Coach's Corner

I dialed the 816 area code seeking professional advice. My friend, The Whipp, resides in 816. The Whipp is well-suited to provide the counsel and guidance needed for this column for I intend to pen the ultimate O.J. Simpson column. It'll be clear, powerful, all-in-all, the most memorable. The Whipp, as a veteran assistant prosecuting attorney of Jackson County, Kansas City, Missouri, is my personal "legal expert." I need him to guide me through the dense labyrinth of case law, precedents, racial trends in the nation's heartland, and juicy, behind-the-scenes, prosecutor stories.

Apparently, I called at a bad time. The phone rang once, twice, then responded with an irritated "Yeah."

"Whipp," I began. It was the evening of the Simpson verdict. "I need your...." I'm quickly drowned out.

"Can you think of one single time," a clearly agitated Whipp roared, "Just one time, anytime in the last 40 years when these fucking owners did anything right!!"

It was also the first night of the baseball playoffs. The Whipp was somewhat disenchanted over the choice of playoff games, the latest brain-child of baseball management, offered in K.C. by the Baseball Network.

"Uh, well, I don't know. But Whipp..." desperate to keep him within my agenda.

"No, Coach, you can't. You know why?" I didn't but I was about to find out. "Because they haven't. That's why."

The assistant prosecuting attorney of Jackson County is one of the most stubborn, tenacious, pig-headed people I've ever known. I wouldn't want him prosecuting me. It was clear that if I wanted to talk about Simpson or anything else, I'd best call back tomorrow. Going with the flow is not one of my strong points but this was a storm surge I couldn't fight.

But you know what? Whipp was right; I couldn't. I could not think of one thing baseball management has done right in my lifetime. They put an asterisk by Roger Maris' name when he beat the sacred Babe's home run record because Maris was not Babe. Artificial turf, the designated hitter, extending the season so long that the World Series - the showcase of a summer game - is played on snowy, sleety, late October nights. What were once two-hour games now commonly drag on twice that long. Greedy expansion, surpassing the talent pool of guys who can competently play the game. Not to mention the endless succession of game-destroying strikes, threatened strikes, lock-outs, and a general attitude toward its employees that would make Henry Ford wince.

Now, the coup de grace. Well, that's not right, because coup de grace implies there won't be another, so let's say the latest fiasco, is the new playoff format caused by adding two wild-card berths, bringing, we're promised, "excitement." Compounding this non-event is the nonsensical way baseball management went about deciding who would play whom.

The wild-card generated minimal extra excitement. California, Houston, Texas, Chicago - each heavily involved in the chase for the extra berths - drew pathetic crowds. The Astros drew less than 10,000 fans to crucial games in the last week of the season. After copying the playoff systems of football and basketball, they forgot to copy the one detail that holds it together: Teams in other professional sports are rewarded for good deeds, like winning lots of games, by playing teams who don't win so much. League Champions are given byes so they won't get upset in first rounds. Home fields are rewarded to teams with better records. All quite reasonable. But not baseball. No, no, no.

Basically, they tossed team names into the air with no apparent rhyme or reason as to The Who or The Where. In a clumsy attempt to increase ratings and make more money, baseball management decided to televise only one game per day, the thinking being that everyone now had to watch one game. To the surprise of very few, this has completely backfired. I could quote the Whipp at length but I think the point is made. TV ratings are way down. The criticism is so fierce and so universal, baseball has already announced plans to scrap this system next season - if there is one - and go back to televising all the games. For a group so excessively reactionary, they easily make Marie Antoinette look like Joni Mitchell, to respond so quickly; well, rest assured, this was a really bad idea.

It's a great testament to the game when, despite all the owners have done to ruin it, I watched every inning. I tell you sportsfans, without a doubt in my mind I say that, in all of sports - a last second touchdown, an impossible three-pointer, whatever - there's no greater tension, no greater sports drama than the accumulated hand-sweating, relentless, hard-to-breathe tautness built up in the late innings of an important baseball game. There is nothing like it. It covers a lot of faults. It can be a great game.

I'm certain the assistant prosecuting attorney would concur. His diatribe also saved me and you a sappy O.J. column, so we can, at least, thank baseball management for that. n