GEORGE W. BUSH sits in the back of a black limousine on his way to a downtown Houston hotel, the notes for his short speech close at hand. He peers out the window at the glass office towers of the city’s skyline, fidgeting as he tries out nicknames for his new personal assistant, Israel Hernandez. “And your name is now… Izzy,” he tells the 22-year-old Hernandez. Bush leans back, a satisfied smile crossing his face as he begins to sing. “Izzy fuzzy? Wazzy fuzzy? Izzy?”
It’s November 8, and Houston is the first of four stops today for the managing general partner of the Texas Rangers, who will officially announce what everyone has known for months: he wants to be the next governor of Texas.
Bush toyed with the idea of running four years ago, but the family felt the timing wasn’t right. His father was President, and W’s résumé was too thin and his past too checkered. He needed to craft a new image, and everyone told him running a baseball team was the perfect solution. They didn’t have to push George very hard; baseball has always been his first love.
And now the time to enter politics is right, but the job is all wrong. The truth is, Bush would much rather be the Commissioner of baseball than the governor of Texas. But it didn’t take long for him to realize the job was never really available.
Not that Bud Selig ever told George that directly. Instead, the whispers around the game were loud enough for Bush to know he no longer stood a chance of getting the job.
So back to politics it is, and Bush is confident he’ll beat Ann Richards come this fall, despite the incumbent’s high approval rating. Texas is rapidly turning Republican, and Karl Rove, Bush’s chief strategist, has already put Republicans in office all around the state. Rove was the last to give up on Bush’s run in ’90, but now he sees that four years of being the face of the Rangers have wiped away W’s negatives—the failed oil ventures, the unsuccessful run for Congress, the drinking problems, and the rumors of drug use.
The Rangers have never been more popular, and with a talented young team and a gorgeous new stadium to open next spring, the team’s future has never looked so bright. And much of the credit is going to Bush, the rare owner who is every bit as popular as his team’s many stars.
Not a bad return on a $500,000 investment.
That’s how much Bush kicked in when he joined the group that bought the team for $89 million back in March of 1989. The deal gave Bush a 1.8 percent stake in the franchise, with an escalator clause pushing his share to 11 percent once his partners recouped their original investment. He also earned $200,000 a year to team with Rusty Rose, a financial wiz who worked his magic behind the scenes while Bush was out front, selling tickets to fans and cutting deals with business leaders and politicians—the same people he’d need in his corner when he ran for governor.
It was a perfect fit for Bush, whose love affair with the game dates back to his days as a catcher for his Little League All-Star team in Midland, Texas. Baseball was all that mattered to young George, who collected baseball cards, memorized trivia, and told friends he’d own a baseball team one day.
And when he got his chance, Bush threw himself into the role. He pored through media guides and studied statistics in the Baseball Register as if he were still a kid. He ate lunch with manager Bobby Valentine several times a week, mixing talk of baseball strategy with questions about the game’s other owners and the powers of the Commissioner. He was a frequent visitor to the clubhouse, where he felt so comfortable that some of his talks with Valentine took place while Bush used the toilet in the manager’s office, door open, a copy of Baseball America in his hands.
“How’s this Double A pitcher in Huntsville?” he’d shout from his seat in the john. “You guys know anything about him?”
He arrived at Arlington Stadium hours before each game, chatting up ticket takers and concession vendors he knew by name. He’d welcome fans at the gate, schmooze the beat writers, then stroll onto the field to trade stories with his players during batting practice. By game time, he was in his seat behind the Rangers dugout, shirtsleeves rolled up and a baseball cap atop his head. He’d root loudly, spit sunflower seeds just as his players did, and sign baseball cards bearing his likeness for fans lining up to meet the owner of the Rangers.
It all paid off handsomely, too. Before Bush, the Rangers had never attracted more than 1.8 million fans in their 17 years in Texas. With Bush, the team’s attendance never fell below 2 million. The fans loved the big bats of Rafael Palmeiro, Juan Gonzalez, and Ivan Rodriguez, and they adored living legend Nolan Ryan and hard-throwing Kevin Brown.
And attendance is sure to rise when the Rangers move into their new 49,292-seat ballpark in Arlington next spring—as will revenues, thanks to the new park’s luxury suites, club seating, restaurants, and shops. Another work stoppage should be the only thing that can keep Bush and his partners from reaping franchise-record profits.
