The Commish

By Marshall Adesman

Like so many stories in baseball, this one may or may not be true, but it's fun to tell. Sometime after the end of World War II, Red Sox owner Tom Yawkey and Yankee President Larry MacPhail were sharing a few drinks at baseball's annual winter meetings. The evening wore on and the liquor kept flowing, and the talk eventually turned to the configurations of their respective ballparks. With its short right field fence, Yankee Stadium is perfectly designed for a left-handed pull hitter, while Fenway Park's Green Monster is ideal for a right-handed slugger. And we each have one of those, they realized, just not wearing the correct uniform. So they agreed to announce a swap in the morning - Ted Williams for Joe DiMaggio, even up - shook hands and stumbled off to bed. However, when they finally awoke and remembered what they had done, they thought about how they'd be barbecued in the newspapers and hung in effigy by fans all up and down the northeast corridor; in other words, with the sun shining, the deal didn't look so good, and it was quickly and quietly called off.  

Now, conjuring up the image of the Splendid Splinter in the Bronx, taking aim at that 296-foot mark, as well as Babe Ruth's 714 home runs, can be great fun for a few moments. But while you're dreaming of what-might-have-been, here's a question to ponder: would the Commissioner at the time, A.B. (Happy) Chandler, have stepped in to void the deal? In fact, would he have taken any stand whatsoever? 

I tend to doubt it. Yawkey and MacPhail would have been completely within their rights, and would have been abiding by the rules. In a time long before unions, agents, no-trade clauses and guaranteed multi-year contracts, anybody could be traded, and there was nothing that could be done about it. The fans in both communities most certainly would have bitched, but the trade would have remained. (And you know, fan loyalties notwithstanding, the premise behind it did make sense and might have benefited both players and both teams.) 

I bring this up because of this past winter's leading story, the attempt by the Texas Rangers to deal Alex Rodriguez to the Red Sox. This became so involved that the Major League Baseball Players Association, and the current Commissioner, Bud Selig, were involved in the negotiations. I almost expected to hear reports that Nobel Laureate and former U.S. President Jimmy Carter was being asked to step into the talks. (Might native Georgian Carter re-structured the deal so that Rodriguez wound up in Atlanta?) 

I'm sure that financial issues were at the heart of the talks - they've got to be when one player was still owed some $189 million. But why the union and the Commissioner should have been at the table is beyond me. If Rodriguez willingly chose to defer some money or re-work his contract, that's his business, not the union's. As for the Commissioner, well, it would seem that he has crossed way over the line. 

The office of Commissioner of Baseball was created in the wake of the crooked World Series of 1919. Once the National League recognized the American League as an equal in 1903, baseball had been governed, more or less, by a three-man National Commission, comprised of the two league presidents and a third party, Cincinnati owner Garry Herrmann. The three bickered constantly, however, and their rule was tenuous at best. The owners, in an attempt to restore fan confidence in the game's integrity, abolished the National Commission in favor of a sole Commissioner and chose Federal Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis, who brought with him a national reputation as a no-nonsense autocrat. Landis demanded and received absolute powers, and reigned for nearly a quarter of a century like a stern headmaster at an all-boys school, helping the game to regain its popularity and its place as America's national pastime. 

When Landis died late in 1944, however, the owners were determined to limit some of the powers of the Commissioner. Chandler, chosen as Landis' successor, attempted to run the game fairly but found himself frequently at odds with the increasingly feisty owners, who eventually removed him from office. Since then, it has been clear that the Commissioner is, by and large, the owners' mouthpiece; for several years, in fact, after the dismissal of Fay Vincent, the office was officially (though not actually) vacant.  

Meanwhile, under the leadership of Marvin Miller in the 1960s and 1970s, the power and influence of the Major League Baseball Players Association increased beyond belief. Using both superior negotiating skills and time-honored labor union tactics, including eight player strikes or work stoppages beginning in 1972, the MLBPA became, without question, the dominant force in the game, and its head (currently Donald Fehr) the de-facto Commissioner of the players. If this sounds a lot like governmental gridlock, or the logjam that led to Landis' appointment, then you may be gaining an insight into one of the basic problems facing the game today. 

Allan (Bud) Selig, an automobile salesman by trade, spearheaded the purchase of the bankrupt Seattle Pilots team in 1970 and the move of the franchise to Milwaukee. More than twenty years later he aligned himself with a cadre of hard-line owners who hatched a strategy designed to crush the players' union. First they called for the resignation of Commissioner Fay Vincent in September of 1992, and then they selected Selig to serve as chair of the Executive Council, making him the owners' new puppet. Two years later the hard-liners forced an August strike, and when the players didn't capitulate within a month, Selig announced that the season was over and a World Series would not be played for the first time since 1904. For this abomination Selig was rewarded, in 1998, with the official title of Commissioner. 

