THE REACTION TO Selig’s contraction announcement is swift and overwhelmingly negative. Fans are outraged and blister the Commissioner in radio talk shows across the nation. The media excoriates Selig, and many of the leading columnists and television anchors call for his resignation. “I honestly believe that we can get this done by the end of November,” an unperturbed Selig tells baseball’s own MLB.com.
Which is nonsense. But Selig has decided a bargaining chip is a bargaining chip, no matter how much bad publicity it draws.
The union files a grievance that is certain to go to arbitration, rendering Selig’s November timeline moot. A Minnesota judge grants a temporary injunction against any action by MLB in response to the Minneapolis Stadium Board’s claim that the Twins have to honor the one-year contract extension they quietly signed on September 26. The contract gives the Twins the stadium rent free but requires them to play the full season unless they are unable to because of a “strike, an act of God, a natural casualty, or a court order.” Yet another giveaway that Selig’s threat for contraction in 2002 is a bluff.
But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen a year later. And that’s one reason why Florida Attorney General Bob Butterworth subpoenas documents from the Commissioner, the Marlins, and the Devil Rays to learn whether the two Florida teams are on Selig’s hit list. “Why are they always hiding behind closed doors?” Butterworth complains. “They act like they are electing a pope.”
And Congress, sensing headlines, is immediately up in arms. Senator Paul Wellstone (D-MN) and Representative John Conyers (D-MI) reprise their old standby, both introducing legislation to revoke baseball’s antitrust exemption while announcing they’ll call Selig in for hearings. “I am angry,” Wellstone says. “This decision to eliminate these teams is a betrayal by owners who have put their own profits before loyalty to fans.”
Selig is undeterred. The plan to take care of all his ownership issues has been in place for months, voted on and approved at an Executive Council meeting not long after September 11. The owners know—or should know—that contraction for the 2002 season is impossible, but there is significant support for folding two teams in 2003 unless they get big increases in revenue sharing and the luxury tax in the next contract. Baseball will buy the Expos from Jeff Loria for $120 million, run the team for at least the coming season, then either fold or move it to another market, where it’ll be sold for a handsome profit.
Selig silences Loria’s threats to sue with an interest-free loan—and other perks—so he can buy John Henry’s Marlins for $150 million. Henry, the billionaire commodities trader, is negotiating with Disney to buy the Angels. If the Angels deal falls through—Disney chief Michael Eisner keeps changing his mind about selling—Henry will jump into the bidding for the Red Sox. Selig thinks having an owner with small market experience in a major market would help solve the game’s spending problems, and the Commissioner made it clear he’ll do whatever it takes to keep Henry in the game.
But the Contraction Show must go on for the rest of 2002. In Minnesota, Pohlad’s son Jim sends a letter to employees—which is leaked to the media—to let them know the awful truth. “When we are posed the question, ‘Why should the Minnesota Twins not be contracted?’ ” Pohlad writes, “we are unable to find a plausible answer.”
Selig tells the people of Minnesota they should “take a good look in the mirror” when assigning blame if they lose the Twins. His reason? A city and state that won’t build a new stadium don’t deserve a major league team.
But it’s curious to see who is considered deserving in baseball and who is not. Selig spends four weeks telling anyone who will listen that baseball lost $518 million in 2001—despite a record $3.5 billion in revenues—with only five teams turning a profit. Yet on November 27, baseball’s owners unanimously vote to grant Selig a three-year contract extension and a big raise—20 months early—meaning the man from Milwaukee will be Commissioner at least through 2006, when he will earn $14.5 million, plus bonuses, a security detail, use of a private plane, and other perks.
There are hard feelings all around when Selig and Beeston secretly meet with Don and Steve Fehr in Milwaukee on December 3 to restart contract talks. Selig is unhappy about having to go to Washington in three days for a hearing to justify contraction. Don Fehr wonders what happened to Beeston’s promise, made on September 19, that contraction was off the table. Beeston tells the Fehrs that he spoke in the emotional aftermath of September 11 and should not have been taken seriously.
“You wiped out all the positive feelings we got from the World Series,” Fehr tells Selig. “And you made it harder to negotiate.”
“I think we can recapture those good feelings,” Beeston says. “And I think it’s possible to get a quick deal.”
