As Frank Sullivan sees it, the Great American Myth changed in modern times. The belief that any American could grow up to be president was supplanted by the even more enchanting notion that any kid with a bat and a ball could become a major leaguer. The kid didn't have to top 6 feet by age 12 to dream of basketball stardom or weigh 200 pounds at 14 to envision a football career. Baseball was democratic enough to be open to the large, like the Chicago White Sox's 6-foot, 5-inch Frank Thomas, and the small, like 5-foot, 6-inch Phil Rizzuto, the New York Yankee who last week entered the Hall of Fame. Sullivan dreams his dream when he sees his 4-year-old at their backyard T-ball rig in Bay Village, Ohio.
He also has a nightmare -- a strike by baseball players this Friday. Trying to assert the power of the dream over the disaster, he organized Fans First and called for a boycott of Thursday's games "to show our disgust with millionaire owners and millionaire players fighting each other and forgetting their fans." His sentiments echo everywhere: Both sides in this dispute should be taken to the woodshed. Neither has a worthy claim on public sentiment.
This kind of indiscriminate anger is a relatively new and growing phenomenon in America. In politics, it is best represented by the millions who voted for Ross Perot because they felt both Democrats and Republicans were useless. On the social front, it shows up when middle-class Americans say they think high-paid business executives and welfare cheats cause the nation's moral decay. When economic pressures are at issue, workers often blame Wall Street's mergers-and-acquisitions players and immigrants for their job stresses.
Americans care much less about taking sides when traditional combatants lock horns -- Republicans vs. Democrats or, this week, "spoiled" players vs. "greedy" owners. The bright side of this is that many seek alternative ways to make their voices heard. The dark side is the view among many of these pox-on-everybody believers that there are no moral judgments worth making anymore. Rather than sort out who's right and who's wrong, it is easier to make the simple judgment that I'm a victim and everybody else is to blame.
Behind that is the confession that its adherents feel powerless, even over their pastimes. When psychologist Joe Glick studied fans in one big-league city after 1981's 49-day work stoppage, he was amazed by their alienation. Before the dispute, fans had loved the game at two levels: One was the family-picnic level where all participated. The other was the professional level, which they deemed a highfalutin extension of their picnic games. The Great American Myth was intact. After the strike, though, the pro level had become a dirty commercial enterprise in their minds, disconnected from the baseball they loved to play. The myth was in jeopardy.
Now, it is again. Some fans will fret; others will boycott. All can think of the participants what Yogi Berra said once about his team: "We made too many wrong mistakes."
