by Andy “Coach” Cotton
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
This article appears in October 13 • 1995 and October 13 • 1995 (Cover).