MARK MCGWIRE FIDGETS nervously in a large chair inside a makeshift studio in Newport Coast, a small town in Southern California. It’s early in the evening of January 11, but he’s already had a very long day. McGwire started this second Monday of the New Year with a round of phone calls to admit what everyone had long assumed was true: he used steroids while he was hitting all those home runs.
And now he’s sitting across from Bob Costas, who’s shuffling his notes just as a producer signals the start of their live interview on MLB’s television network.
“At the time you were doing steroids,” Costas says in his opening question, “did you feel as if you were cheating?”
McGwire stares straight ahead, blinks once, and answers. “As I look back now, I can see how people can think that,” he says. “But as far as my God-given talent, I don’t see it.”
It is not an easy interview for McGwire, who a week earlier learned only 23.7 percent of the baseball writers voting for the Hall of Fame had put him on their ballots, well short of the 75 percent needed for entry to Cooperstown. He’s never been comfortable speaking to reporters, and this is one interview he has been dreading for years. But once he decided to accept Tony La Russa’s offer to become the Cardinals hitting coach, this interview was inevitable.
So Big Mac sits across from Costas and repeatedly admits his sins, chokes back tears more than once, then turns defiant as the questioning goes on. “I was given a gift to hit home runs,” he tells Costas, insisting his 583 homers—tied for eighth with Alex Rodriguez on baseball’s all-time list—were a result of studying pitchers and learning how to shorten his swing. “The only reason I took steroids was for health purposes.”
Costas talks about McGwire’s call earlier today to Roger Maris’ widow Pat—“I felt I needed to do that,” McGwire says—and points out that the family considers Maris the true home run record holder.
“They have every right to,” McGwire says. “I can’t turn back the clock. All I can say is I’m sorry and I totally regret everything I’ve done.”
“Do you view your achievements now as authentic?” Costas asks.
“I’d have to think so,” McGwire says.
Almost the moment the 49-minute interview is done, the media and fans rip McGwire for saying steroids didn’t help him hit home runs and demand that he apologize. Again. Largely overlooked is McGwire’s revelation that he was ready to admit he used steroids when he testified before Congress in 2005. The government had refused to give him immunity—which former Congressman Tom Davis quickly confirms—and his lawyers advised him against any confessions.
Lost, too, is McGwire’s contention that Bud Selig and Tony La Russa knew nothing about his steroid use until he told them the very morning of his announcement. Digging into Selig and La Russa’s knowledge of steroids has never been high on the agenda of the baseball media, and the subject is quickly dropped. It’s always been easier to blame Don Fehr.
La Russa is one of the Commissioner’s favorites, and by the fall of 2009 he was ready to bring McGwire back into the fold. Cardinals owner Bill DeWitt called Selig to gauge his reaction. The Commissioner told DeWitt he would not stand in McGwire’s way.
That’s all DeWitt needed to hear. The Cardinals—the lone team in baseball without an African American player on its roster—fired hitting coach Hal McRae, the lone African American on its coaching staff, to make way for McGwire. The move was announced on October 26, the same day La Russa signed on to manage the Cardinals for his 15th season. McRae, whose batters hit .263 for the NL Central division champs—tied for fourth-best in the league—is the only change La Russa makes to his coaching staff.
“I don’t know how many years I have left to manage, and I wanted to take this opportunity to invite a guy who I think has a very special talent,” La Russa said about McGwire, who played almost his entire career under Tony, including the last four and a half seasons, when he hit 220 home runs.
Selig was equally enthusiastic last October, telling reporters he was “delighted” to have Mark back in baseball. “I have no misgivings about this at all,” he said that day. “Mark McGwire is a very, very fine man, and the Cardinals are to be applauded.”
Earlier this morning, Selig and McGwire spoke by phone. McGwire apologized for using steroids and thanked the Commissioner for his support. McGwire, never one for long talks, kept the conversation short. Selig decides to let the former star do all the talking today, choosing to release a prepared statement hailing McGwire’s admission as yet another example of Bud’s success in cleaning up the game.
“I’m pleased that Mark has confronted his use of performance-enhancing substances as a player,” Selig says in a statement. “The so-called Steroids Era—a reference that is resented by the many players who played in that era and never touched the substances—is clearly a thing of the past, and Mark’s admission today is another step in the right direction.”
