During Black History Month, Historic Black American Threatens to Make Baseball History.

February 10, 1995.

How did Ted Kennedy's Major League Baseball Restoration Act go over with the American public? Did anyone--players, owners, or fans--feel any sense of hope and optimism with President Clinton's personally appointed labor negotiator?

New York Times sportswriter Claire Smith had an answer.

First, the prologue. Claire Smith is nothing short of a historic figure. She is the first female baseball reporter for the Hartford Courant. In fact, she was one of the first female sports reporters anywhere.

Smith takes timeout at the 1995 All-Star game with Sandy Koufax and Steve Garvey.

How Claire Smith got her start a sports reporter is nothing short of historic. During the 1981 World Series, Sports Illustrated Reporter Mellisa Ludtke was assigned to cover the 1981 World Series. The New York Yankees were playing against the Los Angeles Dodgers, matched together for the third time in four years. One would think that more than a decade after the explosion of the women's rights movement, a female reporter could just walk into the Yankees clubhouse and do her job.

But it was not to be. She tried to walk in. The Yankees denied her access. She sued. She won. As a condition of the lawsuit, every American League team had to allow equal access.

In other words, women were allowed to do their job. Shortly thereafter, the Courant hired Claire Smith to cover the New York Yankees.

Story over? Not really. The plot thicken once again! When the Courant assigned Smith to cover the 1984 National League Championship Series between the Chicago Cubs and San Diego Padres, discrimination struck again.

Years later, Smith would recall in vivid detail what happened when she tried to interview the players after Game 1:

"I go down with the rest of the reporters. I'm in the clubhouse. Some of the Padres started chirping and cursing. 'Get her out of here.' So on and so forth.

"Some of the staff come and start saying, 'You have to leave, you have to leave, you're not allowed in here.' As they were ushering me out, I went right past Jack McKeon, who was the general manager, and I said, 'They say I have to leave.' And he said, 'That's right, this is [manager] Dick Williams' clubhouse.'

"At that point, it was either a trainer or a clubhouse guy — he had Padres gear on — he literally put his hand on my back and pushed me toward the door. As I was pushed out the door, Dick Williams was coming back from the interview room. I said, 'They say I have to leave.' And he said, 'That's right,' and just kept going."

After the trauma of being physically assaulted simply for doing her job, Padres First Baseman Steve Garvey walked on the field to conduct an interview. Smith reported on the game, but the real story was her eviction from the clubhouse and subsequent victory the following day: Yes, women were allowed to enter the clubhouse of National League teams, too.

Stay classy, San Diego: Steve Garvey comes to the rescue.

Smith would grow in her career as well, and by 1995, she was an established sports writer with the distinguished New York Times. In the wake of the strike, Clinton's multiple attempts at mediation, and now Ted Kennedy's attempt at restoration, Smith used the power of the pen to speak for fans of every race, creed, color, gender, and national origin.

Fans Should Turn Their Backs, Too. That was the bold headline from the conservative New York Times. This from a woman who had made sports writing her livelihood. A trailblazer who had accomplished so much for so long, who had recently been promoted from small-city beat writer to work for the nation's largest newspaper. The message to the players and owners alike was clear: we don't want you anymore.

"What an embarrassment," wrote Smith. "Not for Clinton or Gore, mind you. For Major League Baseball, an arrogant, spoiled industry that is, as everyone knows by know, not only capable of commanding such an audience, but of ignoring it, too."

A less than optimistic Bill Clinton tries to get baseball back on track on a Feb.
7, 1995 press conference. Vice President Al Gore looks even less optimistic. 

Smith spared no one from criticism. She expertly labeled members of Congress the "Sultans of Not." While a dysfunctional Congress may be what we in the business call "an evergreen story," the baseball's popularity nosedive was a relatively new development, from which Smith offered further insight and analysis.

"Pete Rose and his gambling scandal may started the hemorrhaging back in 1989. The death of a commissioner,Bart Giamatti, wounded the game again. The death of the commissioner's office made the sadness complete after the owners sacked Fay Vincent, a man who wanted to make peace with the player. Player related scandals, drugs, tax violations, and just aberrant behavior have fueled the deterioration of the game's image."

The point was clear: Major League Baseball may not be salvageable, or even worth the effort. Smith closed with a recommendation that those who still do care about baseball practice tough love. And why not? "The owners and players won't notice, anyway," Smith lamented. "They're too busy seeing the destruction of each other."

