to apologize. His simply said: “I think the time to comment about that will come. It’s a little too early for me.” Maybe that is genuine. Maybe the impact of the entire saga has been too much for him to process in such a short space of time. Maybe he just isn’t ready to discuss the topic, and will do so when the team gets to Spring Training next month. Personally, I find it weak and a bit cowardly, but it is too soon to tell. I give this an incomplete, with his ultimate apology grade TBD.

But Bregman is a whole other story. He didn’t even bother. He showed disdain for the entire process. On at least six different occasions, in response to various forms of questions, Bregman said the following: “The commissioner made his report, made his decision, the Astros made their decision, and no further comment on it.”

Like an automaton, Bregman could not even conjure an original thought. He would not address the press, the fans, or the 725 non-Astro MLB players (many of) whom feel like he and his teammates cheated their way to two pennants and one World Series title. This is an “F”.

A fish rots from the head down. Jim Crane set the tone for this club with his lies and then delayed response to the Taubman incident. Jeff Luhnow learned from his boss, as did AJ Hinch, and each tried to give the appearance of contrition while attempting to salvage his own reputation by throwing trusted colleagues under the team bus. So it is not shocking that players raised in the organization chose not to confront the issue with at least some level of regret; without at least giving lip service to the damage they have wrought.

I have often wondered who is providing advice to these athletes before they get in front of a microphone so woefully unprepared. And then I got an answer. In an interview withThe Athletic’s Ken Rosenthal, uber-agent Scott Boras offered us the following pablum (among many other nonsensical thoughts):

“But to suggest players make a team apology … the reality of it is that the apology from the people who had notice, not from the people who didn’t have notice. And the people who are responsible for providing notice. That’s who the apology should come from.”

Boras had the temerity to state that if the players knew what they were doing was wrong, they would have stopped. Despite the fact that the players hid the monitors, and despite the fact that the Commissioner’s Report states that there was “panic” in the Astros’ dugout when White Sox pitcher Danny Farquhar seemed to be on to the scheme, Boras wants us to believe that all participating players thought this entire arrangement was on the up-and-up, just because a bench coach was in on the caper. He doesn’t really believe we are that gullible, does he?

Boras loves an analogy, and he tried this one out: A man driving 55 in a 35 MPH zone only knows he is speeding if the law is clearly posted. Fair enough…on Route 66. The argument holds considerably less water if that man is driving through your local neighborhood. These guys have been playing baseball their whole lives; they are grown-ass men; they know right from wrong. And they chose wrong to achieve a competitive advantage. Trying to blame this on a lack of signage in the clubhouse is at best, hogwash, and at worst, utter and complete bullshit.

But, keeping with Boras’ theme, the Astros players didn’t even need to formally apologize (though Dallas Keuchel chose to do so). I am no crisis counselor, but it seems they really would have helped their cause if, when confronted by intrepid reporters, they said something like this:

“We regret that the Commissioner’s Report has cast a pall over our team and our organization. 

“Our number one goal is to restore the faith and earn back the trust that our fans and the MLB community preciously had in us. We are going to work hard every day to bring a championship back to Houston and prove to the world we are not who was portrayed in that report. 

“Whoever our next manager is, we will make him, our fans, and especially the kids who look up to us, proud of the Houston Astros.”

This doesn’t seem that hard. Bill Plaschke wrote another article claiming that the Astros lack of apology is an affront to the Dodgers. I respectfully disagree. It is an affront to the entire game, from within and without. This will not just go away – as Astros players will learn in each park they visit this season – just by burying their collective heads in the sand. This mark – this asterisk – will linger until fans and players alike feel justice has been done and/or proper remorse has been shown.

“I’m sorry” are two of the hardest and two of the most productive words in the English language. Maybe they can learn them deep in the heart of Texas.

PLAY BALL!!