COMMENTARY : Baseball Takes Look at Owners’ Pitch on Pay: Low, Outside

For those of you who never took economics, as I did (twice, just to make sure I got it right), I will present a brief lesson in the form of a quiz.

It’s multiple choice, so anyone who knows the alphabet up to D has a heck of a chance.

Here goes:

If the people who own a company are making more money than they’ve ever made before, and the employees are making more money than they’ve ever made before, what should happen?

A. They have a big party, and party girl Margo Adams jumps out of the cake.

B. They have a big party, and party girl Nadia Comaneci jumps out of the cake.

C. They have a big party, and somebody forgets to buy the cake.

D. They have a lockout-strike, and somebody says, “Let them eat cake.”

If you guessed D, you have probably also guessed that our subject is baseball, and that only in baseball (or football) is this set of circumstances even remotely possible. As it turns out, it’s more than remote. Those who have studied these labor negotiations suggest that a work stoppage--a tip: take lockout and give the points--is likely.

How? Why?

This is where it gets sticky. The players wouldn’t dare complain they were underpaid. How could they? When Pascual Perez signs for about $4 million, you try not to say anything. When we do hear from the players, it’s usually to trot out some loyal soul such as Kent Hrbek to say how he turned down $100 million to remain in Minnesota, settling for a paltry $99.5 million instead.

But isn’t it equally hard to imagine how the very same team owners who, without so much as a bazooka pointed at their heads, are paying out these obscene amounts for free agents can rightly complain about players being overpaid? But they do. Oh, they do.

And so, as negotiations begin at long last, the owners are asking the players, in effect, to handcuff them so they can no longer reach into their pockets and willingly give the players all the money they ask for. This would be like winning the lottery and having the state ask you to give back the money because it could be better spent on snow removal. You’d give it back, right? Right? Sure you would.

The proposal on the table is to set up a scale for players with less than six years in the big leagues, based on seniority and performance in a formula yet to be determined. This would eliminate the need for arbitration, a concept originally suggested by the owners, who now see it as a greater evil than communism and even free agency.

Speaking of which, free agency would remain an option for those with six years’ experience, but there’s a catch: Each team’s payroll would be limited under a system of revenue-sharing in which the players are paid a still-to-be-determined percentage of the clubs’ revenue.

In other words, under this system, the owners would be guaranteed a percentage of dollars, regardless of how few dollars they make, and the players could see major reductions in their salaries. And what is revenue anyway? Does that include capital appreciation of the club (the Orioles, as an example, appreciated about 500% in less than 10 years). Does it include a cut of beer sales? Or does it include just tickets sold to Boy Scouts on week nights?

And, whatever it includes, why should the players accept it? Why should the players say they want to take less than someone is willing to pay them? Do the Rolling Stones do that? Do you do that?

The owners say the future of the game depends on it. In the National Basketball Assn., where the players agreed to a similar system, it did. The league has prospered under that system. Baseball has prospered--no, thrived--under the present system.

The owners continue to insist that, without such a system, only those teams in the big markets will be able to afford the best players, and competitive balance will die and, without it, so will the game. They insist upon this even though George Steinbrenner’s New York Yankees last won a pennant in 1981, and Joan Kroc’s San Diego Padres have won one pennant and the two Chicago teams have won a single pennant between them in the postwar era, and since free agency began, there hasn’t been anything like a dynasty.

This is what is known as the Big Lie. Or maybe the owners actually have talked themselves into believing it. Baseball is a business, and it isn’t.

Gene Autry, an old, rich man whose California Angels have never been to the World Series, is willing to pay outlandish amounts to players who might get him there. He can afford it. Do you feel sorry for him? For Joan Kroc? For Gussie Busch? These people are ultra-rich anyway, and, despite the big salaries, they’re still making money on their baseball teams. If you can feel sorry for these people, you should have been on Leona Helmsley’s jury.

Yes, the players will make demands. They want players with two years’ experience, instead of three, to be eligible for arbitration. They want bigger pension plans. They want--and here’s something they’ll insist on--some set remedy if the owners again collude.

But it seems fairly clear the players aren’t going to strike unless the owners insist on it. And the betting money is that if the sides can’t get together, the owners, who can’t really believe the players will accept this new proposal without some, uh, encouragement, will strike first, locking the players out on Opening Day before the players start cashing paychecks.

It’s ridiculous. It’s absurd. It’s a slap in the face to every fan. And it just might happen.