Selig hasn't been all bad. He instituted realignment into three divisions, which brought us the wild card system. And he helped to prevent a strike in 2002. But the Commissioner ought to be, at the very least, impartial, and Selig cannot honestly make that claim. Although he does not, technically, still own the Brewers, that distinction (?) belongs to his daughter, Wendy. If you think the ballclub doesn't get discussed every now and then at family gatherings, I have some oceanfront property in Montana I can let you have for a very reasonable price.  

Baseball rules specifically state that one owner cannot lend money to another. Selig violated that rule when the Brewers received a loan from a company controlled by the Twins' Carl Pohlad. Selig, by the way, was already serving as chair of the Executive Council. 

Selig helped to engineer one of the most unique swaps of all time, and it had nothing to do with players, at least not directly. With the deftness of an orchestra conductor, he was instrumental in arranging for Expos' owner Jeffrey Loria to buy the Marlins from John Henry, and then helped his good friend Henry purchase the Boston Red Sox - in spite of the fact that a higher bid had been received for New England's favorite team. Oh, and the Expos, browbeaten by years of lies and mismanagement, became wards of the state (so to speak), owned collectively by the other 29 major league clubs. Supposedly a temporary solution, this arrangement is now in its third season. This may sound, to the untrained ear, like a clear case of conflict of interest, but obviously not in a sport where its Commissioner is also a team owner. 

Remembering Selig's original business, was it a coincidence that, over the years, the Brewers did quite a bit of business with Selig Leasing. In the past decade, the dealership netted at least $358,000 a year; last year they got $521,000 for about 40 cars. Doing the math finds that to be over $1,000 per month for each leased car.  

Finally, Selig spent many man-hours this winter attempting to move the game's premier player to those same Red Sox. Perhaps I have become too suspicious in my old age - I will never believe the Warren Report! -- but I just don't believe this is a coincidence, nor do I think this falls under a Commissioner's job description. When was the last time you read about David Stern, Paul Tagliabue or Gary Bettman openly trying to engineer a trade, especially one that would help a staunch friend and ally? 

It seems clear that Selig is pursuing a variety of personal agendas from his bully pulpit, and that is not what the game needs. It needs a fair and impartial Commissioner, one that is dedicated to serving the best interests of all concerned, including the players, owners, umpires and fans. We do not have one, and we ought to do everything in our power to get one. 

Of course, this is all predicated on Selig's resignation, and frankly, that's not going to happen over the next few days. We can try to exercise the power of the pen and write letters, lots of letters, to newspapers, major league owners, companies that sponsor national broadcasts on ESPN and Fox, urging them to rid us of Selig. We can also hope that somewhere along the line he trips up and commits a serious gaffe, one that forces him from office. Again, I hold no illusion that this is imminent. 

But eventually we will live in a post-Selig world, and here's my proposition to determine the next Commissioner: a 7-person committee, comprised of two owners, two players, two umpires and one fan (more on that in a moment). This group will receive applications, sift through them to weed out the crackpots ("The Diamond Angle" columnists need not apply!), then begin the interview process, eventually getting down to a single candidate. Sound familiar? No, it's not "Survivor" or "American Idol," this is simply the way most companies fill their positions, including that of CEO, and it is a method still used by the private sector because, well, generally it works.  

What about that fan, where does he/she come from? After all, there are millions of us, how does one get chosen? I suggest an essay contest, in which we are asked to write just a couple of paragraphs describing the qualities we would seek in a new Commissioner, with the other six members of the committee reading them and choosing a selection of strong essayists to come in for a face-to-face interview. Yes, this could prove to be a bit cumbersome, but we could put a time limit on the submission of the essays (perhaps just a two-week period) and a cutoff of no more than 250 words. (Think that's easy? I have already passed 1700!) 

You'll notice I did not suggest any representatives from television. I am afraid that, frankly, their interests would dominate the committee. We all know how important television is to baseball, to so many sports, really; I am sure that their voice will eventually be heard loud and clear by the new Commissioner, so I don't think they need to be a part of the selection process.  

Once more let me reiterate that I do not anticipate this happening any time soon, I fear we are stuck with Bud and Company for the foreseeable future, more's the pity. But I would love to be able to live long enough to see a plan like this adopted. In fact, I'd love for this to simply be the beginning of a dialogue on how to choose a new Commissioner. Feel free to write to me at Adesman@mindspring.com and let me know what you think. Oh, it isn't necessary for you to waste the bandwidth, Messrs Henry, Loria, Pohlad and Reinsdorf, I think we already have a pretty good idea what you might have to say.