It’s a sunny Montana afternoon. The air is crisp, light, and the freshest you could breathe. I’m holding my daughter in one arm, phone in the other, ready to record my husbands’ first bullpen on a baseball field since late August. While waiting for word on a baseball season and a rise of COVID cases in Florida, we decided to pack our things and head to his home town of Missoula, Montana.
Home to the University of Montana, this hippie town is filled with eclectic shops, mountain vibes, art, culture and my favorite of all, friendly neighbors. It’s a closed nit community, thriving on uniqueness and outdoor adventure, with a lifestyle much different than the one I’ve thrived on for most of my adult life.
It is also home to a minor league baseball team.
Every summer, the Arizona Diamondbacks send their new draft picks to play rookie ball here in the Pioneer League. The team formerly known to locals as the Missoula Osprey, brings the community of Missoula professional baseball, with the closest Major League team being miles away in Seattle. The field is known to be one of the best to play on in lower level minor league baseball and the town as one of the coolest for all the reasons described before.
As my husband continued throwing to his dad at catcher, I looked around and began to realize this establishment could soon lose its credentials.
The rawness of that moment brought me sadness. Sadness for what’s to come. Sadness for how we got to this point. Sadness for the sport. Sadness for the community. And, sadness for every single baseball player whose dream could come true, starting on this field.
We know there won’t be a minor league season as was released last week. But, don’t be fooled. Major League Baseball knew long before it’s formal announcement, they just didn’t care to tell us. The announcement doesn’t exclude all minor league baseball players from playing this year. Some have been lucky enough to find themselves on taxi squads made up of choices from the front office.
When choosing players who will make up the extra 20 guys on this years 60-man rosters, front offices could go in two directions. They could add a combination of their young top prospects and AAA guys on the cusp of the majors to avoid missing out on a year of developing them, or they could add free-agent signees who are oftentimes over the hill and older, with the ladder being more conventional to teams who will contend, not so much for teams who don’t hold much competitive advantage for the year, one would logically think. But logic seems to be absent from baseball when it’s needed the most, leaving talent at home for the year, fending for themselves, with little to no help from the organizations that hand-picked them.
How does this affect minor leaguers besides an opportunity to play and develop in 2020? Well, it sends a message, that’s for sure. The message is dimensional and if we’re being honest, one that does not radiate hope. Rather a message that forces players to look at unfortunate truths behind the game that many work hard to ignore. Part of the message further proves the rather obvious idea that Major League Baseball simply does not care about the Minor Leagues. The message also regurgitates what almost every current and past player knows to be true: that teams only care about the players they’re financially invested in. It also admits an issue that front offices don’t see talent at their higher levels that could impact a major league season at this current time, as Dodgers GM Andrew Friedman pointed out verbatim.
Let’s be clear, if you’re not seeing enough talent at the AA/AAA level, you are either not looking hard enough, or you are doing a lackluster job at developing your entire system, not just the players you once threw millions at.
What may come as a surprise is learning baseball front offices are entirely responsible for what happens in the minor leagues. The two leagues seem separated yet they actually are much closer than you think. For example, a Double A coach has zero control over who takes the field for him any given day. It’s a huge misconception that coaches, well coach. To paint the picture further, the person present for every game, watching unprojected guys prove their talent, watching prospects implode or ride out seasons on prospect status alone, taking note of who says “please” and “thank you,” or who is the first to console and lend a shoulder to a struggling player, has no control over the careers of the players he’s coaching.
The minor leagues are where character can develop, but it’s also the place where character and talent is ignored, all too frustrating to put into words at times.
No minor league season affects its players more than the fact an extended off-season is not ideal. Many players did not see an inning of play during a spring training cut short, dating back to early September as the last time they were able to compete. How could you possibly expect guys to come into spring training next year in the best shape of their lives when they’re so removed from the game? How do you expect them to take care of themselves physically with only receiving an already underwhelming paycheck for only part of the last 18 months? How do you expect guys to train, eat, pay their bills, take care of their families off of $358 a week (yes it’s taxed). How do you expect guys to take care of their mental health with the constant fear that the already little amount of money they are receiving could be taken away at the hands of billionaires claiming they’re not making enough money this season? How are players supposed to forge ahead when an overwhelming fear of being released hangs over their heads for the next 8 months? How do you expect guys to return to baseball with the same competitive attitude and energy expected from them every year when the message you have sent is that you don’t care?
