All That Money Is Taxing on the Brain

I don’t care anymore.

I don’t care about money.

My own money, yes. I care deeply about that and will continue to do so.

Orel Hershiser’s money, or Gene Autry’s money, or the combined Winfield-Steinbrenner billions, or Kareem’s salary, or Howie Long’s fortune, I don’t want to hear about.

No mas, no mas. May they and their peers and descendants all prosper, quietly and in the privacy of their own homes and yachts and limos with wet bars.

Spare me the details.

I have listened to my last athlete or agent tell how all the star wants in compensation for his .237 batting average is a contract that will guarantee lifetime security for himself and his family.

I want reality. I want to hear one player say, “All I want is enough money so I can fill my baseball-glove-shaped swimming pool with 5-dollar bills and go skinny-dipping until I get ink poisoning.”

I do not want to hear one more owner weep about how he is being forced out of business by the drastically escalating salaries, until such time as it actually happens, which will be never.

I have used up my lifetime quota of financial pity and envy. I don’t care if a rookie makes only $70,000 for hitting 82 home runs, or if a journeyman pinch-hitter makes $3 million to strike out with the bases loaded. It all evens out.

Don’t give me numbers. Numbers no longer register. The financial area of my brain is numb, the synapses sizzled. What’s a power forward worth? What’s a point guard worth? A pulling guard? What’s the national debt? What’s a Grecian urn? What’s it to me?

The players and owners all make the same: Enough.

There’s a famous big league baseball player. A PR man I know tries to reach the player to offer him a spot in a celebrity slam-dunk contest, for a healthy 5-figure guarantee just for showing up. Days later, the player returns the call, hears the offer and says, “Sounds good, I’ll get permission from my team and call you back.”

Player never calls back.

It’s only money.

Players want respect. What is respect? Money.

“Son,” I want to hear an owner say to a player, “you want respect, we’ll give you respect. All team employees will be required to salute you on sight, your assigned parking space will be repaved and carpeted. We’ll bronze your shoes. Also, respectfully, we are cutting your salary.”

I don’t want to hear any fans whine about overpaid, greedy ballplayers, either.

Overpaid? Compared to what?

And by whom? If an owner pays a player $6 trillion a season, he does so because that’s precisely what he thinks the player is worth.

If the owner is a smart owner, he doesn’t need our sympathy, he’ll make out like a bandit. If the owner is a stupid owner, he doesn’t need our sympathy because he’ll eventually sell the team for an enormous profit and go back to his plumbing business.

Don’t tell me the jocks are overpaid. Just don’t go to their games. Or go to their games and root for the groundskeepers and peanut vendors.

Don’t corner me at the water cooler and tell me Orel Hershiser should be happy to pitch for $2 million, unless you turned down your last pay raise because you already make a lot more money than a Polish dock worker. Or unless you have a better sinker than Orel’s.

Don’t tell me Tyson is overpaid, or Spinks. Would you rather see those millions go to Donald Trump, or Don King? What should be the going rate for performing 12 rounds of brain surgery, or for exposing one’s face to twin battering rams for the amusement of millions of frothing fans?

Don’t tell me how much money the winner of a tennis tournament or golf tournament will win. What difference does it make? If Lendl plays McEnroe, do they play harder if the pot is bigger?

I like to think they try hard every time out because they have pride and want to win. If I’m wrong, don’t tell me.

Don’t tell me about incentive clauses, unless a team comes out with an incentive clause for fans: You pay $10 for your ticket. If the home team loses, you get a $5 rebate.

Don’t tell me how humanitarian a team is for holding down ticket prices, unless that team gets no cut of the money from hot dogs, pennants, peanuts and beer sold to the million extra fans lured in by the low ticket prices.

Owners are getting richer. Players are getting richer. Grandstands are getting fuller. Who’s winning?

I don’t care. Play ball.