From the Sidelines

Baseball's obsession with the phallus

I love baseball. I love reading about its glorious history, from the age of the Babe to Jackie Robinson's debut to the Yankees' dynasty of the '60s. I love poring over every imaginable statistic, arguing with my friends over whether Valentine should have walked the hitter with only one out and men at the corners. I love watching the psychological battle between pitcher and hitter. I love yelling at Joe Buck when he makes another asinine comment during a tense moment. I love the fact that the Red Sox always suck. It's a great game.

COURTESY THE ASSOCIATED PRESS Mike Hampton wants a contract worth more than $100 million.

But this offseason is leaving a sour taste in my mouth. The biggest free agent class in baseball's history has also made history with its me-first, money-obsessed philosophy of doing business. Mike Hampton might sign with the Cubs? Why? So he can lead them back to World Series glory? Please. He'll sign with the Cubs if they offer him the most money, even if it means leaving the Mets—who went to the World Series—or turning down the Braves. No, check that. He'll sign with the Cubs if they offer him as much money as Kevin Brown and Mike Mussina received.

And that's really the point. It isn't about having money for money's sake, as it was in the good old days (1998, for example). The contracts have gotten so immense, so ridiculously obese, that the actual dollar amount is meaningless for the best players in the game. Is there really a difference between $14 million and $16 million? Not unless you want five mansions instead of three. No, these contracts are not monetary anymore—they're phallic. Mike Hampton wants to—no, needs to—make as much money as Kevin Brown because then he can say, quantitatively, that he is just as good a pitcher. "Look! I have just as many zeros on my check as he does! I pitch just as well!" The contracts are really just giant penis extensions for ballplayers. How many times have we heard them say, "This isn't about money. It's about respect." As if getting a few dollars less would somehow shatter their egos beyond repair. It's almost as if these players are insecure teenagers, obsessively wondering whether they are cool, good-looking, and buff enough to get the girl.

Individual statistics serve the same purpose. Not only does Alex Rodriguez want to make sure he is the top-paid player in the game for the next decade by inserting an escalator clause in his contract to ensure just that, but he also needs to hit more home runs than everyone else to prove his machismo. That's why he suggested that the Mariners move the fences at Safeco in, though he contends it's because the team would win more games. Considering the Mariners just completed their finest season in history in their first full year at Safeco, that claim is about as dubious as the statement his agent Scott Boras released two weeks ago explaining that A-Rod had made no special demands to any team.

But don't put all the blame on the players. Why shouldn't they ask for all this money, if clubs are going to continue to act with all the intelligence of mealworms in signing free agents? Jose Mesa signed a two-year contract with the Phillies this week for two years and $6.8 million. In case you don't remember, Mesa posted an ERA of 5.36 last year and had a grand total of one save. To put it simply, he blows. So don't blame the Yankees, everyone's favorite target. Mussina is only their third major free agent signing during their five-year reign, after Mike Stanton and David Wells. And they're not the ones who broke the bank for Mo Vaughn and Brown. Sure, they can afford to pay their players more. But they also develop more good players: Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, Bernie Williams, Andy Pettitte. Blame the Phillies, for signing Mesa. Blame the team that signs Manny Ramirez, who rejected $110 million to seek out even more Benjamins. Blame Anaheim and Los Angeles for raising the bar. Blame the whole disgusting, seething, dirty, phallic system.

When I was a kid, I idolized Gary Carter. To me, he was the embodiment of everything that is pure about baseball. "Shake it off like Gary Carter," my father would tell me when I stubbed my toe or caught my finger in a door and appealed to him, tears running down my cheeks, holding out my injured appendage. Whenever I was running or jogging anywhere, I would ball my fists casually, loping in a heavy, regular trot, chest puffed up, feeling the muscles in my shoulders tighten—careful never to run too fast— head up, body upright, a little smile on my face, imagining that I had just crushed a mammoth home run into the bullpen at Shea; the Big Apple raising out of the hat with lights flashing and the crowd exploding, the score all tied at four in the bottom of the ninth: a perfect imitation of my hero. Who can kids turn to now? "Shake it off like A-Rod and if that doesn't work, then go buy yourself a BMW to make yourself feel better like A-Rod."

In a few weeks, Hampton, Ramirez, and Rodriguez will all sign huge, penis-inflating contracts. If they sign with Colorado, Texas, and Chicago, putting money over winning, I think I might move to Europe next March when spring training starts and become a soccer fan. And to the next generation of superstars and Hall-of-Famers, a message from yours truly: suck my phallus.

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