REDEMPTION WILL NOT come quickly—or painlessly—for those who run and play Major League Baseball. After a rushed three weeks of spring training, Opening Day is the chance for baseball fans around the country to let all concerned know just how they feel. One fan in Cincinnati sums it up when he rents a plane to fly over Riverfront Stadium with a banner reading OWNERS & PLAYERS: TO HELL WITH ALL OF YOU! trailing behind.
The Marlins and Dodgers line up along the baselines in traditional Opening Day fashion, then they all take off their caps and wave to the crowd as the PA announcer tells them to “say thanks to the loyal and patient fans of South Florida.” The loyal and patient fans treat the players to a long and loud chorus of boos. “I wanted to boo, too,” says LA first baseman Eric Karros.
Three fans pay a Shea Stadium usher three dollars to let them rush the field, where they sprinkle 147 one-dollar bills at the feet of Mets infielders. All three are wearing T-shirts reading GREED across the front and wind up at second base, fists raised, as the crowd of 26,604—16,000 less than a year ago—stands and roars. The picture runs in newspapers across the nation.
The PA announcer in Pittsburgh has to warn of a forfeit to make fans behave after they shower the field with sticks taken from flags the team handed out in the Pirates home opener against the Expos. In Detroit, fans use Indians center fielder Kenny Lofton as their target for baseballs, Coke bottles, whiskey flasks, beer cans, and a napkin dispenser. The outburst causes a 12-minute delay, and MLB is so concerned it sends in security director Kevin Hallinan to coordinate policing efforts for the next few games.
Both management and the union ask players to make an extra effort to connect with the paying customers, and players sign autographs for long lines of fans before and after games. No one shows more gusto than the newest Red Sox Jose Canseco, who stands in front of Fenway Park at 8:15 a.m.—almost five hours before game time—shaking hands and welcoming early-arriving fans to Opening Day.
Milwaukee management recruits 60 Little Leaguers to throw a “first pitch” to the Brewers and visiting White Sox players, who autograph each ball right there on the field. And after all the Brewers are introduced, every player and coach tosses his cap into the stands. But the game draws only 31,426—Milwaukee’s smallest Opening Day crowd in 22 years—and one fan dumps beer on Chicago center fielder Mike Devereaux while Acting Commissioner Bud Selig takes it all in from his box.
Even the Yankees fall 7,300 short of a sellout, despite the regal presence of Joe DiMaggio, there to throw out the first pitch, and the eagerness to see Don Mattingly resume his quest to reach the postseason—now 1,657 games and counting. Don Fehr and Gene Orza draw loud boos when they’re spotted walking onto the field. “You ruined the game,” one fan shouts at Fehr as he stands at the batting practice cage. When Fehr walks off the field, another fan holds up a sign saying $HAME ON YOU! Fehr gives him the finger.
George Steinbrenner, recovering from surgery to repair a detached retina, misses the Yankees home opener, but his involvement with his team has never been greater. On April 5, he personally sends a marginal outfield prospect and just shy of $1 million to Montreal in exchange for John Wetteland, the game’s top closer. The Expos—battered by losses from the strike—can no longer afford Wetteland’s $2.4 million contract or the raises he’s sure to get in arbitration the next two seasons. And Steinbrenner already cut a deal in December with his old friend Jerry Reinsdorf to bring Chicago’s former Cy Young winner Jack McDowell to New York. George’s expectations have never been higher.
And that’s bad news for manager Buck Showalter and his players when a slew of injuries drops the Yankees into last place in the AL East on June 6. Steinbrenner responds by making daily calls to Showalter to demand changes and results, reinstating the ban on facial hair he’d partially lifted and singling out Danny Tartabull for special abuse.
Steinbrenner questions Tartabull’s honesty when the outfielder—who hit .195 with no home runs and three RBI during the team’s recent 4–16 tailspin—complains of back spasms and Showalter pulls him from the lineup. The Boss asks reporters why the criticism hasn’t motivated Tartabull, in the fourth year of a team-record five-year, $25.5 million deal, the way it once did Reggie Jackson. The relatively calm owner of the past two seasons—the one who agreed in late 1994 to be regularly lampooned on the hit TV sitcom Seinfeld—is officially gone.
“I haven’t softened,” Steinbrenner says, in case anyone is wondering. “I am just as tough as I was before.”
George puts on a show in Detroit on June 13, sitting behind the Yankees dugout scribbling notes one day after his team dropped an error-filled game to the Tigers to fall to 16–25, the fourth-worst start in Yankee history. He then stands in the middle of the postgame locker room and complains to reporters while the players look on. “I came to find out what the problem is with this team,” he says. “I’ll tell you one thing—it’s not the payroll.”
