DON FEHR LEANS against the front of the dais, arms folded loosely across his chest, watching the long lines of striking baseball players file into a big ballroom in Orlando’s Hyatt Regency Grand Cypress Resort. It’s just about time to call this meeting to order, but 260 players put their names on the sign-up sheet, and many are still searching for one of the few empty seats at the tables spread out before him.
This is one of several meetings Fehr scheduled to keep players informed, telling them what the owners are up to, explaining the union’s decisions, and answering their questions. And since this meeting takes place on February 16—the first day of spring training—it was always going to be a big one. But then Lenny Dykstra went on ESPN last week, said mediator Bill Usery’s proposed 50-50 split of revenues sounded good, and promised to round up 20 of the game’s top players and figure out how to end this strike. Once word got out that Lenny was coming to Orlando—and Fehr told Gene Orza to make sure he was—this was destined to be the biggest meeting in union history.
Fehr knows Dykstra’s stand is exactly what Selig is counting on—when a star player breaks ranks, can the others be far behind? And the union leader wouldn’t be surprised if Phillies President Bill Giles, one of Bud’s close allies, is the man pulling Lenny’s strings. Indeed, the rumor flying around the ballroom is that Lenny was seen huddling with Giles at a local bar last night, scribbling down notes as the Phillies executive spoke.
But Fehr isn’t all that concerned about Lenny as he calls the meeting to order. The union filed another unfair labor practices charge four days after leaving Washington, and Fehr is certain the law is once again on their side. That’s what his team has been telling the players. And the players believe it, too. A $280 million collusion settlement buys you a lot of credibility. So does refusing to take a salary during the strike, something Fehr and his staff have done during every work stoppage—and this one is no different.
And now Fehr is ready to deliver his message. The owners refuse to drop their demand for a salary cap, so negotiations are at a standstill, he tells the jam-packed room. The owners think they can get the cap because they believe you’ll cave once you see replacement players wearing your uniforms. They still don’t understand you.
“We will win this,” the union leader says, “if we remain united.”
Fehr knows the owners are pressuring players to cross, especially young players who haven’t made their money yet. And veterans who failed to put money aside and now have big bills to pay. And Latin American players worried about getting their work visas to come back to the United States.
Which is why Dykstra is such a gift.
Dykstra, flanked on either side by teammates Darren Daulton and Dave Hollins, rises from his seat, pulls a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket, and begins to read. “Now is the time to make a deal,” he says, keeping his eyes down. “This can get really ugly. The union is going to get broken when people start crossing the line. We’re all losing so much money every day.”
Roger Clemens is the first to interrupt. “Put that fucking paper down and tell us what you really think,” Clemens says. “Don’t tell us what your owner thinks.”
“Yeah, tell us what you think,” others repeat across the room.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” some of them shout.
Cecil Fielder stands and looks at Lenny as the room quiets. Everyone knows the big first baseman is a carefree spirit, but there’s little of that in evidence now. “All the guys who came before us and gave so much so that we could do what we’re doing now, and some of you guys don’t want to do the right thing,” Fielder says. “If you all don’t want to do the right thing, well, fuck you.”
Dykstra struggles through a few more talking points before he puts the paper down and finally looks up. It’s time to rejoin the team. “You all know that I’ve had some problems with this process,” Lenny says, “but I just want to make sure you all know that I am behind this union. I want to get back on the baseball field, but I’ll stick with you as long as I have to.”
More players stand up, one at a time, repeating Fielder’s call for solidarity, vowing to do for tomorrow’s players what previous generations of players did for them. Then it’s time for union leadership to speak up. Michael Weiner tells the players that management’s offer wipes out most if not all the gains the players have fought for and won, going all the way back to Curt Flood. The freedom to market your skills, to play where you want to play and who you want to play for, and the right to salary arbitration—all of it, Weiner says, will vanish.
David Cone, who’s been lobbying Congress alongside Fehr to repeal baseball’s antitrust exemption, tells players they simply can’t trust the owners. “They say they want to split profits 50-50, but they won’t show us their books,” he says. “How will we ever know if we really got 50 percent?”
Scott Sanderson, another Executive Board member, applies the finishing touch. “The central question is very simple,” says Sanderson, an 18-year veteran without a contract for the coming season. “Can I have a show of hands: Which of you players here think we should give the players who come after us less than we received from the players who came before us?”
