MLB cheating
“Bizarre” is a word that seems appropriately applied to just about all aspects of Major League Baseball these days. For some time now, the organization that should stand for the best in the sport has instead been under a cloud showing its worst. It wasn’t simply that players on a team conspired to cheat. It was that those players found themselves rewarded with a championship for their efforts. And then, even after their transgressions were officially exposed, they somehow got to escape punishment AND keep the prize they shouldn’t have won in the first place.
Over the weekend, MLB commissioner Rob Manfred went public with his reasons for handing out punishments to manager A.J. Hinch and general manager Jeff Luhnow while seemingly allowing the actual transgressors — not coincidentally also the masterminds — to go scot-free. Interestingly, his explanations touched on both practical and legal considerations. Granting players immunity, he said, was the only way he could get to the bottom of the story. At the same time, he noted that the union would have been all over him had he sanctioned them for violations of rules their superiors failed to cascade to them.
For all the justifications Manfred has brandished, however, there can be no going around the perception that his response was extremely wanting. The Astros committed a mortal sin; they undermined the integrity of the game. And yet they got to keep their 2017 title. Never mind the ramifications of their betrayal of the highest order on others; in a zero-sum setting, what they did benefited them AND handicapped everybody else. Having him defend the offshoot in a press conference over the weekend was bad enough. That he then characterized the Word Series trophy — named after his office, by the way — as “a piece of metal” was simply inexcusable.
In retrospect, “bizarre” doesn’t even come close to describing Manfred’s effective devaluation of the sport’s ultimate objective. Or the decision that had the league’s own broadcast network airing yet another rerun of Bull Durham instead of carrying his press conference live. Or the defiant mea culpa Astros owner Jim Crane issued. Or the misplaced anger that had shortstop Carlos Correa arguing, “if you don’t know the facts, then you’ve got to shut the f — up.” Or protagonists’ obsession with proving or disproving so-called instances of gross dishonesty. The otherwise ludicrous has become commonplace, and with increasing frequency still. And all because the league’s supposed caretakers have refused to take risks that the defrauders did.
It’s sad, really, because all and sundry want to move on. Spring training is about to start, and players and fans want the focus to be on the games and on performances. Unless and until questions on the fairness of the proceedings are settled, however, all those from the outside looking in will see is how the Astros got away, how the Red Sox are about to get away as well, and how everybody else is paying the price. The league wants nothing more than to move on, but burying the lede isn’t the solution. So what if the commissioner’s office would have lost on appeals? It should have dropped the hammer on the erring quarters, and thusly sent the right message. Instead, it’s doing a lot of backpedaling in defending the wrong one — one that won’t end soon, and one that won’t do anybody any good.
Anthony L. Cuaycong has been writing Courtside since BusinessWorld introduced a Sports section in 1994. He is a consultant on strategic planning, operations and Human Resources management, corporate communications, and business development.
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