On cue, Selig lays out his new plan. A two-year agreement with teams evenly sharing 50 percent of local revenue—more than double the current level—and a permanent 50 percent tax on all payrolls of $98 million and above. A draft of international players, who are now free agents able to sign with any team, and a limit on the amount of debt a team can carry, a clear attempt to rein in deficit-spending teams like the World Champion Diamondbacks.
Accept this deal, Selig says, and we won’t contract until 2003.
Don Fehr stares directly at Selig. Fehr’s default look is one of disdain, and that is especially true when he’s in Selig’s presence. How poorly can small market teams be faring if Selig’s own team had the highest operating profits this past season? MLB’s own numbers show that Miller Park pushed the Brewers into baseball’s middle class—indeed, their $16.1 million in operating profits this season ranked first in the game, ahead of the Mariners ($15.5 million) and the Yankees ($14.3 million).
Fehr’s response is quick and pointed. This is a big step backwards, he tells the Commissioner. The players don’t like the luxury tax, and the increase in revenue sharing would leave rich teams like the Yankees with far less money to spend on players. And Bud’s offer to delay contraction? “That promise has little value,” Fehr says. “It looks like contraction can’t happen until 2003 anyway.”
The union leader looks over at Beeston, who is clearly uncomfortable. Fehr knows Paul has fallen out of favor, and he’s seen how that script plays out. He watched Selig throw Dick Ravitch, his handpicked labor negotiator, under the bus during the ruinous 1994 talks. Hell, Bud threw the whole sport under the bus that year, canceling the end of the season—and the World Series with it—in the owners’ relentless pursuit of a salary cap.
He saw how Selig let Randy Levine twist in the wind in ’96 after Fehr and Levine had ironed out a deal. And he knows Beeston is a short-timer now, too. Selig’s latest proposal is a big step back from Fehr’s talks with Beeston over the last two years—it’s even worse than the Blue Ribbon plan—and the union leader can only guess whom Bud will put at the bargaining table next.
“I’m tired of dealing with a puppet,” he tells Selig. “Let us know when you want to get serious about these negotiations.”
It’s December 6, and the Commissioner is sitting in front of the House Judiciary Committee, sharing a table with pro wrestler turned Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura, Twins President Jerry Bell, and union special counsel Steve Fehr. John Conyers, the longtime Michigan Democrat, requested this hearing to ask why baseball should keep its antitrust exemption and remain a monopoly if it has to shut down two teams in order to turn a profit.
“I come here very interested in what I hear will be some tremendous accounting theories the Commissioner will put forward about how tough things are,” says Conyers, whose slowly spoken opening statement drips with sarcasm. “God knows I support the underdog. Let’s root for the little guy, like the owners who are hemorrhaging.”
Selig is the first on the panel to speak. He repeats his well-rehearsed talking points: the half a billion dollars in losses he insists the owners have suffered this past season, their $3 billion overall deficit, the need to shut down two teams—instead of relocating them—in order for the game to survive. His staff has prepared charts and graphs to aid Selig’s presentation. “It has become clear,” Selig says, pointing to a big chart hanging from an easel at the front of the room, “that there are clubs that generate so little in local revenue that they have no chance of achieving long-term competitive and financial stability.”
The hearing is chaired by Jim Sensenbrenner of Wisconsin, who counts Major League Baseball as one of his campaign contributors. The chairman grants Selig an extra 10 minutes for his opening statement—“because it is so complex,” Sensenbrenner tells a surprised Conyers—and it’s not the last time he will come to the Commissioner’s aid today. Selig will stall, dissemble, and take a few body blows, but in the end, baseball’s antitrust exemption will remain intact. It always does.
Ventura speaks next, and he’s both direct and blunt. “This is asinine—these people did not get wealthy by being stupid,” says Ventura. The governor has repeatedly rejected requests for a new stadium from Carl Pohlad, second only to Ted Turner as the richest man in baseball, who turned a profit this year by pocketing his revenue sharing checks and paring the Twins’ payroll down to a game-low $24.1 million. Ventura says he won’t change his mind, especially with his state facing a $2 billion deficit—but he knows what would happen if he did.
“I bet if we build a new stadium,” he says, “there would be no problem keeping a team in Minnesota.”
Conyers asks Selig why the financial statements baseball has provided are so short on details, lacking even the salaries given to owners and their families. He also knows the financials MLB gives the union, as per their bargaining agreement, are both confidential and far more thorough. Baseball has already threatened to sue the union should it try to share those statements with Congress, leaving Conyers puzzled.