Steinbrenner, whose $47 million payroll trails only Toronto’s $50 million roster, is never shy about spending money. And on June 19 he opens his checkbook to give Darryl Strawberry $675,000 and a $100,000 bonus if the troubled player follows his aftercare program for drug abuse. The same day he tells Doc Gooden’s agent the Yankees want to talk when the pitcher’s season-long suspension for cocaine use ends.
“I think Darryl can turn things around and be a great lesson for young people,” says Steinbrenner, defending a decision that draws widespread criticism.
The constant media circus erases the baseball-only atmosphere Showalter worked so hard to cultivate. And the manager can’t help but feel it’s contributing to his team’s poor play. As does the team’s captain. “We went two or three years where it was just baseball news,” Mattingly says. “Now we’ve got this other stuff again. It’s disruptive.”
Disruptive? George’s father taught him to manage by fear, and the way this overpaid team is performing, these Yankees have plenty to be fearful about.
Finally.
For the last several years, Los Angeles Times baseball writer Bob Nightengale has been pitching a story on the rising yet under the radar use of steroids by baseball players, but the idea never garnered much interest with his editors. Now it’s the second week of July, and Nightengale’s just been given the weekend baseball column to write, and he’s free to choose his subject. Well, he figures, might as well take a shot at the steroid story.
Finally.
Nightengale, a tall, gregarious young writer who makes friends and develops sources easily, has listened to baseball people talk about steroids almost from the moment he began covering the Royals for the Kansas City Star back in 1986. Coaches point out a player whose bat speed has suddenly increased with age and know something’s up. Scouts complain to him about losing credibility when a lightly regarded player not only makes the bigs but plays like a Hall of Famer. Players joke about the new vitamins making the rounds when a teammate shows up to spring training 25 pounds bigger—all of it muscle—than he was when the season ended just three months earlier.
No one mentions names, but it’s not hard for Nightengale—or most anyone on the baseball beat—to pick out Mark McGwire and Jose Canseco, or the A’s and the Rangers, as prime suspects. First it was the game’s hitters who drew suspicion, then the relief pitchers throwing 95 mph for three, four, even five days in a row. And it isn’t just the new muscles, players tell him: it’s the sense of confidence the suspected users seem to develop—confidence that translates into the focus needed to hit these 95 mph fastballs.
Back when the Los Angeles Times hired Nightengale to cover the Padres in 1989, San Diego superstar Tony Gwynn began sharing his concerns about the rising use of performance-enhancing drugs. And when the players came to their abbreviated spring training three months ago, there were more big bodies than ever—and fewer players joking about it. Nightengale listens to home run hitters like Ken Griffey and Fred McGriff complain about being suspected of using drugs at the same time the drug users are posting numbers as big—if not bigger—than theirs.
So Nightengale starts with those he knows best. One of his first calls is to Gwynn, hoping the future Hall of Famer has seen enough. Gwynn is cautious, but he does want the story to get out.
“It’s like the big secret we’re not supposed to talk about, but believe me, we wonder just like the rest of people,” Tony tells him on the record. “I’m standing out there in the outfield when a guy comes up, and I’m thinking, ‘Hey, I wonder if this guy is on steroids.’ ”
Nightengale reaches out to Randy Smith, the Padres general manager. Smith is a baseball lifer, the son of longtime baseball executive Tal Smith, and he’s already told Nightengale how troubled he is by what’s happening to the game. When Nightengale tells him the story he hopes to write, Smith says he’s all for it. Like Gwynn, Smith wants the story out of the shadows.
“We all know there’s steroid use, and it’s definitely become more prevalent,” Smith says for publication. “The ballplayers all know the dangers of it. We preach it every year.
“But because there’s so much money to be made these days, guys are willing to pay the price now and will pay the piper later. I can understand it’s a difficult choice for some players. They know it can take five years off their lives, but then they say, ‘Okay, so I die when I’m 75 instead of 80.’ ”
Nightengale asks Smith how many players he thinks are using steroids.
“I think 10 percent to 20 percent,” Smith says. “No one has any hard-core proof, but there’s a lot of guys you suspect.”
Nightengale thanks Smith for his time—and his honesty—and hangs up, knowing he has a story. He calls an American League general manager, who won’t go on the record but tells Nightengale he thinks Smith’s estimate is low. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s closer to 30 percent,” the GM says. “We had one team in our league a few years ago where the entire lineup may have been on it.