Six weeks from the start projected of opening day, and one of baseball's most distinguished writers was willing and able to search for a new career path. What chance did Major League Baseball have to get back on track?

Did Steroids Make Jason Giambi a Worse Ballpayer?

I'm not talking about ethically. I'm talking physically. Because I believe that steroids ultimately proved to be a performance decreasing drug for Jason Giambi.

When the BALCO scandal first broke, Jason Giambi found himself right in the crosshairs of late night comedy fodder.

"Either that man took steroids," raved Louis Black. "Or he had surgery to put his legs where has arms used to be!"

Those killer biceps were great at producing towering,  tape-measure home runs, but the negative impacts are hard to overlook.

What Giambi gained in home run power, he lost in versatility. The man who represented America as a third baseman in the Olympics and originally played left field at the cavernous Oakland Coliseum was unable to play any position other than first base for the rest of his career.

Even at first base, his defense was a liability. despite his solid glovework, he lacked the amazing grace and cat-like agility of his predecessor,  Tino Martinez, despite the fact that Tino was three years older than Giambi. Worse still, Giambi was often reluctant to so much as attempt to throw to second base in order to turn a 3-6-3 double play.

One of many great plays from Constantino. 

As a Yankee fan, it was difficult -- even painful sometimes -- to see a player with such obvious defensive deficiencies in the lineup everyday. On one hand, Giambi had reason not to over exert himself. His comically oversized muscles could easily tear. That's what ultimately happened to his younger brother, Jeremy. The younger Giambi saw his career end at the ripe old age of 28.

As a Yankee fan, it was almost painful to see a player with such obvious defensive deficiencies in the lineup every day. The Yankee teams of late '90s were a beautiful mixture of solid,  all-around players. A stellar combination of in-house talent at grizzled veterans eager to contribute. It was said that Swiss watchmakers would visit Yankee Stadium to see perfection in action.
Watching the Yankees during the Giambi years was like going to your favorite restaurant only to see that the menu had changed.

If Giambi had never taken steroids, things could have been better, both for him and the Yankees.

Pop quiz of the day

What lurks beneath the surface is ripe for another New York Story. The recent explosion of wealthy individuals who own homes in New York City, yet do not live in New York City is a fascinating phenomenon. "The New York Real Estate Market is now the premier destination for wealthy foreigners with rubles, yuan, and dollars to hide," wrote Andrew Rice in New York magazine. "More and more," wrote Katherine Clarke of the Daily News, "international business magnates, wealthy heirs and new rich tech moguls are snapping up palatial homes in New York, renovating and redesigning them at a cost of millions, and then leaving them vacant almost all year. Last week, the New York Times wrote an extensive exposé on the great lengths that some of this individuals go in order to get a bite of the Big Apple.

One must wonder: how many of Manhattan's 1.3 Million residents actually live here? When we see something like this, the answer may not be so simple.

Question: The owner of this multi-million dollar townhome is either

    a) On vacation.
    b) Someone who lives in Los Angeles but thinks he is above staying in hotels when he travels.
    c) A Russian oligarch who is trying to cheat on his taxes.
    d) A lonely old man who has crept inside his refrigerator for comparative warmth.

February 14th, 1995: Cupid plants a seed.

Art class. My most loathed of all classes.

It wasn't because I didn't like art. It was because the art teacher would put forth simple instructions, outlined step by step, for all to do. Somewhere between steps one and two, I would encounter and absolute and unmitigated failure.

Example: Take your piece paper and a pair of scissors. Cut the paper into a circle.

I would cut and cut, and end up with some sort of bizarre shape of abnormal cuts and gashes that it would take a Phd in mathematics to find a name for this thing that I had cut out.

The remainder of art class was always downhill, because completion of the project was predicated on having a usable circle. Since I didn't, I would have to salvage what I could while every one of my classmates had something that they could be proud of.

My attempts to emulate great art made me look like this!

This went on for my entire elementary school career. It ended when I went to middle school and didn't have to take art classes any more. I took music classes instead.

But for now, stuck in elementary school, I still had to endure my flailing artistic fingers. But on this day in February, art class was a little different.

"I wanted," said the teacher, "to have a field trip to New York, to the Museum of Modern Art, but the Board of Education said no."

A collective gasp came over the class of 12-year-olds.