“The summary information you’ve turned over to us is meaningless,” Conyers says. “In essence, you’ve told us, ‘We lose money, but we can’t trust you with the details.’ Would you reconsider to provide this committee with some real records about each team—the salaries, consulting fees paid to club owners, their family members?”
SELIG: Our figures are audited three different ways. The Players Association gets all the numbers. The Blue Ribbon Panel got the audited statements—
CONYERS: Don’t you know the union can’t give those statements to anybody? You just sent a letter, your lawyers, that you’d sue Fehr if he released—
SELIG: Congressman Conyers, you have the audited financial statement for six years. You have all the information that Messrs. Volcker, Will, and—
CONYERS: Staff keeps whispering in my ear, “We don’t have the numbers, we don’t have the numbers.”
SELIG: I’d like to know, since they’ve been audited three different ways, what information are you looking for?
CONYERS: Didn’t you hear me?
SENSENBRENNER: The time of the gentleman has expired.
A few minutes later, Mel Watt (D-NC) picks up where Conyers was cut off.
WATT: How does contracting the number of teams fix your problems?
SELIG: It’s one of the things that when we’ve looked at it, it’s one of the things that helps fix the system.
WATT: How?
SELIG: How?
WATT: Have you given us the same records that you’ve given to the union?
FEHR: Can I get in on this?
WATT: Yes, Mr. Fehr.
FEHR: I believe you have received a fraction of what the players have received.
WATT: So the question is, could we get the same information you’ve given the players over the last five years?
SELIG: The only thing I’m told that we haven’t given you, uh, you have all the same information now that the Blue Ribbon committee had.
WATT: Well, the problem is the Blue Ribbon committee guy [George Mitchell] is now trying to buy into baseball.
Republican Jim Ramstad, who represents a handful of Minneapolis suburbs, poses a question that Selig hoped to avoid. “Let me ask you, Commissioner Selig. Your counsel has not yet selected the teams for contraction, is that correct?”
SELIG: No, I have not selected the teams along with the clubs.
RAMSTAD: The two teams have not yet been selected?
SELIG: That is correct.
But it’s California Democrat Maxine Waters whose five minutes of questioning truly puts Selig back on his heels.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Waters says and directs her first question to Fehr. “Do you have information from the Commissioner that has not been given to us?”
“I believe we have a lot of information you don’t have,” says Fehr, who poses a question of his own. “Can we be released from our confidentiality agreement with baseball to give you what you want?”
Waters reads a letter dated November 30 sent to the union and signed by baseball Vice President Robert Manfred. Break the confidentiality agreement, Manfred writes, and we’ll pursue immediate legal action.
“Do you feel you cannot answer our questions or you’ll be sued by the Commissioner?” Waters asks Fehr.
Yes, he answers.
Waters turns to Selig. “Will you give us the information that the union has?”
Selig offers Waters a puzzled look. “We have given, as I’ve said before… No American sport has ever given this kind of—”
Waters cuts Selig off in midsentence. “Mr. Commissioner, will you give us the information you have given to the union?”
No, Selig says. “It’s confidential.”
“Will you permit the union to give us this information?” Waters asks.
“You’ll have to talk to our lawyers, but they have a confidentiality agreement,” Selig says.
Waters allows Fehr to interrupt. Half of what baseball claims it lost comes from four rich teams, Fehr says, all recently purchased by media conglomerates: the Dodgers, Braves, Blue Jays, and Rangers.
“Would you like an explanation for how they can take such losses?” he asks Waters.
“We’d like an explanation,” says Waters, turning to Selig. “The federal government is asking you for information,” Waters says. “You are not going to give us this information, and you will sue the players if they give it to us. Is that what you are saying to us?”
“No, I don’t believe I am,” Selig answers.
“What, then, are you saying?”
“I am saying that we have given you all the financials that all of us work with and—”
“Mr. Selig, let me remind you that you are under oath,” Waters says sharply, waving a finger at Selig. “I’m going to rephrase my question.”
But Sensenbrenner gets there first. “The gentle lady’s time has expired,” he says. It is the fourth time the chairman has cut off a questioner asking why the union has information this committee does not. The hearing will go on for several hours, but this question is never answered. Nor will the committee subpoena the documents in question.
The information the union has will never see the light of day.