“Come on, you just don’t put on 50 pounds of muscle overnight and hit balls out of stadiums. I’m seeing guys who were washed up five years ago and now they’ve got bat speed they’ve never had before. It’s insane.”
Frank Thomas tells Nightengale he’d love to see drug testing in baseball. Expos GM Kevin Malone agrees. “If it can be done in every other sport, why not ours?” he says. “You hear the rumors that usage is way up, and it would be nice to know if those are accurate.” Dodgers reliever Todd Worrell tells Nightengale, “We’ve got guys out there willing to risk their lives just for a piece of glory. Until we have a set policy, we’ll continue to have problems, finger-pointing, and controversy.”
Nightengale has left Selig for last. He tells the Acting Commissioner what he’s hearing, leaving out the names but letting Bud know he’s heard a number of players and men in management say they’re worried about rising steroid use. Selig does not sound alarmed, nor does he have much to say. He tells Nightengale he spoke with the owners about steroids “a year, maybe 18 months ago,” and no one felt there was any evidence that steroid use should be a concern.
“If baseball has a problem, I must say candidly that we were not aware of it,” Selig says. “It certainly hasn’t been talked about much. But should we concern ourselves as an industry? I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to bring it up again.”
His reporting done, Nightengale writes his column and turns it over to his editors on the morning of Friday, July 14. The story runs the next day under the headline:
Steroids Become an Issue.
Baseball: Many Fear Performance-Enhancing Drug Is Becoming
Prevalent and Believe Something Must Be Done
Nightengale is at Dodger Stadium by late afternoon to cover the team’s night game with the Marlins. The Dodgers have lost seven of their last nine and enter the day’s game at 35–36, despite another sparkling season from Mike Piazza. The 26-year-old catcher, who played in his third straight All-Star Game four days ago (and homered), is hitting .367, with 13 home runs and 38 RBI in 44 games.
Nightengale is standing at the batting cage when Piazza approaches him. “Hey, dude, I saw your column in today’s paper,” Piazza says. “Do you really think that many players are using steroids? That there are that many players juicing?”
“Yeah, Mike,” Nightengale says. “I do.”
“Wow, really?” says Piazza, who pivots and walks away.
As batting practice ends, Nightengale makes his way up to the press box, where hardly a word is spoken about his story. Despite the best intentions of Smith, Gwynn, and the others who hoped their words might spark a reaction, Nightengale’s story receives little attention.
It’s clear only a handful of those in the game want to talk about its growing drug problem. Nightengale files the story away, and it remains largely unnoticed until a certain Senator from Maine brings it back to life 12 years later.
No matter which direction Bud Selig looks as he makes his way through his third summer as baseball’s Acting Commissioner, all he sees are problems. Big problems.
His labor situation is a mess. Once Sotomayor ruled against the owners, Selig’s dream of a salary cap died. So did the owner solidarity he worked so hard to achieve. Everyone reverted to form, especially Steinbrenner, who scoops up David Cone in late July for three minor leaguers and pushes his payroll to a game-high $55 million while the small market crowd keeps cutting costs. Selig’s $16 million payroll—down from $23.5 million a year ago—is now the lowest in the AL.
Baseball’s lawyers appealed Sotomayor’s decision, but no one expects it to be overturned. Selig gives his blessing for Foley & Lardner’s Stan Jaspan to reach out to the union’s Lauren Rich, and back-channel talks begin again in late summer. But Selig knows the negotiations won’t go anywhere. Why would the union want to cut a deal when they’ve got everything they want right now?
In the meantime, Selig is talking to old friend Randy Levine, the man who helped get Steinbrenner back in baseball, about leaving his job as Rudy Giuliani’s labor commissioner to take over baseball’s negotiations. Selig tells Levine he needs a deal, and he needs one soon. Come September, Levine will announce he’s taking baseball’s labor job.
The players are back, but many of the fans aren’t. Selig’s Brewers are among the hardest hit, playing before six crowds under 10,000 by the All-Star break. They’ll barely draw 1 million fans for the season, despite a team that’s overachieving. The Brewers are 52–52 on August 19, just one game behind the free-spending Yankees and squarely in the first-ever wild-card hunt, forcing Selig to explain his team’s success in a system he insists dooms it to failure.
“I’m delighted we’re in the wild-card race so far, and I hope it continues,” Selig says. “But it is very hard to compete this way on a sustained basis.”
It’s the same message he delivers daily in Milwaukee, telling fans and politicians how desperately he needs a new stadium to pump up his bottom line. Selig never threatens to leave, he simply takes every opportunity to say the Brewers can’t afford to stay in Milwaukee without a new stadium.
