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MLB Salary Cap: Why Bud Selig Just Won’t Listen

We’ve all heard the whining and crying about the Yankees and Red Sox, with a few other “minor” offenders thrown in. Unless you’re a fan in Boston, New York or Philly, you’ve almost certainly wrung your hands over the lack of parity, and been ready to sacrifice a rubber chicken to the baseball gods for a salary cap. “Please, Dear Gods, parity is all I ask…”

The biggest arguments in baseball must come from the heart—not the wallet. It is this dimension that the argument lacks; one wonders why the same degree of gravity as say, the debate over the damnable DH or even the irrelevancy that is inter-league play doesn’t attach itself to the salary cap squabble.

Salary-cap woes are brushed aside because baseball has always been a game to appeal to the heart first, then the head a close second. That very one-two punch is why we geeks have always been so attracted to our game; we crave the ability to take what’s in our heart and put it into qualitative physical form.

Just like the fact that we rarely have the ability to walk up to a girl and tell her just what’s in our soul, to MAKE her fall in love with us, baseball requires that “heart” dimension. If the argument don’t contain passion, sports fans, it just falls flat.

So…here it is.

Baseball’s national soul craves two things: misery and joy. The pain must also be present; there’s a certain expected melancholy in a baseball fan’s soul.

The feeling we get as the World Series ends, happiness or disgust at the result, also comes with the knowledge that there is a long, cold hard winter between today and “pitchers and catchers report.” It’s why baseball attracts so many die-hard (pardon me) Catholics—that sense of melancholy balances the scales.

You can’t have pure joy all the time—baseball just won’t allow it.

In baseball, everything—everything—must be earned. The road to The Show is like no other sport; in basketball, football and hockey, you’re shot right into the big time, but Our Game is different for all but a very special few.  You’ve got to earn it in baseball like nowhere else.

It’s not just this way for the Nuke LaLooshes of the world. The earning of your place in the baseball world, your very legitimacy, must be paid for. And the only acceptable currencies are tears, frustrations and the refusal to give up, despite years of disappointment.

Take the Boston Red Sox and their fans, for example. The 2004 variant, The Enders Of The Curse, clearly bought their way into the winner’s circle, didn’t they? And yet…and yet, we didn’t mind, really, did we?

Why?

Because the Red Sox and their fans had PAID (oh, how they had paid) for their ticket to glory like no other fans. Even today, to say you are a longtime Sox fan gives you a certain patina of respect; you’ve suffered, my friend, come on in. Pull up a stool, you’re one of us.

…or at least you were, for a few years.

From Buckner back to The Babe, Bostonians had a special kind of heartbreak. We all know the story. Whether it was the curse of the Bambino or Mookie Wilson’s grounder, you just knew that Red Sox fans were put on this earth to help balance baseball, to make the story whole. On one hand, joy—the possibility of a win. On the other, misery—suffering, year after year.

Baseball demands, craves, aggressively seeks out balance—and right now, we’re all out of whack.

Each team has to go through a dry spell. It’s practically written in the 10 Commandments Of Baseball; if you don’t suffer, you ain’t earned it. (I think Casey Stengel would make a great “Baseball Moses”, but I digress…)

We long decry the spending habits of the Yanks & Sox, and, at various other times, the Mets, Dodgers, etc. We’re casting wary eyes on the Phillies and Rangers now, wondering if they’re succumbing to “the spending disease” as they mirror our nation’s swollen budgets, with the taxpayer shouldering ever-larger burdens. Ever since the joyless Expos left town, teams have suddenly become worried that their fans won’t accept “the rebuild.”

Rubbish.

Utter nonsense.

What a crock.

In the soul of the true baseball fan, the genuine article, the real McCoy, there exists an understanding. We SHARE in baseball. “OK, it’s YOUR turn now.” In our sport, lone amongst them, there is a legislated and enforced equality; first it’s your turn, then it’s my turn. In all the others, you could keep the ball all day—you don’t HAVE to share.

With us? three outs, now give the other guy a turn.

In much the same way, the big spenders of MLB have robbed from the spirit of baseball. It’s an honor, a privilege, to suffer through the lean years of a rebuild. The win is your reward, and how sweet it is…

You don’t feel it the same way if your team’s expected to win. It’s more like an addiction, and not only does depression run rampant if you don’t win, those World Series victories just don’t mean as much without the suffering. It’s true, isn’t it? They just don’t feel quite as good.

Remember this, baseball fans.

YOU MUST SUFFER IN ORDER TO TRULY WIN.

The reason we don’t grant you that grudging respect when you come to visit, the reason you feel dismissed, is because you haven’t earned it. You’re our “bonus baby,” the kid straight out of college, the arrogant @X$!% that we won’t love the first year, even if he hits .330 with 30 dingers.

Baseball is out of whack. Oh, it’s not fatal—baseball in SOME form or another will always exist—but baseball’s soul is nurtured by a steady dose of failure, of melancholy, of lessons learned.

Baseball teaches you how to “man up,” deal with disappointment, pick yourself back up, put in the hard work and realize, “Hey, there’s always next year.”

When you buy a championship, when you go out and purchase, year after year, a Carl Crawford or a Randy Johnson or a…well, it doesn’t really matter who.

You can’t buy a soul, baseball fans.

That’s why nobody listens when we SCREAM to the HEAVENS for a salary cap. Yes, it really IS as plain as the nose on your face that a cap is the only thing that will restore legitimacy to baseball.