The deal for a new stadium had come together quickly. In October of 1990, with the Rangers’ popularity surging and rumors flying about a possible move to Dallas, the city of Arlington agreed to spend $135 million to build a new stadium, paying the bill by adding half a cent to one of the highest sales taxes in the nation. The Rangers agreed to kick in $56 million, all of it coming out of future revenues from the new stadium.
The stadium deal increased the value of the Rangers franchise by at least $40 million, but there were more gifts to come. Bush and his partners wanted more than 200 acres surrounding the stadium for commercial development, and they soon began making offers to the landholders, most of them farmers and homeowners. If anyone balked, the local government seized the land under eminent domain and handed it to Bush and his partners for pennies on the dollar.
For years, the Republican Party in Texas had held closely to a policy stating that “public money (including taxes or bond guarantees) or public powers (such as eminent domain) should not be used to fund or implement so-called private enterprise projects.” Suddenly, the party developed a severe case of amnesia.
Critics of the stadium deal cried “Corporate welfare!” but that did little to damage Bush or his team’s rising popularity. Indeed, the sales tax referendum passed by a 2–1 margin. And with Rove making sure reporters always referred to Bush—and only Bush—as the owner of the Rangers, the strategist capitalized on W’s popularity in order to pass off the future candidate’s business failures and personal indiscretions as part of his “nomadic” years, allowing no further questions to be asked.
By late 1990, everything was going according to plan; George had shaped up to be a strong candidate for governor.
But to Bush, the only thing better than being a baseball owner was being the game’s Commissioner. So when Fay Vincent was forced to resign in the fall of ’92, running for governor suddenly turned into Plan B.
It was a month or so after Vincent left office when Bush placed a call to his old friend. “Fay, what do you think of me becoming Commissioner?” Bush asked.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Vincent answered. “You’re smart; you love baseball. Is it something you want?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it. Selig tells me that he’d love to have me be Commissioner.”
Vincent went silent for a moment. He recalled a conversation he’d had with Chuck O’Connor, then baseball’s chief labor lawyer, not long after Vincent was named Commissioner. Selig thinks baseball Commissioner is one of the most important titles in American life, O’Connor told Vincent. He thinks it makes whoever holds the position a historic figure.
“Watch out for him,” the lawyer advised the new Commissioner. “He wants your job.”
Vincent considered Selig a friend and ignored the warning. Now he knew better, and he didn’t want Bush to make the same mistake.
“George,” Vincent said, “my guess is that Selig wants the job himself.”
A few more weeks passed when Bush checked in with Vincent again. Bush still yearned for the Commissioner’s job, but there were people pushing him hard to run for governor, he told Vincent. He was going to have to make a decision about running soon.
“George, I’m worried,” Vincent replied. “I still think Selig wants the job for himself.”
Bush kept waiting for the right words from Selig, but they never came. And by late February, Bush realized Vincent had been right all along. Bush saw himself as another Kenesaw Mountain Landis, but Selig was standing firmly in his way, and it was time to move on. Rove quickly got the campaign up and running, and by early September Bush announced his intention to run for governor.
Still, there were tears in George’s eyes when he was back in Section 9, Row 1 on October 3 for the final home game of the Rangers season. He’d grown close to Nolan Ryan over their years together, and the future Hall of Famer was being honored in what would be the last home game of his career. Damn, George was going to miss being owner of the Rangers.
But now Bush is standing at the podium in a Houston hotel ballroom, a crooked smile on his face as he pauses while delivering his first official campaign speech. He looks out at the roomful of political reporters, confident he will charm them just as he’s charmed the baseball writers the last four years.
“The best way to allocate resources in our society is through the marketplace,” says Bush, letting his voice rise to drive home his point. “Not through a governing elite, not through red tape and overregulation, not through some central bureaucracy.”
Unless, of course, you happen to need some help getting land and a stadium for your baseball team.
Bud Selig arrives at the owners meeting at the Marriott Harbor Beach Resort in Fort Lauderdale on Monday, January 17, with two priorities. He’s hoping to celebrate his 17th wedding anniversary the next day with a revenue sharing deal and the Commissioner’s job in hand. Now that the Bush problem has solved itself, the Commissioner’s post is the easier goal to accomplish, and a plan is already in place to close the deal.
Bud wants the job on his own terms. He wants to keep ownership of his team a while longer—he’s promised Wendy a shot at running the Brewers and building the new stadium. Besides, the team is carrying so much debt, a sale would almost be a net loss.