It leaves players who lives function highly in limbo in even more limbo-like situations anticipating their place in their organization come spring training 2021.
The biggest issue of all is that MLB expects guys to “stick it out,” “suck it up,” and “wait their turn,” because of their love of the game. As if that’s enough to ignore the treatment, pay, and lack of consideration they are faced with almost every day.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with loving baseball and wanting to play it professionally while simultaneously expecting more from the game you love. The two can coexist.
Baseball’s issues aren’t exclusive to the minor leagues. Now is a crucial time for the sport when it comes to its’ responsibility of how it handles social issues, and many are curious how the black lives matter movement will affect the future of the game.
It’s impossible to ignore the fact that racial inequality exits in almost every ounce of life. Systemic racism is real, and it rears its roaring head in baseball as much as anywhere else, maybe even more. An older, whiter, and crotchety-ier fan base doesn’t ignore the fact that race is a huge issue in professional baseball. With an overwhelming number of white players and front offices made up almost entirely of Ivy League white men, the Black Lives Matter movement presented itself as a sigh of relief for Black ball players, allowing them to feel safe enough to speak their truths as Black men in America. From this came honest conversations of past and present players opening up about times they were racially profiled, subjected to police brutality, and forced to be in locker rooms with people who didn’t have their best interests because of the color of their skin.
Conversations exclusive to players of color began when they were able to come together and collectively tell their stories of how the color of their skin has affected their lives, regardless of the money and fame of being a professional baseball player. Individually, players used their platforms to take us down memory lane leading up to today as they struggle to understand the current state of the sport.
What comes to mind is a story Torri Hunter told during a conversation with former Black baseball players facilitated by Doug Glanville. He talked about a time when he was at his house in Orange County and local police showed up at his door. Convinced he didn’t live there, they aggressively attacked him, held him down with a gun pointed to his back, until a younger officer explained to his fellow officers that he was Torii Hunter, star of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. The disrespectful and unforgettable racial bias Hunter experienced wasn’t enough when the officer who held a gun to his back asked for tickets to Angels games. It was appalling, disgusting, and embarrassing to read, but even more, it was heartbreaking to hear their stories as others began to trickle out as well.
Everyone involved could recall situations where nothing but the color of their skin put them in danger. Where “that car is stolen” or “he doesn’t live here” was the conclusion of seeing a Black mans success.
They also talked about segregation in the clubhouse. It was explained that there were the Black players, the few guys who were cool with the black players, and then there were the rest of the guys, and the Latins. The camaraderie we so often see taking place on sports fields doesn’t always follow suit behind the scenes, a misconception that is important to understand and why. It seems like the idea of a “team” may be more of a fantasy than a reality.
The most gut wrenching of them all came from Ian Desmond, who put out statements to Instagram, which ultimately ended with his decision to opt out of the 2020 season. Ian told stories about his home little league fields that haven’t been used for actual little league in years, rather for travel ball tournaments and showcases. “Not so much baseball for all anymore… as much as baseball for all who can afford it,” he says as he shines a light on the exclusivity of the sport and how it caters almost completely to the wealthy and privileged while turning its back on those who can’t afford to play. He spoke about these exact fields being a safe-haven for him growing up, as well as a place he struggled with being a target of racism through his bi-racial upbringing. He brings us back to the days he played on those fields, when baseball was affordable and accessible to everyone who wanted to play and it was ran by people who cared about your well-being, not just how you performed on a field. He references a quote from Dick Lee when summarized says that baseball is about tradition and passing the torch to the younger generations in hopes of them making it better for all who come next, which it is failing to do for the nation it represents.
Why weren’t we aware of these situations and stories before? Why weren’t we creating an environment that allows everyone to exist in clubhouses where their voice and pain matters? But mostly, why has baseball turned their backs on Black communities, especially their youth?
Desmond points out that MLB’s current community youth program RBI (Reviving Baseball in Inner Cities), which works to support urban cities with organized baseball, may not be doing the best they can, bringing the realization that just because there are programs in place with the intent to help, does not mean those programs and resources are operating at their highest potential. The most upsetting of all is the complacency in place. MLB seems perfectly fine with how things are. They seem to have no urgency to work towards a more inclusive sport or acknowledge their negligence in the lack of diversity it represents. They choose to live in their privilege, hire and acquire people of the same, with no urgency to understand how to make changes for the future of baseball when it comes to race.
