It was all so inevitable, and inexcusable. For months, baseball owners and players have been racing toward each other in a macho game of chicken. On Friday they finally collided, causing a strike that gravely threatens the remaining 52 days and 668 games of the regular season. Even the World Series, played every year since 1905, is in jeopardy. And yet the two sides could barely bring themselves to sit at the same table, let alone bargain seriously. It was a classic confrontation over power as well as money, status as well as salaries, and testosterone levels were rising sharply. "They want to bloody each other up," said a lobbyist with close ties to baseball. "They're going right off the cliff. It ain't pretty."
What makes this strike particularly frustrating for fans is that it comes in the middle of a special season: records falling, turnstiles whirling, pennant races bubbling and new franchises, ballparks and superstars reinvigorating a sport that has had trouble competing against the in-your-face ferocity of basketball and football. Says Scott Sklarin, a 22-year-old New Yorker who organized a protest in front of Yankee Stadium: "We, as fans, should have a say. But we never do."
Ripple effect. The economic impact of a strike will be sizable: a loss of $5 million a day for the owners plus an additional $140 million in broadcast revenue should postseason play be canceled. Mets third baseman Bobby Bonilla, the highest- paid player, will be out $31,148 a day; the lowliest scrubs lose $598. The impact ripples downward, to the bellhops and barkeeps, car parkers and ticket takers who live off the crowds. But the loss goes beyond economics. A baseball strike leaves a hole in our lives, a break in the rhythms of summer. No morning box scores, no lunchtime arguments, no evening games on the radio.
President Clinton called the strike "heartbreaking for the American people," and some political strategists say he should seize the opportunity to look decisive by prodding negotiators toward a quick settlement. "It's a freebie, a win-win," says one GOP insider. But the administration is playing it cautiously. "More harm than good can come from the government insinuating itself into a dispute like this," says Labor Secretary Robert Reich. Under the law, the administration can seek an injunction ending a labor dispute only when the national interest is in jeopardy, and the baseball walkout, says Reich, "is not in the same league" as a major industrial strike. A political subtext: Democrats don't want to appear anti-union, and, at this moment, the players have their maximum economic leverage. As a result, Reich's role has been limited largely to gestures: attending a Red Sox game, asking fans to write. He has repeatedly offered the services of a federal mediator, but so far, no takers.
On Capitol Hill, Sen. Howard Metzenbaum is preparing legislation that would partially lift the exemption from antitrust laws that baseball -- alone among major sports -- now enjoys. His reasoning: Baseball players are now forced to strike because they have no recourse in the courts; offer them the same chance to sue that other athletes have and they would be more willing to resume play. A similar measure was blocked last June, but the Democrat from Ohio -- where the Cleveland Indians are contenders for the first time in decades -- figures that growing anger from irate constituents could bolster support for his bill. Reich also stresses the importance of public opinion: "I can't resolve this dispute, but the pressure from fans is very important here."
Money matters. Still, the outlook is gloomy. The owners insist that 12 to 14 of the 28 clubs are losing money and that drastic measures are needed. As owner spokesman Richard Ravitch told U.S. News: "The owners have never been willing to fight. They are now." The biggest problem: smaller cities like San Diego and Milwaukee, where teams earn far less TV revenue than they do in New York or Los Angeles -- and thus are less able to compete for high-priced free agents. The owners' answer: share revenues among themselves, while putting a cap on player salaries.
The irony is that the workers -- not the bosses -- want to keep the current free-market system. No wonder: Baseball players earn an average of $1.2 million a season, up from $44,676 in 1975. The reason is that they form an unusual labor union, one of the few left with the power to shut down an industry. Let the rich owners subsidize the poor ones, players argue, but don't ask us to foot the bill by trimming salaries. Says Chicago Cubs first baseman Mark Grace: "Once you've earned your spot in the big leagues you deserve your freedom."
It's hard to muster much sympathy for either side. Virtually all the owners made their money elsewhere -- beer, shipbuilding, video rentals -- and did not buy a team as a pure economic investment. Celebrity status -- what sports-law expert John Weistart calls "the unlimited right to get their name in the paper" -- also helped persuade them to pay inflated prices for franchises. They also paid astronomical prices for free agents and now, in effect, want to be bailed out. Even so, says sports agent Jack Chambless, the average value of a franchise jumps 15 percent a year.
Even the plight of small-market teams is not universal. True, the San Diego Padres sold off their best players just to stay solvent and plunged to the cellar. "We had to cut and cut fast," said Padres President Richard Freeman. "Once we started down that slippery slope we couldn't reverse it." But to the owners' chagrin, the Montreal Expos, with one of the smallest payrolls, have the best record in baseball. Yankees owner George Steinbrenner cited the Expos in conceding that the owners' argument about the inevitable weakness of small-market teams "doesn't wash." But others retort that the Expos won't be able to hold on to their budding young stars when the richer clubs offer them big raises to jump. Chambless argues that no matter what is done, some small-market teams are doomed: "You'll see the Milwaukees, the San Diegos and Pittsburghs moving to places like Phoenix or Orlando, Sun Belt cities that can afford a baseball team. That's part of the free market."
Fans back caps. Meanwhile, the players strike many fans as greedy and self-centered. They seem, at times, like a band of fishermen faced with declining stocks; instead of adopting conservation measures, they fish harder. As a result, a recent Gallup Poll found that fans favor salary controls by more than 2 to 1.
Most economists who have studied the issue feel that some sort of cap on salaries is inevitable. The real questions are when an accord will be reached and what conditions it will contain. One likely development: The baseball owners, who have proposed splitting revenues 50-50 with the players, will have to sweeten their offer considerably. Baseball players now get about 58 percent of the pot, while basketball and football players -- who already have a cap -- do even better. Another possibility: counting the rising value of franchises as part of the revenues to be divided.
The basketball cap, imposed a decade ago, probably helped save the game, since it bolstered investor confidence at a time when four teams were near bankruptcy. "The cap is clearly working for us," says Russ Granik, basketball's deputy commissioner. Now, with profits rolling in, the basketball players want to lift the cap because, they say, the owners can afford even higher salaries. Cracks Granik: "What the players are saying is that the system's working so well, let's change it." The football cap has just gone into effect, and the impact is already obvious: The top young talent still gets paid well, but aging veterans with high price tags are taking pay cuts or losing jobs. The example horrifies baseball players and stiffens their resolve to resist a cap.
Hovering in the background of these negotiations is the question of baseball's exemption from antitrust laws, establishe