The room is hushed as everyone looks around. Not a single hand is raised.
The owners thought turning Lenny to their side would tear us apart, Fehr thinks as the gathering takes on the feel of an old-time revival meeting. But they never get it right. And they never will. Not as long as the Mattinglys, the Fielders, and the Sandersons remember all they’ve gained and how easily it could all slip way. These players are as united now as they were the day they went out on strike, a message the owners will soon receive from the media waiting outside the ballroom doors.
Fehr knows he has Lenny to thank for that.
It’s been a bad few months for the game’s Acting Commissioner. In January, he finally had to tell the good people of Milwaukee that he can no longer afford to pay for a new stadium, which now includes plans for a roof and a brand-new price tag: $250 million. The team lost $10.7 million in ’94, he admits, including $4 million in loan payments alone.
Selig tries to jump-start baseball’s stalled labor talks, convening a meeting in Scottsdale on February 28. But the talks crash and burn three days later when Paul Molitor shreds Selig’s revenue sharing and luxury tax plans before a roomful of owners, executives, and players. Embarrassed and frustrated, Selig issues a threat on his way out the door: he just might turn negotiations over to Jerry Reinsdorf and union-busting lawyer Bob Ballow and “let them blow the whole thing up.”
Meanwhile, his replacement player scheme runs into trouble right from the start. Sparky Anderson, the game’s most successful manager, tells the Tigers on February 17 that he won’t manage replacement players. Detroit, which had already paid Anderson $350,000 of his game-high $1.2 million salary, puts its manager on an unpaid leave of absence.
Which is more than the Red Sox do for their hitting coach and former major league star Mike Easler, who also refuses to work with strikebreakers. Boston promptly fires him. Toronto allows manager Cito Gaston and his coaches to work with its minor league teams instead of replacement players, but Canadian lawmakers tell the team to find a new home field—in another country—if replacements are used. Canada does not allow strikebreakers, though the government makes an exception for the Expos, fearing the cash-strapped team might fold and cost Canadians their jobs.
Orioles owner Peter Angelos—worried in part about protecting Cal Ripken’s consecutive game streak—makes good on his promise not to field a replacement team. Selig threatens Angelos with fines, suspension, and the possible loss of his franchise. And Washington, D.C., makes a sudden appearance on the list of markets being considered for another soon-to-be-announced round of expansion. When Angelos refuses to buckle, Selig is forced to cancel all 32 Orioles exhibition games.
“Selig’s methods to resolve baseball’s problems are—how should I put it?—amateurish, ineffective, and doomed to failure,” Angelos tells the Los Angeles Times. “Watching him is like watching a person put his hand in a buzz saw. You want to shout, ‘You’re splattering blood all over the rest of us!’ ”
Selig’s attempt to use top minor leaguers as replacements is foiled when Fehr warns the young stars they’ll be considered scabs and forever banned from the union if they cooperate. When promises of bonuses and threats of demotions fail to induce any of the top prospects on each team to play ball, the owners kick them out of camp. Fehr smartly steps up and pays the players’ way home.
Many of the players who do take the field are laughable. Mets center fielder Marcus Lawton came to camp straight from a riverboat casino, where he was a card dealer. Their new second baseman Bubba Wagnon left his job at B&B Landscaping in Alabama. At Yankees camp, George Steinbrenner watches his team of truck drivers and cabbies lose its first two games, then fires six players and cuts his staff’s salary by 10 percent. Then he tells Gene Michael to put a better team on the field.
Yankees beat writers keep asking George why he’s been silent about the strike all spring, but Steinbrenner simply repeats what he’s said all along: he supports Selig. What else could he say? Even after Selig put him on the powerful Executive Council in late February, George knows any plan Bud proposes is going to cost him dearly. So what is Steinbrenner going to tell reporters—that he’s pulling for Fehr to win this fight?
On March 2, the Indians trade five replacement players to the Reds without getting a single player in return. “Cleveland got the better deal,” says Cincinnati manager Davey Johnson, who watched 48-year-old Pedro Borbon—a spot starter when the Reds won back-to-back titles in the mid-’70s—fall down from exhaustion while jogging around the Reds complex.
After the Brewers replacements lose to the Rockies 24–2, starting pitcher Tim Dell tells Milwaukee manager Phil Garner, “We just haven’t peaked yet.” In the Mariners’ camp, manager Lou Piniella sees his new recruits gain so much weight from feasting on the free breakfasts, lunches, and postgame ice cream that he puts them all on diets.