"Wait a minute," said one student, speaking for all of us. "I thought we were going to the art museum in New York."

"You are." The teacher reassured. "You are going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art this spring. However, I tried to persuade the Board of Ed. to give you another field trip, a different field trip, to the Museum of Modern Art."

Yes, the Wethersfield Board of Education didn't want 6th Graders at Charles Wright Elementary School to get too much education. In the words of Richard Milhous Nixon, that would be wrong.

There would be no class field trip to the Museum of Modern Art. But our teacher gave us the next best thing: A video about the artists featured at the MoMA. For one day in art class, I was spared both frustration and humiliation!

Even more than I enjoyed not embarrassing myself, I actually enjoyed the video too. When it was over, the teacher played an identification game. Those who dared accept the challenge would stand up and see a series of paintings. The goal was to name the artist who had painted it.

I stood up, confidently. And I nailed it. And I mean, nailed it. One by one, I saw the images. One by one, I identified them in less than a second. Starry Night? Easy: Van Gough. That girl on the farm? Andrew Wyeth. Melting clocks? Dali. I was on a roll!

When I saw one those famed examples of organized chaos, I was so quick to answer that I gave the artists nickname instead of his actual name.

"Jack the Dripper!" I said with excitement, as if answering faster would give me more points in this thing that wasn't even a competition.

The teacher rolled her eyes a little bit. She gave a half grin. "That's right," she said. "But I would prefer you called him Jackson Pollack."

When it was over, I had scored perfection: 10 for 10. For one day in art class, I was unmatched among my peers in the opposite direction of failure.

The teacher stressed that seeing these paintings in person was still of paramount importance. Unfortunately, we would have to go on our own time. I walked away skeptical if that time would ever come.

Come 2006, I met someone. I felt special around her. She felt special around me. It was all that stuff they don't teach you in school, although maybe not for lack of trying. Her name was Nicole, and she decided it was time to take things to the next level.

"I want to go to the MoMa," she said.

And so we did. When I walked up to the fourth floor and saw all those paintings in person that I saw in 6th grade art class, I couldn't help but feel thankful for that one particular lesson more than 10 years ago.

As you can see, I wasn't the only one smiling.

It would be nice if I were able to thank that art teacher in person. I'm not saying she played matchmaker, but she sure helped.

I met a new friend in the park yesterday!

Not much to say here, just hanging out with some of New York City's winged wonders before the snowstorm.

February 8th, 1995.

Standing on the corner,
Suitcase in my hand.
Waiting for this baseball strike to end,
Pleaded the legions of angry baseball fans.

After Clinton fails to end the baseball strike, Massachusetts Senator Edward
M. Kennedy makes a pitch of his own to end the six-month old player strike.

What started in mid-August was now entering mid-February. This baseball strike was almost as long as baseball season. With President Clinton stymied after the failure of his imposed February 6 deadline, Ted Kennedy offered a pitch of his own.

No, not the Ted Kennedy who pitched for the Chicago Cubs and retired in 1886. The other Ted Kennedy. The guy who lowered the voting age to 18. Who passed Title IX for college sports. Who passed the Americans with Disabilities Act. The Lion of the Senate who worked with members of both parties to pass monumental legislation over and over again. On February 8th, 1995, Edward M. Kennedy proposed yet another piece of signature legislation to his long list of accomplishments: The Major League Baseball Restoration Act (S. 376)

The MLBRA was no joke. It called for a three person panel with vast power. Perhaps most important, it could call for public testimony under penalty of perjury. This is significant because shortly before the strike, one very prominent man in baseball made a statement regarding the financial status of the Texas Rangers and other baseball clubs.

"I have a very strong sense," forecast George W. Bush,  "that if the players go out, the owners won't come back."

The owners might leave and take their productivity elsewhere. Ayn Rand would be proud. It's odd that George W. Bush would threaten to leave baseball when in fact, he was already leaving baseball to run for Governor of Texas. But Bush added a dire warning to show that he wasn't the only one headed for the door.

 George W. Bush leaves baseball to enter a career in politics.

"There are enough clubs losing money" he said. "And hemorrhaging."

It's one thing to say that an organization with profits in the billions was losing money to a reporter for the Dallas Morning News. It's quite another to say something like that under oath with the possibility of criminal prosecution for making false statements.