Selig also wants to remain in Milwaukee. And he wants a longer trial period than the year-plus he’s already served before making the appointment official, to see how the fans and media feel about having an owner as Commissioner of baseball. His allies have promised to fulfill his every wish.
But a revenue sharing deal is proving elusive. Selig thought he nailed it down a little more than a week ago when two teams—the Marlins and the Rangers—bolted the big market coalition, leaving his opposition with eight votes, the bare minimum necessary to block a deal. Selig’s plan called for three times the current amount of revenue sharing and had the full support of the owners’ bargaining team. But when the votes were counted, the plan fell one vote short.
One damn vote!
The defeat led to much hand-wringing in Milwaukee, where rumors of the Brewers moving to Charlotte, Tampa, or Portland continue to fly. Selig fanned those flames yesterday at the Brewers’ annual Fanfest, telling fans and the media—once again—that the Brewers cannot remain in Milwaukee without help. “We won 92 games two years ago and drew 1.857 million and we didn’t even finish in the black,” Selig said. “We can’t keep piling millions of dollars into the team that we have no chance of recouping.”
This is why Selig has no intention of stepping down as Commissioner—and giving up control of the agenda—no matter how many times he insists he doesn’t want the job. And he knows this part of his plan is secure, even as he calls a meeting of the Executive Council this Monday night in Florida with search committee chairman Bill Bartholomay prepared to present recommendations for Commissioner.
More than 100 people expressed interest in the job, says Bartholomay, who personally interviewed 46 of them. The list, he says, is pared down to Harvey Schiller, the head of the U.S. Olympic Committee, and Arnie Weber, the outgoing president of Northwestern University. Both men have heavyweight sponsors: Schiller is backed by Steinbrenner, who is a member of the Olympic Committee, and Weber is backed by Reinsdorf and Cubs President Stanton Cook, who both sit on the Northwestern Board of Trustees.
But before Bartholomay can open the discussion, Twins owner Carl Pohlad speaks up, setting in motion a plan hatched by several small market owners. “There are many of us who don’t think we should name a new Commissioner until we agree on revenue sharing,” says Pohlad. The Council agrees to table the matter for the night, then spends the next several hours debating the structure of the Commissioner’s job. When the meeting breaks up at 12:15 a.m., they’ve decided that the new Commissioner will be in charge of labor negotiations—the very thing they took away from the last Commissioner.
Pohlad ups the ante when the Council meets again Tuesday morning. “I move that we do not bring in a Commissioner until we have a new labor agreement with the union,” the Twins owner says. The motion once again ends any discussion of Bartholomay’s candidates. And when the meeting adjourns, Pohlad instructs Twins President Jerry Bell to draft and circulate a resolution. By the time the full owners meeting opens a few hours later, Bell produces a sheet of yellow legal paper containing one handwritten sentence:
“The following clubs prefer to delay any action on appointing a new Commissioner until revenue sharing and pending labor issues are resolved.”
The resolution is signed by 11 teams—three more than are needed to block any nomination. Six more teams quickly sign up after seeing Bell’s list. Given the events of the last few hours, Selig tells the owners, he has little choice but to accept their decision “for the good of the game.”
One goal reached, Selig starts the revenue sharing discussion when the owners reconvene. They’ve all heard Bud’s bargaining plan. Get the revenue sharing deal, agree on a salary cap structure, hand it to players, and bargain on the edges, not the fundamentals. Selig knows Don Fehr will have to agree to revenue sharing—he’s been asking for it for years. It’s the cap Fehr will reject, and Selig’s plan is to hold firm, dare Fehr to take the players out on strike, then continue to hold firm.
Selig doesn’t think the players will stay out long, not with their average salary now $1.19 million. But if they do, the owners should be prepared to lose the season. And if negotiations still go nowhere, he says, we’ll declare an impasse and implement the salary cap and revenue sharing over the union’s objection. That is our legal right.
And then the shocker: if the players don’t report to spring training, Selig says, they should be prepared to bring in replacement players. It’s the same strategy the NFL owners successfully used in 1987 to break the players’ strike and install their salary cap.
“But first,” Selig says, “be united in our labor strategy.”
And the revenue sharing debates begin again. It’s midafternoon when Cardinals President Stuart Meyer proposes a compromise that combines the demands of the big and small market teams. The owners in each coalition talk among themselves, then to each other, then back among themselves as one hour blends into the next. Florida owner Wayne Huizenga’s wife has prepared an elaborate dinner for them all on a yacht, but there’s no way Selig will allow this meeting to end without a decision.