After a week of players of all levels came out virtually begging baseball to acknowledge them, their pain, and to take a stance, MLB finally and possibly begrudgingly decided to respond publicly to the Black Lives Matter movement after been beaten to the punch by the big names that carry the game. But why? Why did it take so long for them to say something? Anything at all? When the people who make the sport what it is were looking for support and guidance, their superiors were too busy protecting its’ owners outdated views, with some being known to snuggle up to he who won’t be named.
So, if we won’t listen to the names of the game, maybe we’ll listen to statistics.
Plain and simple, here are the facts. When it comes to teams, there is one Black General Manager, two Black Managers, no Black majority team owners, and less than 8% of rosters are made up of Black players. It wasn’t until 1994 that we saw our first Black GM.
According to The National Sporting Goods Association, in 2003 nine million kids between the ages of 7 and 17 played baseball. By 2013, that number had declined by 41%. There is no difference in opinion when regarding the lack of diversity in baseball from the ground up. The numbers simply reflect a sport that has made its presence in affluent white communities and turned its’ back on communities of color.
Baseball is also failing its current players. After hearing how many people can speak on behalf of witnessing or being a target of racism in locker rooms, it’s time MLB takes on the culture it’s created. Fortunately for them, the stage has been set, they just need to write the script. I understand that approaching something as sensitive as race can be tricky, but it’s a company’s responsibility to stand up for its’ employees and take a stand against outdated views.
Maybe a good place to start is by working to continue the conversation, not just with Black players, but with everyone they employ. Open the conversation up to teams as a whole, call out phrases and words that should never be used, and the most important of all, educate. Hire people whose sole jobs are to teach others about the history of race in our country and how to be an ally to people of color in modern day society. Don’t just ride on the coattails of the RBI initiative and point at Tim Anderson as an example of how you’re woke. Really take the time to focus on your organizational members whose skin color has never made life hard.. In other words, confront privilege in play and work to create a workplace where everyone feels safe and equally valued.
MLB has lost its moral compass, though some could argue if it ever had one. Cheating scandals, domestic abuse, drug and mental health problems; it’s hard not to wonder how much effort the league has spent ignoring its internal issues rather than actually facing them head on.
Their handling of domestic abuse seems performative when you think of how often it happens and how many abusers are currently in baseball. The precedent has been set, and the punishment underwhelmingly fits the crime. When asking around, team meetings during spring training lead by professional counselors was said to be the course MLB chose to take in hopes of combatting domestic violence. I was pleasantly surprised to hear they do take some initiative until I learned there was only one meeting and many players did not have to attend. Domestic Violence somehow still poses as this taboo issue in sports when it really is simply something that should not be tolerated. We could aim to add in another meeting or two, and in addition, we could lay down the law for domestic abusers so that they don’t keep circulating systems and receiving paychecks from the game.
When talking about cheating in modern day baseball, you cannot deny the creative lengths teams will go to. And although MLB may have arguably done a decent job at handling the Astros comprehensive cheating in 2017, a standard no tolerance policy when it comes to cheating and PED’s has yet to be set. Why should someone with the mindset to cheat have any place in professional sports in general? Why should their punishment often times reflect one of being taught a lesson they should have learned long ago?
One of the hilariously embarrassing moments we can reference is when MLB reversed the banishment of a player who tested positive for PED’s too many times. They literally banned him from the game for cheating and then took it back. You’re telling me there isn’t anyone else that deserves a shot before that guy? You’re going to tell me with a straight face that 40-rounds of drafting, free agent signings, millions of dollars invested into player development and the guy who was BANNED from Major League Baseball for cheating too many times is your guy? It makes zero sense to the average brain, but we read you loud and clear, baseball.
