In Baseball, This Is How It Works

In 1920, baseball, reeling from the first major scandal in its existence, the infamous “Black Sox” fix of the 1919 World Series, and desirous of restoring the confidence of the fans, turned to a crusty old jurist, Kenesaw Mountain Landis, to police up the sport, clean up its act, punish wrongdoing and, in general, put a halo back over its head.

Judge Landis took the task with enthusiasm. First of all, he threw the Black Sox players out of the game for life despite the fact there was no due process in the procedure and, in fact, a court of law acquitted them of all charges.

If baseball thought the judge would merely be a figurehead, designed to deflect heat from the game like a lightning rod, they were soon disabused.

The owners came to resent the dour, flinty autocrat, but it was a matter of indifference to the judge, who soon began to be referred to as the “Czar” of baseball. It was a title he reveled in and certified at every opportunity, using an umbrella authority empowering him to take any action deemed “in the best interest of baseball.”

To the intense animosity of the owners, Judge Landis declared players free agents, he fined franchises, he disbanded farm teams. He was answerable to no one. He had the contempt for the law that familiarity breeds. He was like Napoleon “ L’etat, c’est moi !” (Loosely translated: “The law is me!”) Judge Landis hated the farm system. There is some evidence he hated baseball, too.

When Landis died, baseball, which had learned its lesson, did not abolish the office, but it opted for more controllable “czars.” They thought a former governor and former senator from Kentucky, A.B. Chandler, would suit their purposes. After all, his nickname was “Happy.”

But Happy proved less tractable than they hoped. So, they fired him (refused to pick up his contract option, which was the same thing).

They hired a former newspaper man, Ford Frick. Frick contented himself with deciding major issues, such as whether it was raining hard enough to call off a World Series game. Small decisions, like whether the Dodgers and Giants could move to California, he left to the owners, in this case, Walter O’Malley.

The owners wanted a butler, not a ruler. They found an obscure military man, Gen. William D. Eckert, who proved to know less about baseball than the Ayatollah Khomeini and was dubbed the Unknown Soldier by the New York press.

The owners wanted a commissioner they could put in a trunk at night, a dummy with a monocle who, when he spoke, you could see Walter O’Malley’s lips move.

They tolerated Bowie Kuhn, they found Peter Ueberroth too prickly because he tried to drag them into the 20th Century and finally left them because he was uncomfortable in 1890.

They settled on A. Bartlett Giamatti, who had been president of Yale, and he had one major drawback: he loved baseball. They thought it was OK when he kicked Pete Rose out of the game because Rose hadn’t had a hit in years and his bubble-gum card was worth more than he was.

When Giamatti died, Francis T. (Fay) Vincent seemed perfect for the job--except he, too, showed an unseemly affection for the game. Like Giamatti, he was a fan.

The players had their own commissioner, first, Marvin Miller, then, Donald Fehr, and the owners wanted their commissioner to stay out of labor negotiations--I guess because they were doing such a swell job of it themselves with the specter of biennial strikes hanging over the game’s head.

But Commissioner Vincent first showed his fangs when he banned George Steinbrenner for shadowy goings-on with gamblers and underworld informants.

Steinbrenner is hardly Joan of Arc, but he was, after all, an owner. Part of the club. Vincent’s boss, for cryin’ out loud!

Then, Vincent banned pitcher Steve Howe for life. Since this was the seventh time Howe had been suspended for violating baseball’s drug policy, this seemed reasonable enough. Except that Howe’s earned-run average was 1.98. The Yankees suddenly decided the poor fellow was misunderstood.

You see, performance outweighs morality. It was Lincoln who, when confronted with the news his successful Gen. Grant drank, replied “find out what he drinks, and feed it to the rest of my generals.”

The Yankees are not about to put cocaine in the locker room, but they say Howe should get another chance--and keep getting them, presumably, till his fastball leaves.

Then, the other day, the commissioner went too far: He looked at a map and wondered out loud what the Chicago Cubs and St. Louis were doing in the East division when Cincinnati and Atlanta were in the West.

He recommended realignment. And the league voted 10-2 in favor of it.

But the Cubs demurred. That is to say, the Chicago Tribune demurred. It not only owns the Cubs, it owns the superstation WGN. It didn’t want a plethora of late-night games from the West Coast. It exercised its veto power.

Now, you have to ask yourself: Would you want the Cubs-Phillies at 7 p.m.? Or, would you rather wait till 9 and get the Cubs-Dodgers?

Commissioner Vincent overrode the Cubs’ veto. Realignment was in “the best interests of baseball,” he ruled. Case closed, right?

You don’t know baseball. Despite the fact baseball has made it an article of faith never to take the game into the courtroom, the Cubs sued the commissioner. Not only that, but five of the 10 teams that had voted for realignment changed their positions to side with the Cubs. Why? Because the owners see the commissioner’s actions as undermining their autocracy. Even the lame-duck president of the National League, Bill White, has found the commissioner exceeding his authority.

You wouldn’t think moving Atlanta to the eastern half of the United States could cause this flap. But, then, you wouldn’t know baseball.

Judge Landis would probably kick the Cubs out of the game for good. But the Cubs’ position is “we believe the commissioner’s decision is wrong, bad for baseball.” Well, we know it’s bad for WGN. And that’s a television station, right?

So, we all know how this one is going to come out. The Cubs won’t go west. Atlanta will. Followed shortly, no doubt, by the commissioner.