The Bill attracted one Co-Sponsor in Barbara Milkuski of Maryland. Milkuski had strong reason from her constituents to pass this bill. On January 13, 1995, Major League Baseball had already approved the use of replacement players on account that no deal had been reached. Cal Ripken's consecutive games streak was now in serious jeopardy. Ripken had openly stated that he wouldn't return to baseball without a contract, and his consecutive games number stood at 2,009. The strike had already robbed him of 50 games in 1994, now it threatened his career.

One of John F. Kennedy's most famous accomplishments was averting both a potential steel strike and a major price increase in the cost of steel. It was a double play! If something as major as the cost of U.S. steel could be resolved through executive action, it would seem that ending something as trivial a major league baseball work stoppage should have been a home run--or as easy as drinking a glass of milk.

Stuck at home instead of spring training,
drinking milk is a great way to pass the time.

This Day in Baseball, 1995: Clinton Hurls a Fastball--and Misses the Strike Zone Entirely.

On January 27th, 1995, President Bill Clinton set a deadline to the owners and players of Major League Baseball to reach a deal by February 6th. 

White House Aide Paul Begala, a season ticket holder for the Baltimore Orioles, was quite hopeful.

"This is coming from the heart," said Mr. Begala. "I can tell you: This is way beyond politics. He is a sports fan, and he feels the rage every fan feels."

But February 6th came an went. The MLBPA Strike that started in August 1994 still showed no signs of abating. The following day, President Clinton conceded as much.

"They are clearly not capable of settling this strike without an umpire," the told reporters at the White House at the end of a nearly five-hour emergency negotiating session.

Who would that umpire be? President Clinton and other baseball fans would find little help from the legislative branch. Newly minted leadership in the House and Senate made their views quite clear.

"We maintain our view," wrote Senate Majority Leader Robert Dole and House Speaker Newt Gingrich, "that Congress is ill-suited to resolving private labor disputes."

The future of Major League Baseball looked ominous. With No help from Congress, President Clinton appointed longtime labor-management negotiator William J. Usery to broker a deal. Usery had a history of resolving labor disputes dating back to his tenure as Assistant Secretary of Labor in the Nixon administration. Usery's status as a longtime labor supporter and a lifelong Republican made him something of a unicorn. The sign was clear: Major League Baseball needed a miracle start the 1995 season.

But that was in Washington. February 7th was just another school day for me. Down in Georgia, Henry Louis Aaron blew out the candles for his 61st birthday. Happy Birthday, Hank!

New York City Baseball: February 6, 1995

13 candles adorned a two-layer cake from Mozzacatto's bakery. The lights were out, and my jovial family sang me a tune on my special day.

"Happy Birthday dear Kevin, Happy Birthday to you!"

Everybody smiled as I blew out the candles. It was a milestone: I was officially a teenager. But before I took a slice of cake, I made a few wisecracks about my age.

"Well mom," I said with a twinkle in my eye and a touch of sarcasm, "you'd better tell people how old your son is now!" With that, I mimicked the horrified expressions that she would surely encounter when she told people that her son was well past the age of cuteness and into the era of hell-bent teenage mayhem.

As a teenager, I started dabbling with things besides baseball.
Here I am taking a selfie before it was cool. Pretty good, eh?

I thought it wise: From the moment I was old enough to realize that I needed a job, my only plan was to play first base for the New York Yankees. When I noticed that every male my age was growing substantially bigger and stronger except me, it became clear that I needed a different career plan.

In retrospect, I may have had a chance to play some first base for the Yankees that year after all. Famed First Baseman Don Mattingly, Frank Thomas and Mark McGwire all get letters from their respective employers dated February 6, 1995. It read:

[u]ntil such time as the [Owners' and Players' bargaining units] ratify a new collective bargaining agreement or until further notice, individual Major League Clubs shall have no authority to negotiate terms and conditions of employment (or any element thereof) with the [Players' Union] or individual players or certified agents. The [Players' Union] is now on notice that individual Clubs are not authorized to negotiate or execute individual player contracts with bargaining unit players during the pendency of collective bargaining between [the Owners' and Players' bargaining units].

(Source: U.S. District Court for the Southern District of New York - 880 F. Supp. 246, April 3, 1995, Emphasis mine).

That's right. Normally, February means spring training. This year, for the 845 members of the Major League Baseball Player's Association, February meant unemployment.

If only I had known to send in my résumé!

Also, it would Babe Ruth's 100th birthday that year. Happy Birthday, Bambino!