Take Me Out to the Old Giveaway Game

Eagerly awaited, like the mail-order catalogues of old, the 1991 promotional calendar of the Dodgers arrives.

The excitement tears you up: Beach Towel Night, Sports Bag Night, Back Pack Night, Ring Day.

The Dodgers are giving away bats, gloves, helmets and autographed balls. On an occasion in August, the gift is a wristwatch.

Each recipient, no doubt, can expect a rare Swiss timepiece, crafted by master watchmakers in Taipei.

Once an embarrassment to baseball, a merchandising form practiced only by hucksters such as Bill Veeck and Charlie Finley, giveaways have burgeoned as a vital adjunct of the game whose functions today would be jeopardized without them.

It is reported that the player payroll of the Dodgers this year has rocketed to $30 million, up from $21 million in 1990.

It behooves one writing the checks to draw customers, something the Dodgers rarely fail to do. At the treasure house in Chavez Ravine, they have averaged some 3 million over the past 14 years.

“You draw people only in two ways,” says Fred Claire, executive vice president. “You put a good team on the field and then you market it.”

“Much of the stuff you give away is for clients 14 and under,” Claire is reminded. “What safeguards do you take against fudging on age?”

“When you’re giving things away for good will, it isn’t the best policy to nit-pick,” he answers.

Offhand, we pictured the Dodgers wrestling kids to the floor, applying a chokehold and screaming: “Show us your I.D. or we’ll kill ya!”

Encamped one time at Cleveland, trying to stimulate day attendance, Veeck raffled off Cadillacs.

Moving to the St. Louis Browns, where business was less than brisk, Bill often answered the telephone.

“What time does the game start?” a caller inquired.

Bill responded: “What time is convenient for you?”

The Browns needed help. Bill made a deal with a bat company that had gone bust in Arkansas, purchasing 6,000 bats for $1000.

Alas, Bat Day was born.

Bill then would give away beer, soda pop and live chickens and geese. One night, a lucky winner got a swayback horse.

At Chicago, where he operated the White Sox, Bill diversified, dispensing peanut butter, perfume, orchids and free tuxedo rentals. Bill advertised:

“Attend that wedding, anniversary or bar mitzvah on the Sox.”

Fellow owners labeled him a “gimmick operator,” an “exhibitionist,” a “carny.” He was ruled bad for baseball, cheapening this noble art form.

Nor would Charlie Finley escape slander from his colleagues when he gave away cows, goats, pigs, even fire engines.

One night, Charlie’s grand prize was a used Pontiac.

“Why a used Pontiac?” he was asked.

“Any idiot can give away a new Pontiac,” he answered.

This recalled the night at Comiskey Park we sat with Veeck, who awarded a thrilled winner 5,000 cupcakes.

“Why would give you a guy 5,000 cupcakes?” we asked Bill.

“If you give 5,000 guys a cupcake each, who would give a damn?” he replied.

The Dodgers’ Claire confesses that giveaways are ineffective if the team can’t play baseball.

In other words, no treasure created in Asia can compensate for a team that is .400 in the standings.

“But souvenirs leave lasting memories with young people,” says Claire. “A kid takes his souvenir home, puts it in his room and thinks Dodgers. One day, he’ll be buying tickets. We want him on our side. We are reaching that point in pro sports where baseball is one of the few games average people can afford. How can your average person go to basketball, football or hockey anymore?”

Assuming not many can, the Dodgers hurl all their cunning into luring villagers to their nest.

Still, their late leader, Walter O’Malley, always contended that the Dodgers did well for a reason more basic.

“The Dodgers are successful,” Walter used to say, “because people always know where to find us.”

That wouldn’t be on the golf course or on the island of Kauai. You look for the Dodgers and you find them in a place no more exciting than their office.