Shortly after 9 p.m., a weary and nervous Selig calls for a vote. This time it’s clear that the big market teams have finally consented to a deal. The reporters waiting outside can hear the cheering when the measure finally passes. Selig checks his watch at the final vote: 9:25 p.m. All 28 teams have voted yes.
The doors swing open even as Selig is mixing congratulations with a plea to show up at the pier for Mrs. Huizenga’s much-delayed dinner party. Steinbrenner walks out briskly and passes reporters without breaking stride. The Yankees owner decided to be a team player, but he isn’t happy about it.
No one is happier—or more relieved—than Selig. His Brewers and the six other small market teams will receive somewhere between $5 million and $9 million a season under this revenue sharing plan. Nearly half the teams will pay between $1 million and $5 million. It’s not everything Selig wanted, but it’s enough.
“It’s a gigantic step forward,” Selig tells the media, his wife Sue at his side. “It was hard at first for clubs to understand other clubs’ problems. Even this morning, if you had told me I’d get a 28–0 vote I wouldn’t have believed it.”
There are tears in Selig’s eyes as he describes what happened behind closed doors only moments ago. “An industry that has been portrayed as rudderless and aimless did something that had never been done,” he says. “I can’t tell you the feeling I have inside.”
A Milwaukee reporter asks Selig what tonight’s vote means for the Brewers’ ability to finance a new stadium. “I don’t want to get into that now,” Selig says. “This is the first step. You can’t have any other steps without it.”
Another reporter asks about the Commissioner search. “We just agreed on a revenue sharing plan,” says Selig, clearly annoyed, “and you’re already asking about a Commissioner.”
There are more questions, but Selig waves them off. After 16 months, he’s won the revenue sharing battle and every owner in baseball now stands behind him as Acting Commissioner. There will be more time to answer questions tomorrow. What’s left of this night will be spent in celebration.
“Have a good night, boys,” Selig says as he walks away with his wife.
All the owners have left the Marriott when New York Times writer Murray Chass takes the elevator up to his room and dials Fehr’s home number. The union leader is not surprised to hear from Chass, who fills him in on what he knows of the owners’ plan.
“There’s nothing like predetermining the end of negotiations before you start,” says Fehr, the sarcasm in his voice impossible to miss. “For two years, they’ve been saying that if they reach such an agreement, the next step is for players to accept a cap. There has not been the slightest suggestion that the players were invited to do anything except say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
Which is exactly what Selig just told his fellow owners.
The second day of the owners meeting is reserved for announcements. Each league will have three divisions and an expanded postseason. The playoffs will begin with four best-of-five series, with the winners advancing to a best-of-seven league final. The pennant winners will then meet in the World Series.
The owners have decided that any new labor agreement requires 21 votes—a 75 percent supermajority—instead of a simple majority. This is a crucial change that makes it far easier for Selig and his partner, Reinsdorf, to get their way. All they need now is eight votes in order to block any deal they don’t like. And the rumor from the previous night is true: Selig has been drafted to remain Commissioner.
“In no way, shape, or form do I want to be Commissioner or will I be Commissioner,” Selig says. “If this promotes stability, it is in the best interests of baseball.”
It is left to Bartholomay to call the two finalists. His first call is to Schiller, who is not surprised. During the interview, Bartholomay had asked Schiller why he wanted to be Commissioner. “With all due respect, it already looks like you have your Commissioner,” Schiller answered, nodding in Selig’s direction. When Steinbrenner checked in after the interview, Schiller told George what he had said.
“I know, I know,” the Boss told him, “but please don’t withdraw your name. It will make us look bad.” Schiller assured his friend he would keep up the pretense, so it is easy to be gracious when Bartholomay calls.
Weber, who was so confident the job was his that he’s been leaking his selection to the media, is not nearly as understanding. A stream of invective is launched at Bartholomay after he delivers the news.
The courtesy calls done, Bartholomay goes out to spin the media.
“It has become increasingly clear that we could be best led through this critical time by the only person who fully understands the journey, its pitfalls, and its dreams,” he announces. “We have prevailed upon Bud Selig to continue as chairman of the Executive Council, the titular head of Major League Baseball, fully charged to make the leadership decisions this game needs.”
As for his search committee going forward?
“I would think the committee would review what we have done,” he says, “evaluate where we are at that time, and decide how the process should work.”
Or as Schiller said, they already have their Commissioner.