The Players Association is pleased that Selig, for once, is not demonizing a player when talking about steroids. But as the first year under new Executive Director Michael Weiner unfolds, no one at the union is letting down his guard.
They are bemused when the 14-man committee to “improve baseball on the field”—created by Selig in the waning days of 2009—holds its first meeting a few days after McGwire’s announcement and tosses around ideas like realignment and eliminating the designated hitter. Selig chairs the group, which also includes 13 current and former members of baseball management. Tony La Russa is there, as is unofficial Bud biographer and apologist George Will.
There is no one under the age of 42 on the committee, and no one who’s played the game in the 21st century. More telling: there are no current players or union officials. Given that anything of substance decided by the Gang of 14 has to be cleared by the union—which has fought off several attempts to eliminate the DH through the years—it’s a glaring omission. Selig loves to boast about 16 years of labor peace, but no one at the union—including its new executive director—trusts the Commissioner any more than they did when he was colluding on salaries, trying to impose a salary cap, and canceling a baseball season.
Of greater concern is Selig’s continued quest to scrub his legacy of all ties to “the so-called Steroids Era,” as the Commissioner often calls the seasons of record-setting home runs. Union veterans are worried that Selig will try to test Weiner, much as he tested Fehr with collusion in Fehr’s early years—and the issue of performance-enhancing drugs is a logical testing ground.
One challenge comes in March, when an unnamed baseball official tells the New York Times that Selig is considering using blood tests for human growth hormone in the minor leagues. It is widely suspected that a number of baseball players have switched from steroids to HGH, which cannot be detected by urine tests. The story follows news that an English rugby player failed a blood test for HGH, the first positive result in the six years the test has been in use.
The union knows Selig is determined to get a test for HGH before 2012, the year he says he will leave office. And the Commissioner seizes another opportunity to put the union in a public relations trap two weeks later, when boxers preparing for a match agree to blood testing. “We are currently exploring the feasibility of conducting blood testing for HGH in the minor leagues as soon as possible,” baseball VP Rob Manfred says in a statement, adding that the Commissioner’s office has begun “a dialogue with the union on blood testing.”
The union has steadfastly opposed blood testing, citing privacy and reliability concerns. But where Fehr would have come out swinging, Weiner won’t be cornered. “We look forward to further discussions as we jointly explore how we might strengthen our program as it relates to HGH,” says Weiner, fully aware that a reliable blood test is nowhere on the horizon.
The transition from Fehr to Weiner has gone smoothly, as everyone at the union expected. The 48-year-old Harvard law grad has run the day-to-day operations of the union for much of the last decade, and the players are comfortable with his laid back personality and his ability to explain complex issues in an easy-to-grasp manner.
It’s already been a busy first year. In January, Weiner reached an agreement with Manfred to jointly monitor the way the Marlins spend their revenue sharing proceeds. Florida’s had the lowest payroll in three of the last four seasons, and in 2006 the Marlins spent $15 million on player salaries—half of what the team received through revenue sharing.
And on April 6, Weiner announces the union is looking into concerns among agents and players of collusion after a slow winter in the free agent market. “We have concerns about the operation of this year’s market, and we’re investigating those concerns,” Weiner says.
Revenue sharing and players’ salaries will both be on the table when Weiner and Manfred begin negotiations for a new contract sometime before the end of the year. Testing for HGH is certain to be on the table as well. Weiner doesn’t think Selig is working to box him in ahead of labor talks, but others at the union are not as sure. They know these are Selig’s legacy years and fully understand what that means.
There’s no denying George Steinbrenner is ill. He can no longer get around without a wheelchair, and he can rarely stand up without the help of aides. But tonight is a good night. Tonight, seven days past his 80th birthday, George is enjoying dinner at his mansion in the leafy, older section of Tampa, smiling, talking, even laughing.
One night later George is rushed to St. Joseph’s Hospital. His heart is failing, say the doctors. Jenny and Jessica, who have been watching over George almost every day, are comforting their mother Joan. Hank and Jessica’s husband Felix are pacing. Hal has one eye on his father, the other on his three young daughters. There’s not much to do now but watch the nurses walk in and out of George’s hospital room, glance at his monitors, and make sure the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose is secure but comfortable.
