MLB Commissioners: Where Are They Now (Besides Dead), Part 2

Yesterday I started a sarcastic, long-winded tirade about the history of the MLB commissioner. Some had flashes of competence, some pissed puddles of failure, and all were cranky old white dudes who more often than not allowed personal agendas and vendettas cloud the issues of their day.

Bowie Kuhn (1969-1984)

Now we move into an era in which the commissioners in question actually lived to see the turn of the century.  Kuhn made it to 2007, before pneumonia and respiratory failure joined hands and dragged him into the netherworld from a hospital in Jacksonville, Florida; where people and professional football franchises go to die or not attract an audience.

But before all that, Kuhn jump started one of the most important eras of baseball; when it evolved slowly from a game played on grass and dirt by men in matching clothing into wheelbarrows of money being pushed from city to city as contracts and free agency suddenly became normal things.

Thank you, Bowie.

Bowie allowed his tenure to be defined by several key disputes.  One was Curt Flood, a black pitcher who refused to allow himself to be traded to the Philadelphia Phillies.  His claims of comparing the trade to “slavery” were quickly squashed when it was pointed out that at no time did slaves make $90,000 in exchange for their services.

It turned into a thing–meaning “court case”–and Bowie’s league squared off against the whining Flood.  The Supreme Court decided that everything was fine and Flood had to grow a pair and go play for a terrible baseball team in front of many embittered racists.

And you know we’re closing in on the modern era when Ted Turner shows up and starts getting yelled at for being pushy.  Turner walzted into 1977 and immediately started mouthing off about acquiring Gary Matthews from the Giants.  Bowie had specifically ordered that no such talk occur, but you know Ted.  He did it more than ever.

So, Bowie went ahead and suspended him for the year.  That, combined with Bowie’s ongoing battles with Charles O. Finley–the A’s owner who made a guy sign a paper saying he was injured when he really just sucked–made it clear that even though he appeared to be a spineless, suit-sucking weasel, he was not afraid to stand up to the owners if they did something blatantly evil.

I’ve already used a lot of space on Bowie, so let’s condense the last few things into one paragraph.

His harsh, unwavering punishment of drug abusers made Darrell Porter sit alone in his living room with a shotgun every night, he gave 52 freed Iranian hostages lifetime passes to all baseball games, he banned Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle from baseball, most of the Royals and Pirates of the period were coke heads.

Whew.

Peter Ueberroth (1984-1989)

Now don’t confuse Pete’s last name with a Syfy Channel original movie about a legendary wolf-spider beast slaughtering its way through a chorus of sexy teens.

Are you doing that?  Stop.

Pete was a Time Magazine Man of the Year.  He was the head of the 1984 Olympics.  He saved the committee $250 million dollars and then gave it all to youth sports programs.

Seriously.  We’re three paragraphs in and there hasn’t been any bans or trials or cocaine or racism.  He’s already ahead of the curve.

Upon taking office, Pete took care of some business.  First, he upped his salary $450,000.  Uh, okay.  I guess you deserve it, Pete.  Then he made sure that the most he was able to fine somebody jettisoned from $5000 to $250,000. Then he rolled up his sleeves, cracked his knuckles and smiled at every player in professional baseball before muttering, “Try me.”

Pete was inheriting a charming little basket of terrors as, surprise surprise, the umpires were being dicks again.  This time they were threatening to strike–oh.  They didn’t strike.  Pete put the brakes on that horse shit as quickly as he did to the proposed players’ strike the following season.

But before you go polishing your brand new Peter Ueberroth bust from the online store that will make head-only statues of unfamous people I should probably tell you about that time Peter Ueberroth destroyed all of fucking baseball.

Pete kicked in the doors of that room the owners all live in, counting their money and stolen souls, and called then “dumb” because winning a championship often meant a net financial loss.  Clearly, Pete was obsessed with saving money, which with the Olympics, was good.  But for the players, who were the ones getting a lot of money but not wearing suits, this was terrible news.  Pete helped the owners do away with free agency for three years and discouraged lengthy contracts.

This was later pointed out as the distant source of the 1994 players’ strike, and resulted in $280 million in fines.

Then of course there was bans from cocaine use, but all of the clubs wound up back in the financial black after Pete’s reign, so… call it even.

Bart Giamatti (1989)

Bart banned Pete Rose from baseball forever.  Then he died.

Stay tuned for Part 3, in which we stumble our way into the modern era, and then offer some sort of conclusive reflection on where exactly I was trying to go with all of this hilarity.  Don’t forget to wrap your brain around Part 1 again, because you enjoyed it so much.

Justin writes for every single web site in the world, including this one, That Balls Outta Here, Sports Talk Soup, and Philthy Blog: The Unofficial Blog of Philadelphia.  He is roguishly handsome.  You can stay current on all the Call to the Pen content and news by following us on Twitter, Facebook, or by way of our RSS feed.