We also just passed the anniversary of Tyler Skagg’s tragic death, one that was hard to swallow and easily avoidable if MLB took it upon themselves to do a little extra work. Drugs and alcohol are often times synonymous with wealth and fame, but even so, not a single professional athlete (or human) should have access to drugs like fentanyl, especially from someone who is supposed to protect them. The idea that a player was in so much pain to the point where their mental health was so seriously affected and the only way to feel any type of relief was to resort to dangerous drugs is inexcusable. It just doesn’t make sense how minor leaguers used to frequently be tested for marijuana while Major League Baseball players could get their hands on almost any type of drug they wanted as long as it wasn’t performance enhancing. The fact that they don’t even have the balls to say to its’ players, “don’t do drugs” is remarkable considering the uproar of disgust we have to deal with when players started bat flipping.
MLB’s lack of self-awareness at times is astonishing, but honestly not surprising since so much of their brand is not caring what or who their actions affect as long as their revenues report in the billions.
We cannot deny or ignore the role of fans in all of this. As fans, we are too quick to judge players. We tell them to be athletes only and to leave the human part behind. We expect them to behave in a way that we may not hold ourselves accountable of. We get angry when they have a little fun, furious when they speak their minds, and expect perfection every time they suit up to play. Players are the ones on the receiving end of blame and backlash often when they don’t deserve it. This is because the player and fan relationship is so disconnected. For fans, it’s easier to blame the person who is more accessible to them, rather than consider the facts that created the situation they are mad about. It’s easier for fans to look at players as video game like characters and not as human beings. People misconstrue their relationships to sports as something the athlete didn’t ask for. In fact, fans sometimes see the complete opposite of what the athlete wants them to see, cue the “shut up and dribble crowd.”
Think of it this way, you will be a human for longer than you will be a professional at whatever you do. Knowing that, it’s important for fans to look at the entire picture, the person behind player should not be ignored.
Athlete is their job title, it’s not an ode to every ounce of their existence. Let’s say someone reading this is a plumber. Do people expect you to confine every part of who you are to toilets? And if they did, how would that feel? How would it feel if you couldn’t watch sports because, well, there’s no toilet that needs fixing in a baseball game? Or you wanted to bake a cake but now you can’t because there are no pipes in baking. Athletes are fathers, brothers, sons, and friends. They’re everything you and I are to someone in life, yet fans are still so quick to send death threats to players after poor performances without considering the humanity behind them. Behind that person could be someone who hasn’t seen his family in two months. Someone whose grandpa is dying slowly and painfully of cancer. Or, someone whose wife is about to give birth to their first child and is living in fear of missing that moment. It’s second nature to see the player but not see the person, and that needs to change. Never mind the responsibility of the league to “brand” or “promote” players so that we know who they are, it shouldn’t have to be shoved in our faces for us to show compassion. It also shouldn’t matter that they take home seven-figure salaries or live in big houses in expensive cities, your respect should not be withheld because they didn’t embody perfection on a field or showed signs of being an actual human.
Yes, Major League Baseball is back, and yes, that’s great, but we at this current moment cannot ignore what is at stake for the future of the sport. And the only way to do that, like many other issues coming to light during this time, is to continue the conversation on what the future of baseball might look like if the sanctity of the game isn’t protected, and the people making the calls refuse to change with the times. It is so important to educate people who are blind to the realities of Major League Baseball and how it operates, blind to anything other than their teams best hitter, blind to the injustice embedded in the sport, in more ways than one, and blind to the reality that if baseball doesn’t get its shit together, it could have seen its best days.
When I look at baseball, I see so much potential. Not just for myself or my family, but for the sport to genuinely grow into something everyone can relate to. I see it possible for its inconsistencies and shortcomings to be fixed. I see it possible for the game to radiate diversity, much like the country it reflects. I still see baseball as America’s pastime and a symbol of healthy patriotism. I still think of the late nights at Shea Stadium with my dad and I still cherish cafes in small town America where I killed time while my husband chased his dream. I still see little league fields as a sign of hope for future generations and I am still grateful for the opportunities and the people I’ve met when working in baseball.
I know baseball can be better, we just need to work on the how. Now is not the time to slow down the conversation or to back off of what is at stake just because we have a 60-game season. Never is the time to stop criticizing things we love, because when you love something, you want to see it at its best. You want to see it thrive and do the right thing. You want to believe it can change with new circumstances and grow as time goes by. You want to force it to acknowledge its’ failures without disregarding its success. I don’t think it’s too late, but I do think we may be running out of time. Baseball, I love you, and I probably always will, but you need to do better.
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