It’s 3 a.m., George seems stable, and Jenny turns to her weary kid brother. “Why don’t you take the kids home?” she says to Hal. “We’ll call if anything changes here.”
Hal collects his sleepy girls and walks out of St. Joseph’s and into the early morning darkness of July 13. He drives home, opens the door, and his phone rings. It’s Felix. “You better come back here quick,” he says.
There’s a blood clot near George’s heart, and the doctors are deciding what to do. Alarms are going off, a sound you never want to hear in a hospital. Now the nurses are clearing the room, getting ready for the doctors to put George under so they can try to save his life. But they can’t. At 6:30 a.m., George Steinbrenner is pronounced dead.
Word travels fast. Mariano Rivera is in Bermuda with his wife Clara, where he is hoping to recharge for the second half of the season. Rivera, who skipped the All-Star Game in Anaheim with a slight muscle pull in his abdomen, is walking through the hotel lobby on the morning of July 13 when a fan stops him. “Did you hear that George Steinbrenner was rushed to the hospital this morning?” the man says.
Rivera stares at the man for a moment, blinks back the first of his tears, and reaches for his phone. He knew this day was close when he saw his friend in Tampa the first weekend of the season. George made it to the final game of the Yankees’ series with the Rays, and he always made it a point to see Mariano before leaving the stadium.
Steinbrenner was sitting in a wheelchair, his nurse at his side, as the team filed out of the clubhouse. Rivera, who’d saved the Yankees’ 4–3 win an hour earlier, walked over to the team’s 80-year-old owner and hugged him gently.
“I love you, Boss,” said Rivera, surprised at how frail his friend felt.
“I love you, too,” George said. “Keep doing good. How you feeling?”
“How you feeling, Boss, how are things?”
“I’m good. Keep doing good—you have to do good.”
Now Rivera is on the phone, waiting for Yankees traveling secretary Ben Tuliebitz to answer his call.
“Ben, it’s Mo. Is it true?”
“I’m afraid it is,” Tuliebitz says. “George died of a heart attack this morning at 6:30. There was nothing they could do. I’m sorry, Mo.”
Randy Levine is in Lake Placid. Yankees executives were never allowed to take vacations during the All-Star break under George, who always thought he could pick up ground while the other teams relaxed. Hal has different rules, and the Yankees president is in the resort city with his wife when his cell phone rings. “George died this morning,” Hal tells Levine. “I’m so sorry,” Levine says.
“Thank you. Can you please make the calls?” Hal asks.
Levine looks at his BlackBerry. It’s not quite 7 a.m. Saddened to lose both a boss and a friend, Levine and his wife pack up and head back to New York to start making arrangements. On the drive he calls out to Anaheim, where he wakes up Bud Selig. “George passed away this morning,” Levine says.
It’s been a painful few weeks for Selig. Just five days earlier his brother Jerry died after a long battle with cancer. Bud still worries about his own experience with skin cancer over the past five years. And his wife Sue’s brother died from cancer five weeks ago. Now George is gone. Selig knew his friend was suffering, knew George’s illness had robbed him of the vitality that made him appear bigger than life. At least now George’s suffering was over.
Selig and Levine talk several times throughout the day, exchanging information and making plans. Bud will ask for a moment of silence for George tonight after the All-Star lineups are announced. The flags of America, Canada, and California will fly at half-mast, and a video tribute will be shown on the stadium screen. The Yankees will hold a pregame ceremony when the team returns to New York in three days. In a few hours, Bud will do an interview with Bob Costas for baseball’s network and website.
“He owned the team in the biggest market, I owned the team in the smallest market—we never should have been friends,” Selig tells Costas. The Commissioner looks tired and sad; it’s been a long few hours. “But we were friends. Good friends.”
“Does George Steinbrenner belong in the Hall of Fame?” Costas asks.
“Look, George was going to do what was best for the Yankees, but there is no question about it, he had a great impact on the game,” Bud answers, the words coming quickly now. “He was great for the game, great. I don’t mind, I don’t mind telling you… well, Bob, I’m going to miss him.”
No one in baseball knew both sides of Steinbrenner better than Selig, who is visibly shaken through most of the first 10 minutes of his annual talk with the national media. All of it is spent reminiscing about George. “He never gave me a problem, not one time,” Selig says. “We may have disagreed on some things, but in the end he’d always say, ‘Do what you want.’ And bam, he’d slam the phone down. That was the end of the conversation.”