It appears Selig may finally get his wish when, with little advance notice, he and Governor Tommy Thompson announce a stadium plan on August 19. The Brewers’ proposed new home will have 42,000 seats and 75 luxury suites and will be built in the County Stadium parking lot. It will have a first-of-its-kind natural grass field under a retractable roof. The latter is a necessity if Selig is going to expand past the shrinking Milwaukee market: it’s awfully tough to persuade fans to make a two-plus-hour drive if the weather is going to wash away the game.
Under this plan, Selig’s team will own 36 percent of the new stadium and receive all the profits from every game and every event they can book, from rock concerts to tractor pulls. In return, the Brewers will contribute $90 million of the proposed $250 million construction cost. They’ll also pay $33 million in rent over 30 years, a deal Selig can’t break without losing his share of the building and facing legal action. If all goes well, the new stadium will open in 1999.
“Major League Baseball means you’re a major league player,” Governor Tommy Thompson says, “and Wisconsin cannot afford to lose its major league status.”
New taxes will pay the bulk of the cost: a tenth-of-a-cent sales tax increase in Milwaukee and Waukesha Counties and a 1 percent bump in hotel and motel room taxes in the same two locales. To further help the Brewers, Thompson says the quasi-public Wisconsin Housing and Economic Development Authority (WHEDA) will grant Selig a $50 million low-interest loan. The Brewers owner hopes the sale of naming rights will cover the $40 million balance of his obligation.
Selig, Thompson, Milwaukee Mayor John Norquist, and Milwaukee County executive Tom Ament began work on this plan four months ago, after state voters crushed the lottery proposal to fund the stadium. The negotiations were done privately in an attempt to keep opposition to a minimum. The proposal goes to the legislature in September for approval, but critics begin tearing it apart almost the minute the deal is announced.
Senate Majority Leader Mike Ellis, a Republican and longtime Selig critic, calls it “the biggest rip-off of the taxpayer in the history of Wisconsin,” and other legislators follow his lead. Ellis wonders how Bud can pay the rent and the WHEDA loan—an estimated $6 million a year—when he was late on his $600,000 rent payment this year.
The director of WHEDA, an agency that usually loans money for low-income housing and small businesses, wonders the same thing. Fritz Ruf, a Thompson appointee, says he can’t commit to the loan until he inspects the Brewers’ books and is assured that they can meet their obligations and have collateral if they can’t.
No one is tougher on Selig than the residents of the two counties directly affected, many of whom get their say in a series of public hearings before state legislators. About 400 of them show up at a hearing September 6 to listen to the Brewers owner state his case and to offer up their own.
“Other baseball teams that have built new stadiums have experienced unbelievable success,” says Selig, who sits rocking back and forth in his chair while addressing the lawmakers. He reminds them what it felt like to lose the Braves in the ’60s and how difficult it was to bring baseball back to his home state.
“We could go elsewhere and do much better,” Selig says. “We want to stay here.”
Selig’s last comment is a mistake, drawing boos and shouts of “Go!” from the crowd. The reaction is so heated that the Waukesha County sheriff’s deputies warn protestors to calm down or be escorted out of the building. Many in attendance say they want the Brewers to stay, but most are against the tax hike.
“I’m tired of hearing about how Bud Selig is suffering,” says one woman.
“The Brewers are an entertainment industry,” another woman says. “I can choose to go or not. The sales tax I have no choice on.”
The hearing lasts for several hours, and Selig tells reporters he understands some of the negative reactions. “It’s part of getting this package done,” he says before rushing off to the airport, where a private plane awaits to fly him to Baltimore.
Selig is on his way to see Cal Ripken play in his 2,131st straight game, breaking Lou Gehrig’s record for most consecutive games played. In a few hours, the Acting Commissioner will be sitting in a suite with President Clinton, witnessing history at Camden Yards—the gem of a stadium the people of Maryland built to keep their baseball team from leaving town.
Most of the 46,272 fans are already inside Camden Yards by the time Selig arrives, though those parking closest to the stadium are being delayed by Secret Service agents, who ask them to exchange their car keys for a receipt. With the President and Vice President, a few Supreme Court justices, and dozens of congressional representatives in attendance, every one of these cars will be searched. The keys will be returned when the fans leave.
More than 600 members of the media are also inside. Many have followed Ripken for more than a week as the Orioles icon approached Gehrig’s magic number of 2,130 consecutive games played, a record that has stood for 56 years. It’s very different from a year ago, when Camden Yards sat dark, the players were on strike, and Selig was seven days from canceling the World Series. But no one is talking about that now. Baseball connects best with its fans when there’s a player chasing history, allowing one generation to share something special with another.