Yes, Uncle Bud does know, deep down, that his legacy will be openly sneered at. Yes, it’s wrong that teams can keep trying to win the battle of the pocketbooks at the expense of true teams and true fans…but unless you can appeal to the souls of baseball men, you’ll get nowhere.

That’s what baseball’s about. Hockey is the dash, basketball’s the hustle, football satisfies our need for open war, but baseball is about the national SOUL…

…and you’re tearing that soul apart, your own included, when you try to buy the whole ball of wax. Much like the nouveau-riche millionaire with his plastic wife, toupee and flashy car, you’re buying a cheap imitation, and we’ll forget about you by the spring.

One day, someone with the brains, balls and heart required—someone worthy of the title “Commissioner”—will install a salary cap.

On that day, joy will come back to baseball, and the seats will fill again.

Why? Because the fans that sustain you, the ones that explain the game to our little children, that instill that romance for the game that will keep them coming back, we understand what baseball’s soul requires in order to nourish our own.

Sacrifice. Discipline. Loyalty.

These are the values that our land, and our sport, cherish…and you can’t have joy without the attendant pain.

So, suffer, baseball fans. You know you secretly love it anyways—and one day, if you suffer long enough, your time will come.

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Come On, Blue: Oh, God, I Blew It…

“They expect an umpire to be perfect on Opening Day and to improve as the season goes on.” – American League Umpire Nestor Chylak

Ol’ Nestor was right. You know what else?

It can’t be done.

Every umpire blows at LEAST one call per season. With luck, it’ll be on a half-swing in June that nobody notices or cares about.

Or, if you’re unlucky, (or Jim Joyce) the bang-bang call – and the attendant screwup – come on the 27th “out” of a perfect game.

Joyce used to be regarded as one of the best MLB umpires – maybe ever – and, this past season, despite the blown call that cost Galarraga his perfecto, he had the “maybe” removed, as players & coaches voted Joyce El Arbitro Grand Jefe Numero Uno.

Boy, that’s not to say that managers and players haven’t disagreed with Jimmy – have they ever – just ask Terry Francona, who’s trying hard not to get thrown out himself as his pitcher disappears behind him.

Joyce has never once ducked the tough call and he’s had more than his share. From strike zones (have you heard his strike call? migrating geese and the donkey at the zoo a few blocks away take notice of strike two) to “catch/no-catch”, an MLB ump HAS to be tough to take the criticism.

After all, none other than Harry Wendelstadt said, “

If they did get a machine to replace us, you know what would happen to it? Why, the players would bust it to pieces every time it ruled against them. They’d clobber it with a bat.”

Right again.

So why is Jim Joyce considered the best ump – “despite” blowing that most famous of calls?

Well, since “despite” is in italics, I’m sure you’ve already figured it out – it’s not “despite” blowing the call, it’s BECAUSE he blew the call…then had the humanity to say, not just admit, but lay claim to the blown call.

Joyce also had the humanity, displayed by one of the intrusive on-field cameramen that I loathe, to get so emotional that he outright cried as Galarraga brought him the lineup card the next day at home plate.

It was that admission that allowed Galarraga to stand with Joyce onstage at the ESPY Awards, where they co-presented the ESPY for “Best Moment”.

In today’s umpire culture (yes, there is such a thing) the “macho drill-sergeant” ego-driven “don’t f— with me, kid” attitude is still king. Umps don’t like to be questioned, especially those insecure enough to refuse admissions of wrongdoing; it takes a pretty big man (and some darn good women, too) to admit, in front of EVERYONE at the park, that he “blew it”.

The coaches and players are part of the problem in a lot of cases; fueled by major-league rants shown by every cable show from ESPN to SportsNet, they think they have to freak out or the ump will “just keep screwing” them. (It’s a quote from a coach I work with.)

I’ve found just the opposite; that, when I blow one that is pointed out to me, and I let my shoulders droop and say, “Sorry, guy, I blew that one – but no make-ups, okay?” that the player/coach/fan/parent suddenly doesn’t have any gas left in their tank – what are they going to shout about now?

I don’t do it to cut their legs out from under them.  I do it because I know I’ve gotten as high as I’m going to get in baseball as an umpire, and because I was raised to “do the right thing” at all costs.

To me, that means fixing it when you screw up – and if you can’t admit it, even to yourself, then doesn’t that doom you to make the same mistake over and over and over again…?

When I order my new uniforms next year, I’ll be asking the tailor to stitch #66 – Joyce’s number – on the sleeves. Heck, I’ve even subtly hinted to my friends that I’d love a #66 MLB umpires’ jersey for my birthday – Dirk Hayhurst’s “The Bullpen Gospels” can wait until Christmas.

I’ll wear sixty-six with pride – and hope I can get my photo taken with Joyce sometime this year or next.

Why not?

Hey, the guy has the most guts of any ML umpire ever to grace our fields; you don’t screw with Jim Joyce – not even if you’re Jim Joyce.

Honor? Integrity? Bravery? Trust? All that and more – in spades…

…all because he could admit that he blew it, something I hope all young umpires coming up, learning the ART of umping, will decide they have the guts to emulate.

Come on, Blue…be like Joyce.

 

(Postscript: I hope MLB has the same guts, eventually, as Joyce and rewards both Galarraga AND Joyce by giving Galarraga the first ever 18-out perfect game in Major League history, setting a great precedent for righting ADMITTED wrongs. Might be the only way an umpire ever makes it into the Hall.)

Mark Dewdney is a failed player, and, as a result, a long-time Ontario umpire, typically found on a midget, junior or senior ballfield somewhere in Toronto.

Have a question? An idea for an article? Drop me a message, question or comment. I’ll get as many as I can answered.

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