Major League Baseball pulls together a media conference for the Yankees in Anaheim before batting practice, one for Andy Pettitte, Alex Rodriguez, and Joe Girardi and a separate one for Derek Jeter. “He expected a lot and he demanded a lot,” Pettitte says. “He raised, I believe, the level of not only the Yankees organization but the bar around baseball for other teams to try to keep up and compete.”
Jeter has too many stories to tell. The note the Boss sent explaining what he expected from the kid the Yankees drafted with the sixth pick in ’92. The time, early in his career, when George yelled at Derek for getting doubled off third base on a line drive. The call after he named Jeter captain seven years ago.
“It’s tough, because he’s more than just an owner to me,” says Jeter. “He’s a friend of mine. He will be deeply missed.”
Jeter last saw his friend at the home opener, when he and Girardi gave George his World Series ring. “I teased him and told him he had to take off his Ohio State ring and replace it with the Yankee ring,” says Derek, who had planned to visit with George in Tampa over the next two days.
Much is written about George over the next several days—about the outsized personality, the serial firings, the free agent signings. How he turned a $10 million investment into an empire worth billions, one that will escape estate taxes thanks to Congress’ failure to close a loophole in the tax code for 2010. How he donated millions to help people—supporting the pediatric emergency center at St. Joseph’s Hospital, providing scholarships for the children of slain Tampa police officers, quietly paying for the funeral of a local high school football player who was shot and killed.
The sharp edges are nearly forgotten now, the mistreatment of employees and his two suspensions mentioned only in passing. A gleaming new stadium and a lucrative TV network stand as twin monuments to his vision. The free agent contracts surpassing $100 million stand as a testament to how much he helped reshape the game. He passes as a man respected by most and loved by many, though just how well he understood this in his final years is, sadly, in question.
Steinbrenner’s family is preparing for the private funeral in Tampa three nights later when the memorial ceremony for George is held in the Bronx. New Yorkers recognize a part of their identity has moved on, and all eyes are on Yankee Stadium on this warm July night. Players and coaches from the Tampa Bay Rays stand along the third baseline. Mariano Rivera and the Yankees straddle the first baseline. Mo stands closest to home plate, two red roses wrapped in blue ribbon pressed to his chest.
An army bugler plays taps as Rivera walks forward slowly and places the flowers on home plate. Mo told a few teammates before the game that it still didn’t feel real. Now it finally does.
“Good-bye, Boss,” he whispers. “I’ll miss you.”
Cooperstown. It represents a piece of anyone who’s ever taken part in the game of baseball. But only the lucky ones get to live here.
Andre Dawson has been waiting for this moment for nine years, and there were many days when he figured it would never come. He played major league ball hard and well for 21 years, made eight All-Star teams, and won an MVP. Everyone considered the Hawk a star, though not everyone was sure Andre was a Hall of Famer. But here he is on a warm, humid Sunday in late July, sitting in a tall director’s chair on an outdoor stage in Cooperstown beside the Commissioner of baseball. Dawson is ready to take his place in history.
Induction Weekend is all about history. Dawson was never the game’s most important player, but his career and Selig’s are inextricably linked. It was Dawson who produced the signature moment of the Selig-led collusion plan, handing the Cubs a blank contract in March of 1987 when the power-hitting Gold Glove outfielder found no takers for his services. Chicago gave him a one-year, $500,000 deal—half of what he’d made a season earlier—and he rewarded the Cubs with 49 homers, 137 RBI, and an MVP award.
It is Dawson’s first team, the Expos, that Selig bought and sold in the contraction scheme. And it’s Dawson’s generation that Selig now holds up as the last to play baseball without the taint of drugs. That’s something both Dawson and Selig know is untrue. But history has a way of changing in Cooperstown.
Selig arrived in town one day after mandating that all minor leaguers have their blood tested for HGH in 2011, the same flawed test that was floated for the major leagues this spring only to be dismissed by most experts as little more than a PR tool. The timing is no coincidence. It will be a combination of Hall of Fame players and team executives who will decide if Selig enters the Hall, and performance-enhancing drugs will be his litmus test.