Through it all, the owners keep telling fans and the media that this is the only way to save a game facing dire economic problems. But it all sounds laughable on March 9, when the owners vote to add expansion teams in Phoenix and Tampa for the ’98 season. How can baseball be in such bad shape, reporters ask, if there are people competing to give them $150 million per team just to join their club?
But the really bad news comes on March 14. That’s when NLRB general counsel Fred Feinstein announces he will issue yet another charge against the owners, accusing MLB of failing to bargain in good faith when Selig implemented the new system. And it gets worse three days later: Feinstein says he’s asking the NLRB for permission to seek an injunction in federal court. If issued, an injunction would force the owners to dismiss the replacement players and restore the terms of the old contract.
As he waits for the NLRB to render a decision, Selig knows the players will never break ranks now. The ruling comes on a Sunday afternoon nine days later, and it’s more bad news for Bud. In a 3–2 vote, the Board’s three Democrats clear Feinstein to seek an injunction.
After a 227-day strike, Selig and Fehr will face off in federal court.
The nation’s baseball fans tune in the next day to learn the identity of the judge who they hope can do what the President, the Vice President, two federal mediators, and countless lawyers have failed to do: put Major League Baseball back on the playing field. In Manhattan, a court clerk turns the hand crank that rotates a thin, box-like drum containing cards bearing the names of 38 federal judges. Then he stops, opens the drum’s latch, pulls out a card, and reads three words aloud: Justice Sonia Sotomayor.
Born a Yankees fan in the South Bronx and raised by a single mother, Sotomayor graduated from Princeton in 1976 and was appointed to the federal court by President George H. W. Bush. She is considered thoughtful, thorough, and exceptionally bright, and her decisions in her 2½ years on the bench tend to tilt left. Now 40 and still the federal court’s youngest judge, she’s on the fast track, many say, to be the first Hispanic named to the Supreme Court.
Sotomayor tells both sides of baseball’s dispute that she doesn’t know any more about the case than the average reader of the New York Times. But it’s clear she understands its time-sensitive dynamics: Opening Day is Sunday, six days hence, so she instructs management to file its briefs by Wednesday, less than 48 hours away. The NLRB will have until 5 p.m. Thursday to respond. Meanwhile, she will read the voluminous filing the NLRB lawyers delivered today.
“The hearing is set for Friday at 10 a.m.,” says Sotomayor, who sends the lawyers off with one final thought. “We would like to see the two sides settle this thing without our involvement.”
No one involved thinks there’s even a remote chance of Sotomayor’s wish coming true—least of all Don Fehr, who has to be feeling good about how things are playing out. Both the NLRB and the union are relieved the judge selected to hear this case is not a conservative—the kind of judge who tends to favor management. As an added bonus, the judge is a woman. The union is weary of seeing many of Sotomayor’s male counterparts turn into little boys when presiding over cases involving baseball—and delivering judgments to match.
The next three days are a blur. Steinbrenner and Mets co-owner Fred Wilpon spend Tuesday rounding up the eight votes needed to block a lockout. On Wednesday Fehr announces that the players will end their strike and return to work if Sotomayor grants the injunction blocking the use of replacements. Selig holds a conference call on Thursday, and all but three owners vote to start the season with replacement players.
“I want it on the record that I think it would be a tragic mistake to go ahead with this plan,” says Steinbrenner, who joins Baltimore and Toronto in opposition. But as the hour-long call draws to a close, Steinbrenner tells Selig he’ll change his vote if the Orioles and Blue Jays change theirs.
Neither will bend.
“Bud,” Steinbrenner says, “just do what you want with my vote.”
“George,” says Selig, “you have to make the call.”
“Okay, then,” an exasperated Steinbrenner says. “I’ll go with you.”
Sotomayor steps into courtroom 101 of the U.S. District Court in Manhattan early Friday morning. There are four tables before her bench, two on each side. The room is filled with reporters and baseball officials, leaving very few seats for curious New Yorkers wanting to sit in on history.
Sotomayor compliments both sides for doing an excellent job of educating her on the details of the case, then says she hopes no one thought she was not a baseball fan. “You can’t grow up in the South Bronx without knowing baseball,” she says.