Selig leaves Washington a bit bloodied, but as the year draws to a close, he has almost everything lined up to his liking.
The threat of contraction remains intact, putting pressure on Minnesota politicians to fund a new stadium for his friend Carl Pohlad and tying up the union with a mountain of paperwork. It’s also slowing down the free agent market as general managers wait to see if stars like Montreal’s Vladimir Guerrero and Minnesota’s Johan Santana are going to shake free.
Montreal owner Jeff Loria has been shipped down to Florida, given his sweetheart deal, and finally silenced. Suitors are already lining up to bid on the Expos should Selig decide to move the team to Washington. Meanwhile, the Commissioner will be part owner of a second team, and there’ll be no pretense of putting the team in a blind trust, as he did in Milwaukee. Selig will personally name the new president, general manager, and manager of the Expos.
Things continue going Selig’s way when, on December 18, a federal judge blocks the Florida attorney general’s investigation into contraction. The judge’s stated reason: the game’s antitrust exemption allows Selig to keep baseball’s plans secret. Florida’s AG was right—baseball conducts its affairs with the secrecy of a papal election.
And on December 20, Selig gets the news he’s been waiting for: Red Sox CEO John Harrington announces the bidding for the iconic franchise has been won by John Henry. The price: a record $700 million, which includes an 80 percent stake in NESN, the all-important cable TV station that carries Red Sox games. Henry’s group also includes Tom Werner, who was a big Selig supporter when he ran the small market Padres in the mid-’90s; Werner’s San Diego CEO, Larry Lucchino; and George Mitchell, the voice of the Blue Ribbon Panel. All four men will arrive in Boston favoring increased revenue sharing. (At least for now.)
There is immediate pushback to the new Red Sox ownership and its many ties to Selig. Massachusetts Attorney General Tom Reilly, whose job includes overseeing charities that benefit from trusts—like the Yawkey Trust, which controls the Red Sox—says he’s launching an investigation into the sale. At issue: why higher bids from New York lawyer Miles Prentice ($790 million) and Cablevision’s Chuck Dolan ($720 million) were overlooked. Congressman William Delahunt (D-MA) is wondering the same thing and wants another congressional hearing into baseball’s antitrust exemption.
The rabid Boston media quickly accuses the Commissioner of tipping the scale in favor of Henry, who joined the bidding just four weeks ago after giving up on Eisner and the Angels. “The record will show that when it came time to step up, Harrington caved to Commissioner Bud Selig and the Lords of the Sport,” writes Boston Globe columnist Dan Shaughnessy, echoing the sentiments of most in the media and Red Sox Nation. “So now we have this band of carpetbaggers, taking charge of our most cherished institution.”
Selig does his best to sound indignant. “Frankly I am insulted by the suggestion that we did anything improper,” Selig says. “I never instructed John Harrington or any of the bidders to do anything for anyone.”
Of course, Selig never had to say anything. He simply had to make it known that baseball would never approve Chuck Dolan or Miles Prentice. Dolan’s brother Larry owns the Indians, and few owners wanted to have brothers—or another cable baron—in the game. And there were questions about how much debt Prentice was using to finance his bid. No one wanted another Arizona situation.
But most everyone in ownership favors Henry. Especially Selig, who has listened to the soon-to-be-former Marlins owner beg him to do something about the disparity between rich teams and everyone else in baseball. An ownership with small market sensibilities in a major market is a dream come true. If only Selig could convince Steinbrenner to see things the same way, the end of 2001 would be all but perfect.
But there’s little chance of getting George to listen. Only a few days earlier the Yankees signed Jason Giambi, Oakland’s best player, to a seven-year, $120 million deal. Giambi hit 38 home runs and drove in 120 runs last season, when he hit .342. And at 30, the big first baseman is still in his prime.
There was no way the small market A’s could match the Yankees’ offer, though many in Oakland wondered why the A’s refused to give Giambi a no-trade clause last spring when he was ready to accept their six-year, $91 million offer. But the money, not Oakland’s decision, is Selig’s focus. Giambi’s deal pushes the Yankees’ payroll past $125 million, easily the highest in baseball.
Yet Steinbrenner keeps calling, asking Bud why he’s after so much of the Yankees’ money. And then George goes off and breaks the bank. Again.
All Bud can tell him is the same thing he’s just told Twins fans.
Look in the mirror.