Marge Schott is right, of course: Ardent fans, hungry for baseball, will come -- first in trickles, then in droves -- to see a mixture of minor and major leaguers play baseball next spring.
Schott, who owns the Reds, and Peter Angelos, who owns the Orioles, refused to sign a historic resolution on Wednesday that ended the major league baseball season. Angelos agreed with the decision to end the season, but objected to the resolution's wording.
Schott wanted to go for the jugular. She wanted to hold the playoffs using minor leaguers. Her sense was that fans would come out by the multitudes. "The fans would say, 'Let's see the real players instead of the million-dollar babies,' " she said. "I think they would see how good these minor league players are compared to some of the players in the majors."
I wholeheartedly oppose the use of strike breakers. But based on what has happened in professional sports -- a breakdown of loyalty and empathy between athletes and fans -- Schott's proposal might have worked.
Consumers in the United States will buy virtually anything, provided it's packaged the right way: pet rocks, bottled water, Hula Hoops.
In 1987, when the National Football League Players Association went on strike, consumers bought replacement players.
At the beginning of that strike, many veteran players refused to believe that "their" fans would come out to see has-beens and never-weres. They were wrong. People came out, and networks televised the charade.
The first games were held on Oct 4. By Oct. 15, more than 100 players had crossed the picket line, and the N.F.L.P.A. ordered players to return to work.
That painful experience woke players up to a sobering reality, that for all the talk of superstars, the fans come out to see collisions, collisions wearing helmets and colorful jerseys.
A few weeks ago in Durham, N.C., I watched a Class A game between Wilmington and the Durham Bulls. Wilmington was up, 11-1, after six innings, but Durham stormed back with seven runs in the seventh and two more in the eighth and wound up losing, 11-10. The game was error-ridden, but the fans loved it. Afterward, a little girl about 6 years old excitedly told her father she had got all but one of the players' autographs. When the missing player emerged from the clubhouse, the girl pushed her way through the crowd and got him to sign. She returned with one of the sweetest expressions of satisfaction I'd ever seen. The player wasn't a Mattingly or a Bonilla. He was just a baseball player in a uniform.
Fans miss The Game. They don't miss the players, not in the specific, passionate way players think. They miss the fastball, the sinker, the home run, the stolen base. They also miss the scoreboard, the popcorn vendor -- the ambiance.
As players devise their strategies for next spring, they would be mistaken to think fans will refuse to support a game that is not completely made up of "major leaguers."
Truth is, fans were ambivalent about this strike. The phrase heard time and again was "I don't care anymore." There was little if any identification with striking millionaire players. This was an antiseptic strike. Baseball players didn't walk a picket line; some went on long fishing trips, others on golfing binges. Their battle was being fought in boardrooms and bank vaults.
Now the players are floating the idea of forming a league of their own. I can't wait to see that happen. Wait until the first negotiation with vendors or stadium owners over terms of a lease.
Wait until a Steve Howe or Dwight Gooden needs repeated rehabilitation. Will the new league of players pay for extended treatment? Beyond that, will it insure that the universe of baseball players, from Class A to Class AAA, make more livable wages by a more equitable distribution of the wealth?
In other words, will the new barons be any kinder and gentler than the owners against whom they are striking?
Somehow I doubt it.
The unrestrained pursuit of riches, which is what players and owners want, seems to overtake compassion.
That's why Marge Schott is right: fans will come out to see The Game.