Her first question is to Dan Silverman, the regional director for the NLRB in New York, asking him to explain why the owners’ action causes the players irreparable harm if it isn’t stopped now. Silverman explains that changing the contract unilaterally is illegal, and that only a speedy trial will prevent the owners from benefiting from their illegal activities.
Sotomayor next turns to George Cohen, who represents the players. There is a long-standing principle, Sotomayor tells everyone in the courtroom, that if harm can be remedied by money, “you don’t issue an injunction.” Why, she asks Cohen, can’t any harm caused by the owners be solved by monetary means?
“ ‘Competitive bids,’ Your Honor, does not just mean money,” Cohen says. “It means an intense variety of personal considerations. Where does a player want to play? Does he want to go back to his home team? Does he want to go to a team he thinks is going to be a pennant contender? Does he want to go to a team where he believes he will be a regular player?”
There are 115 players who are free agents this season, Cohen tells the judge. “Each one of these 115—approximately 20 percent of our bargaining unit—are being deprived of that opportunity,” Cohen says.
The judge then asks what this has to do with arbitration, and it’s clear from the way she frames her question that Sotomayor thinks the arbitration issue can be settled monetarily. Cohen explains how each class of player is connected to the others, how one superstar on the market can raise the bar for everyone—including players in arbitration—and how that changes from year to year.
It is not unlike collusion, he says, when the owners changed the system illegally. And the union is still trying to apportion the money fairly—five years later. “It’s like trying to unscramble an egg,” Cohen says.
Sotomayor’s questions for owners’ lawyer Frank Casey have a much harder edge. “What right do you, as any other employer in this system, have to change wages unilaterally?” she says. After Casey says the expired contract affords management the right to change wages, the judge tells him, “What you can’t do… is change the salary until you have reached an impasse in bargaining.” There are more questions, but it is already clear that the judge knows where she is heading.
The court proceedings are finished in 98 minutes. “Thank you,” Sotomayor says as she prepares to leave for her chambers. “Let’s take a break. In 15 minutes we will come back and I will tell you what I am going to do.”
She returns to the bench in 18 minutes, and every lawyer involved understands the decision they are about to hear was written in advance. Given the judge’s questions, they also know whatever final changes she just made did not change the result: the players have won. Now they are all about to hear why.
“This strike has placed the entire concept of collective bargaining on trial,” Sotomayor says. “It is critical, therefore, that the Board assure and that I protect its assurance that the spirit and the letter of federal labor law be scrupulously followed.”
Her conclusion: “The Board has reasonable cause to believe that the owners have committed an unfair labor practice and that an injunction is just and proper.”
Sotomayor takes 47 minutes to read her entire decision, and it is a blistering indictment of management. The owners, the judge says, simply “misunderstand the case law.” She says their argument for centralized bargaining is “superficial” and “misguided,” adding that “the right to join collective bargaining units belongs to employees, not to employers.”
The only remedy to all this, says the judge, is “to issue an injunction and thereby restore the status quo.”
The result: the owners have to reinstate salary arbitration, competitive bidding for free agents, and the anti-collusion provision of the free-agency rules. In addition, Sotomayor rules that neither side can declare an impasse in negotiations unless they receive her approval first.
It is a complete repudiation of the owners’ actions. All that was left was for Casey to request a stay of Sotomayor’s decision.
“Denied,” Sotomayor says. “You can go across the street.”
Casey and his team quickly rush across the street to the Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit. But the confidence the owners’ lawyers had coming into court today is gone. And so is any optimism that a decision by the appeals court will be any different from what they’ve just heard.
Fehr calmly collects his notes and heads to a brief meeting with the media. Sotomayor’s ruling “provided every bit of relief we asked for,” he says. Would it surprise him if the owners resorted to another lockout? Nothing the owners do surprises him, he says. “However, it would be an obvious indication they want to continue the dispute.”
The winning side celebrates by gathering for lunch at a nearby tavern. Fehr does not attend; instead he takes the subway back to his office with his brother Steve. He has a letter to write to Selig, telling the Acting Commissioner he is ready to start bargaining again. “Please give me a call when you want to start,” he writes. Michael Weiner leaves lunch when he learns the appeals court will hear the owners’ petition for a stay and an expedited appeal of Sotomayor’s decision next Tuesday, and heads back to court to collect the papers.