And few moments are more special than this. The entire country’s been caught up watching Ripken as he washes away memories of greedy owners and selfish ballplayers one game at a time. It’s this very record—showing up for work, day after day, since May 30, 1982—that transforms a millionaire shortstop into a working-class hero.
The Orioles have underachieved all season, but Ripken has performed magnificently in the run-up to this night, hitting .364 and two homers in the eight games of this home stand. The pregame locker room is mobbed with media and Secret Service men, who surround Clinton, his daughter, Chelsea, Vice President Gore, and his son Albert III as they chat with the Orioles star.
“You’re a great role model for the young people of the country,” Clinton tells Ripken.
Ripken autographs baseballs for Clinton and Gore and writes a message on his signature-model black Louisville Slugger bat for the President: “To President Clinton. Thanks for being here on this special day. Cal Ripken.”
It’s soon time for the nationally televised game. Ripken charges onto the field, and everyone stands to cheer, including the 260 fans who paid $5,000 each to sit in the two rows flanking the Orioles dugout. The proceeds from the temporary seats—more than $1 million—will fund research for Lou Gehrig’s disease at nearby Johns Hopkins.
The Orioles have a 2–1 lead in the 4th inning when Ripken comes to bat for the second time against Shawn Boskie. The young Angels right-hander runs the count to 3–0, and the fans boo. Ripken then scorches Boskie’s next pitch halfway up the stands in left field, and the crowd goes wild as Ripken rounds the bases.
But that’s nothing compared to what comes next. The first two Angels go down in the top of the 5th, then Damion Easley lofts a soft fly ball to short right field. And when O’s second baseman Manny Alexander squeezes the ball tightly at 9:20 p.m., the game is official, and all of Camden Yards erupts.
Banners hanging from the B&O Warehouse behind right field unfurl to show the number 2,131. Black and orange balloons are released and streamers fly everywhere. Sparklers are lit on the stadium’s roof, and fireworks explode in the night sky.
Members of the Orioles bullpen run in as the scoreboard flashes IT’S OFFICIAL. Players on both sides hold video cameras as Ripken emerges from the Orioles dugout, points to his parents watching from a luxury box, taps his heart, and waves to the crowd. He takes off his uniform shirt and hands it to his wife Kelly, who’s sitting near the dugout.
Teammates Rafael Palmeiro and Bobby Bonilla grab Ripken and shove him onto the field, and Cal jogs down the right-field line, shaking hands and high-fiving fans along the way. Ripken stops in left center and embraces bullpen coach Elrod Hendricks, who has seen every one of the 2,131 games. He approaches the Angels dugout, hugs Rod Carew and Chili Davis, then shakes hands with every player.
He finally reaches the Orioles dugout, but the crowd begs for more. Ripken obliges, patting his chest and mouthing the words, “I can’t take any more.” After 22 minutes and 15 seconds, Cal finally takes his seat.
The rest of the game—a 4–2 Orioles win—is a formality, a necessary delay before postgame ceremonies. Ripken strolls out to the makeshift stage, flanked by his mother and father. His teammates shower him with gifts, including a 2,131-pound rock for his garden. Orioles owner Peter Angelos hands him the keys to a new Chevy Tahoe.
The clock shows midnight when the regal Joe DiMaggio walks to the microphone. The crowd goes silent. “All records are made to be broken,” says DiMaggio, a rising Yankee star when Gehrig played his last game on April 30, 1939. “Wherever my former teammate Lou Gehrig is today, I’m sure he’s tipping his cap to you, Cal. You certainly deserve this.”
And now it’s time for Cal. The 35-year-old star singles out his parents, his wife, and former teammate Eddie Murray for praise. He thanks the Baltimore fans for the support they’ve shown him in his 15 seasons as an Oriole.
“Tonight I stand here, overwhelmed, as my name is linked with the courageous Lou Gehrig,” Ripken says. “I know that if Lou Gehrig is looking down on tonight’s activities, he isn’t concerned about someone playing one more consecutive game than he did. Instead he’s viewing tonight as just another example of what is good and right about the great American game.”
Up in Angelos’ box, Selig exhales for what feels like the first time in a year. His game still has no labor contract, nor does he have any assurance his team will have a Camden Yards to call its own. But it turns out no matter how many times the owners and players shut down the game in a battle over money, or hustle tax dollars to build new stadiums, the fans keep coming back. And Cal Ripken just showed them why.
It’s the game they love.