Selig, his staff, and the rest of baseball’s royal family are headquartered at The Otesaga, the historic 101-year-old hotel that stretches for 700 feet along the shore of Otsego Lake. The majority of living Hall of Famers travel here every Induction Weekend, and this year is no exception. Hank Aaron, Bob Gibson, and Tom Seaver are among the 47 who made the trip. They’re all fiercely proud of their exclusive club; more than 17,000 men have played in the major leagues, and only 203 are enshrined in Cooperstown. It’s good to be among peers every summer for a fun—and profitable—weekend.
Hundreds of fans packed the quaint little town Saturday afternoon, all hoping to catch sight of baseball’s legends. It’s not difficult. By late morning, dozens of Hall of Famers and a handful of familiar stars are sitting behind tables in makeshift booths up and down Main Street, autographing bats, balls, hats, and pictures, all for a price. Frank Robinson rushed past two familiar reporters to take his seat, sign his name, and collect $75 for each signature. Reggie Jackson signed for $100. Pitcher Jim Bunning, who will leave the U.S. Senate at the end of the year, charged only $50.
Many of the same fans watched as their heroes were driven down Main Street in antique cars later that evening. The parade ended at the Hall, where an invitation-only cocktail party awaited. Round tables were set up for the players in the alcoves of the main hall, where their plaques hang. A long row of serving tables divided the room, which soon filled with MLB officials, a few from the union, and the men and women who decide which players reach Cooperstown and which don’t—the game’s writers.
Selig entered late, preceded by two security guards, who floated through the crowd ahead of him. He chatted up Bob Nightengale of USA Today and Phil Rogers of the Chicago Tribune, two of the game’s most influential writers. Bud slowly worked his way around the room, greeting the ex-players warmly, one hand on each man’s shoulder, shaking hands, leaning in to listen and talk. No one is a bigger fan of these men than Selig.
The next afternoon, all 47 Hall of Famers are seated behind Selig and their club’s newest member, who are now both watching the video of Dawson playing on a screen to the right of the stage. There’s the majestic swing that produced 438 home runs. There’s Dawson chasing down a fly ball in Wrigley Field, then throwing out a runner trying to tag up and score.
Each play is described in admiring tones by a narrator, who also tells the 20,000 fans looking up at the stage that Dawson’s blank contract offer to the Cubs in 1987 “was the mark of a true team player.” There is no explanation of why the Expos and Cubs were the only teams to offer Dawson a contract. The word collusion is never spoken. Cooperstown may be all about history, but not everything makes the cut.
Dawson, long considered one of the game’s class acts, is gracious when he steps up to speak. He thanks the fans of the Expos, fans who made the three-hour drive across the border to honor him. Baseball may have forgotten Montreal, but these fans remember why and boo Selig each time his name is mentioned.
Andre expresses his affection for Chicago, where he won his MVP award. He talks movingly about his childhood, about how baseball gave him a life he never thought he’d live. He talks about how his wife iced his aching knees, about the path laid down by black players who came before him, and the honor of sharing a field with so many great athletes. He thanks the writers for always treating him fairly.
Dawson is about 10 minutes in when his mood shifts. There are people who’ve made mistakes and damaged the game, he says, mistakes “that have taken a toll on all of us.” Dawson never says the word steroids, but there is little question about the point he wants to make. “Individuals have chosen the wrong road,” he says. “Others still have a chance to choose theirs. Do not be lured to the dark side.”
Dawson pauses, then continues for another 40 minutes, telling stories, praising the game he loves, thanking family and friends. Before he’s done, Dawson jokes about several of the men sitting behind him. He draws the biggest response for his tale about pitcher Goose Gossage.
“Goose is the only player I know who could drink a case of beer on the flight between Chicago and St. Louis,” Dawson says, stopping for effect. “And still pitch lights out the next day.”
The crowd laughs. So does Selig and every player on the stage.
Left out of Dawson’s talk of drug use in baseball—approved and unapproved substances—is the game’s love affair with amphetamines that dates back at least to the times of Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle. Indeed, Gossage—who has spoken out loudly about shutting the doors to Cooperstown to all steroid users—has openly discussed using amphetamines to overcome the haze of alcohol, sometimes simply to stay awake in the bullpen. Baseball banned amphetamine use in 2006, but more than 100 players a season receive a medical exemption to continue using the drug.