Gene Orza, Lauren Rich, and the rest of the staff lawyers are already at the union’s office when the Fehrs arrive. There are no speeches, and few congratulations are exchanged. Instead, there’s a meeting to review the back-to-work agreement and discuss their options should the owners do the unexpected and lock out the players. There are almost 800 players with unsigned contracts and several dozen players to prepare for arbitration hearings. There’s also a plan under way to set up camp in Homestead, Florida, for the 115 free agents to work out while their agents broker deals.
Sotomayor’s injunction does not rule on the merits of the unfair labor practice charges the players filed against the owners, but it’s clear from her written decision that she thinks the owners are in the wrong, just as Feinstein, Silverman, and the majority of the NLRB had already concluded. Nor does her ruling order the players back to work. Indeed, the owners do not immediately accept the union’s offer to return.
In a statement released soon after the ruling, Selig says, “The injunction may represent a step backward in our negotiations. Obviously we will appeal.” The owners, he says, will meet on Sunday in Chicago to decide their next move. Left unsaid: arrangements are already being made to iron out back-to-work rules with the union tomorrow.
Two days later, Selig is at the O’Hare Hilton, meeting with the owners he’s spent the past three years holding together. They want him to stay on as Commissioner—he has no intention of stepping down—but whatever sense of common purpose they held these last seven months is gone. It was always a fragile bond—they are, after all, in business to beat each other—so Selig is not surprised when the accusations and recriminations fly.
Why did Selig keep assuring them the players would cave?
Why did he think Clinton would back Usery’s proposal?
And why wasn’t there a fallback strategy?
Asks Marlins owner Wayne Huizenga, “Why are we folding after all this time instead of locking out the players?”
The lawyers present have already explained the financial risks of the lockout route, and few owners want to take that chance. Many in the room are just weary of it all and ready to put the game back on the field. But Huizenga, Reinsdorf, and a few other hard-liners don’t want to quit.
“You’re cowards,” Huizenga says in disgust.
But Selig has already counted the votes and knows that those favoring a lockout don’t have the 21 votes they need to keep the players out of camp. The 75 percent rule Reinsdorf pushed through in ’94 to keep the owners from folding is working against him now. Selig doesn’t even ask for a vote—no reason to stir the pot.
When their anger is spent, Selig reviews the back-to-work plan the two sides just reached. The players will be welcomed back to camp on Wednesday. Spring training will last three weeks, with Opening Day on April 26. The season will be 144 games rather than the regular 162. Rosters will be set at 28 until May 15, when they return to the normal 25.
After 234 days, the longest strike in sports history is over. As Selig walks out to meet the media, he knows he has nothing tangible to show for all his efforts. But despite the pain of the lost season, the lost World Series, and the hundreds of millions in lost revenue, Selig understands a few things were gained.
He now knows the big market owners will accept more revenue sharing.
He knows the players will accept a luxury tax, albeit one not nearly as large as he would like.
And he knows the fans will accept an owner as the game’s full-time Commissioner.
“The clubs are delighted to announce we have accepted the union’s unconditional offer to go back to work,” a weary Selig says. “The players are back, the game is back, and we are very happy about that.”
Frank Casey wishes he weren’t here. It’s Tuesday, April 4, one day before players report to spring training, and the owners’ lawyer is listening to three judges in the Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit shred his request for a stay of Sotomayor’s decision. He’s already been told that he’s “in the wrong court” for this motion, that his strategy is poor, and that he’s “going around in circles.”
And Casey thought listening to Sotomayor was rough.
Chief Justice Jon Newman asks Casey why he claims the injunction gives the players an incentive not to negotiate when Fehr has now sent Selig not one but two letters to the contrary. “When you’re telling us that the injunction is stopping you from negotiating a collective bargaining agreement, you’re telling us something that isn’t so,” Newman says.
It goes on like this for an hour, and near the end Casey hears something he will dread telling Selig. Two of the judges wondered why the owners withdrew their first implementation on February 3, when the NLRB said it would issue a complaint. “You could’ve fought that in court, and you would’ve had a heck of a case,” says Judge Ralph Winter, considered the expert in this field. “You didn’t.”
The three judges are unanimous in their decision: the stay is denied.
Selig declines to answer questions when reporters call about the court decision, and his day only gets worse from there. The results of the vote to finance a new Brewers stadium with a lottery come in late Tuesday night, and the news is awful. Voters rejected the lottery, with 348,009 saying yes and 616,685 voting no.
No revenue sharing.
No salary cap.
No stadium.
Bud Selig is back to where he started three years ago.