The baseball lockout is unique among labor disagreements because at its core it’s not about economics, it’s about power. Unions can become so strong they can practically dictate terms to ownership–at least they used to be able to–but even at this stage most unions can make the argument that they are simply attempting to get the best deal for their workers, so that the average Joe or Jo can bring home a better meal or afford a better place to stay. And owners can always cite “financial difficulties” in seeking concessions. Yet the baseball lockout is not about such issues; it’s about who controls the sport, who “owns” the national pastime. From an owner’s standpoint, it’s about who accepts the risk for losses, who pays the bills for the minor-league training that produces the major-leaguers belonging to the union, and who’s responsible for the teams in all legal aspects. From a player’s standpoint, it’s about whether the player owns himself, whether he’s entitled to a fair deal, and what is left of the sport if its finest players decide not to play. In short, this lockout is about a simple question: where are the resources of the sport located, in its players or in its structure?
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Baseball players are in a unique position. As long as their union remains united, they can almost dictate terms. An automaker (or almost any other sort of owner) can replace striking workers with scabs and expect–if the resolve is strong and the skin thick enough to resist the effects of bad publicity–to weather the difficulties and come out strong. The owner has all the resources except for labor, and a stinking cheap resource that is. On the other hand, what is baseball but its players? Would Joe DiMaggio have been any less great had he played for the fictional New York Monarchs instead of the Yankees? Depending on whether the sport’s best players were also in the fictional league, maybe and maybe not. (As in the case of the black players denied a spot in major-league baseball before the advent of Jackie Robinson, his accomplishments–like his salary–might be diminished.) Yet in the real world, where baseball’s structure is already entrenched by a century of use, and where the owners themselves have put an emphasis on tradition, the players find themselves in ideal circumstances, as far as their negotiating position with the owners goes, as long as they don’t threaten the basic structure of the sport–the alignment of teams and the minor-league system. It’s important to note that while the players have driven some very hard bargains in negotiations with the owners over the past two decades, they have nevertheless been willing to allow concessions preserving coherent team personalities–placing limits on free agency–and they (the unionized major-league players) have kept their hands off the minor-leaguers.
As is so often the case with workers, it’s the athletes who most require protection who have the weakest union. Football players face the greatest risk of a career-ending injury, and not coincidentally they have the shortest average career, but their union was effectively busted during their 1988 strike. Football players found that their greatest weakness in their choice of a career–its lack of longevity–was also their greatest weakness in negotiations with the owners, in that they could be replaced. (Rule one in all labor negotiations is that fairness is arbitrary.) Mike Ditka may be barking up a bare tree when he says it’s coaching and not players that wins football games, but we’re not talking about winning games here; we’re talking about winning a labor war. Football fans, for the most part, develop allegiances to teams rather than players, because the turnover of players is so rapid; what football fans look for is a coherent personality reflected by their team from year to year. That’s why it’s so important for Trace Armstrong to be championed as the next Dan Hampton, because Hampton is soon gone. All a football player can hope for is something like what happened to Mike Singletary: he was championed as the next Dick Butkus, then made himself such a commanding presence during his career that Dante Jones was championed as the next Singletary. On the other hand, baseball fans are attracted to the specific players who make up the team, which is why baseball ticket sales, from team to team, season to season, are so much more volatile than football ticket sales. A south-sider might remain a committed Sox fan, but without a Harold Baines or that colorful (and winning) group of personalities that made up the 1983 team, the fan is much less likely to actually get out to the park.
There’s plenty of material here for an extended labor stoppage. Yet, with both sides trying to achieve gains, there is also room for a quick settlement–at the status quo. Commissioner Fay Vincent should order the spring-training camps open, with the old union agreement to remain in force until a new one is reached– whether that be later this month or in the year 2001. In the meantime, the sport would continue to boom.