Yes, Cooperstown is all about history. But sometimes it depends on who writes the script.
It’s been a tough summer for fans of the Milwaukee Brewers. Their team lost nine straight in May, has had a winning record for just two days, and entered the last week of August sitting 12½ games behind the NL Central–leading Reds. Any real talk about the Brewers now revolves around the idea of trading star first baseman Prince Fielder, who’ll be a free agent at the end of next season.
It hasn’t been a good year for a lot of people in Milwaukee. The city ranks third in the nation in jobs lost, trailing only Detroit and Las Vegas. The local employment picture is so bleak that it takes a month just to get an interview at the HIRE Center, a job bank in Milwaukee. With its tax base shrinking, the city recently reported that the sales tax used to finance Miller Park, due to be retired in two years, will be extended indefinitely. Some estimate the stadium’s true cost at almost $1 billion.
None of this is on the minds of the 250 invited guests sitting under a tent in front of Miller Park on the sunny afternoon of August 24. It’s a celebrity gathering: Hall of Famers Hank Aaron, Frank Robinson, and Ernie Banks sit up front with Jackie Robinson’s widow, Rachel. Joe and Frank Torre are here, too. White Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf sits near Randy Levine, Paul Beeston, Bill Bartholomay, and scores of other baseball executives. There’s columnist George Will and former Wisconsin football coach Barry Alvarez.
All are here to witness the unveiling of a seven-foot bronze statue of the man who saved baseball in Milwaukee.
“Bud Selig is responsible for everything we have here today, including this magnificent stadium,” master of ceremonies Bob Uecker tells the guests with a grand sweep of his left arm.
Uecker, natty in his olive-green suit, white shirt, and yellow tie, stands at the podium on a large stage with the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra playing softly behind him. To his left sit Senator Herb Kohl and Brewers owner Mark Attanasio and his wife Debbie. To Uecker’s right is a giant blue curtain, behind which stands the statue of Selig commissioned by Attanasio last fall.
“I was with Bud on many occasions up at the State Capitol when things weren’t going well with getting a new stadium,” Uecker continues. “Some of the things that were written and said about Bud were really bad, unbelievable stuff. But he never wavered. And he won. And that is why we honor him here today.
“So it is with great pleasure that I introduce my friend Allan H. ‘Bud’ Selig.”
Selig and his wife Sue walk through a side entrance on cue, shake a few hands, and take their seats on the stage for a program honoring baseball’s Commissioner. All Bud’s children are here, including Wendy and husband Laurel. The couple flew in from Phoenix with 12-year-old Natalie, who is missing her first two days of seventh grade at the request of her grandfather. Selig wanted all five of his granddaughters here for his big day. “She can’t miss this,” Bud told Wendy.
Many of the game’s owners have made the trip to Milwaukee as well. There’s Marlins owner Jeff Loria, whose team was caught pocketing revenue sharing money by the union back in May. One day earlier, documents leaked to the website Deadspin showed Miami cleared $50 million in profits over the last two seasons—upsetting news for the Florida legislators who are building a new stadium with taxpayer funds. Loria consistently told Florida leaders he could not afford to build the stadium or even help finance it. John Henry and other big market owners have already been telling Selig they want to scale back revenue sharing in the next labor deal, and this news is only going to give Bud more headaches.
There’s Dodgers owner Frank McCourt, handpicked by Selig in 2004 to replace Rupert Murdoch in Los Angeles. McCourt’s nasty season-long divorce from wife and Dodgers President Jamie has embarrassed Bud and baseball, revealing the couple borrowed against the franchise’s escalating value to finance a lifestyle that includes five homes, private jets, and luxury spas. Many in baseball questioned whether the highly leveraged McCourts could afford the team and wondered why Bud ignored the game’s debt rules when he ushered them in. Now Selig is sending word through friends that it may be time for the McCourts to sell their team, no matter how the divorce case is settled.
Most of the New York office is here, too, including Bob DuPuy, who knows his days as Selig’s No. 2 man are all but over. No one knows how to read Selig better than DuPuy, who started working for Bud as his personal lawyer in 1988. First it’s the phone calls that don’t get returned, then the assignments that used to come your way but now go to others. It’s been like this for months, and DuPuy knows why. When Bud claimed he’d retire after his latest three-year extension in 2008—“This is clearly it,” he said about the deal that would take him through 2012. “I say this without equivocation”—several owners suggested Selig name DuPuy his successor.
DuPuy urged these owners not to take the idea to Bud, and with good reason: Selig all but threw the owners out of his office when they made the suggestion. And now there are people—some of them under this tent today—who’ve convinced Bud the whole idea came from DuPuy. After 20 years of loyal service, he’s lost Selig’s ear, a disappointment he’s finding hard to fathom. But DuPuy has read the signs well. On September 28, baseball will announce his resignation.
Many of the men who played for Bud’s Brewers are here, and each player walks to the stage wearing his old jersey as the orchestra plays the theme song to Field of Dreams. Robin Yount talks about how Selig treated his players more like family than employees. And how the Brewers hated to look up in the stands when things were going poorly because Bud would be sitting there “with his face buried in his hands.”
Attanasio tells everyone there’d be no baseball in many small cities if not for Selig, “one of the greatest men baseball has ever known.” Senator Kohl jokes about the older pitcher Selig snuck into the title game to beat Kohl’s team back when they were both sixth graders in Milwaukee. “And that’s the man who protects the integrity of this game!” Kohl says.
Hank Aaron is last to speak. Aaron and Selig have been friends for more than 40 years—“through good times and tough times, through laughs and tears,” Hank says. They don’t always agree. When Selig announced he wanted to return the home run title to Aaron earlier this year, Hank said no, the record belongs to Bonds. But there is real affection between the two men, and the crowd listens intently as Aaron declares Selig the greatest Commissioner in the history of Major League Baseball. “He is an American hero, a baseball hero, and a civic icon and visionary,” Aaron says. “Bud Selig is my hero.”
The two men embrace, and now it’s time to unveil the statue that will stand between those of Aaron and Yount. The two best players to wear Milwaukee uniforms meet at the right side of the stage and pull on long ropes as the orchestra comes to life again, playing the theme to The Natural.
Slowly the curtain pulls back, revealing the seven-foot bronze statue of Selig as a younger man. The likeness is remarkable, with the bespectacled man’s left hand pushed into a pocket, the other arm extended forward, a baseball sitting in the palm of his right hand. The crowd stands and applauds as the ceremony comes to a close.
“It was tough for me today, I was really emotional,” Selig tells the media in a post-ceremony session he shares with Attanasio, Aaron, and Yount. “This is one of those really unique times when a kid had a dream and it came true.”
There is just one more part of the dream left to realize, and that should happen in due time. Though one can debate the merits of saddling his hometown with a billion-dollar bill for a baseball stadium, it’s doubtful there would be a team in baseball’s smallest market without Selig’s persistence and powers of persuasion. For that, today’s statue is well deserved.
But this is only part of Selig’s legacy. It’s the owners now surrounding Selig, hands outstretched to congratulate him, who represent Selig’s biggest impact on this game. It’s been his ability to find common ground between big market owners like Tom Ricketts of the Cubs and small market owners like David Glass of the Royals, old hands like Tigers owner Mike Illitch and newcomers like Nationals majority owner Ted Lerner, that ended the internal divisions that held back baseball for so many years.
Yes, Bud’s small market obsession made life more difficult for the Yankees and teams in other major markets—Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles—to thrive, the key to capturing a national audience in every sport. There’s a fine line between achieving competitive balance and discouraging innovation, and Selig often erred on the side of holding back the big boys who typically drive the game.
And yes, Selig’s refusal to look upon Don Fehr as a partner instead of an adversary was destructive, most notably when he threw away the goodwill baseball earned after September 11. Worse is his insistence that the players take full blame for baseball’s steroid crisis, a decision that wiped out a generation of stars—a growing problem in a sport where players compete against history as well as today’s opponents on a daily basis.
But there’s no denying that baseball has prospered greatly under Selig’s leadership. Those who focus only on his shortcomings, or insist that the tech boom made baseball’s surge in revenues inevitable, forget the dark days when the big market owners’ refusal to share revenues with their small market brethren threatened to cripple the sport. Selig’s ability to forge consensus season after season, labor deal after labor deal—and the prosperity that followed—deserves to be honored with a 15½ by 10¾ inch bronze and wooden plaque in Cooperstown.
Hanging right alongside plaques for George Steinbrenner and Don Fehr.