I recently read John Helyar’s 1994 baseball classic Lords of the Realm. Somehow, I had never heard of it until I spotted it on a baseball top-ten list. If you haven’t read it and want to avoid spoilers, stop here, go buy the book, and return after you’ve finished. That might sound dramatic, but after a few chapters, all I could think was: How on earth did I not know about this years ago?
Helyar—who gained fame as the co-author of the blockbuster Barbarians at the Gate—brings the same level of meticulous
research to Realm. Being a child of the 1960s and ’70s and having lived through much of what he describes is certainly an advantage, but hardly a requirement.
Helyar masterfully guides the reader through the origins of baseball’s labor conflicts—or, for decades, the total lack of them. For generations, club owners, derisively labeled “The Lords,” with the help of Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis, ran roughshod over players, who were essentially indentured servants.
Helyar offers a thorough education on each commissioner from Landis through Selig, but the heart of the book is the long, tortuous effort to establish a players’ union—and the fierce resistance it faced. From day one, the Commissioner’s Office, the owners, much of the baseball media, and a large percentage of fans aligned against the players.
Even the players themselves were uncertain. Many had been conditioned by owners and their loyalists in the press to believe they should simply be grateful to play baseball and get paid—meager as those earnings were. And they were meager: other than the biggest stars, most players took offseason jobs just to make ends meet.
Baseball’s first attempt at unionization came in 1946, when activist Robert Murphy tried to form the American Baseball Guild for the Pittsburgh Pirates. He fell short of the 67% needed for certification, earning only 55%. In response, MLB raised the minimum salary to $5,500 and promised a pension plan—prompted in part by guilt over the dire financial state of retired superstar Jimmie Foxx.
The pension issue lurched along for years until a 1954 agreement that allocated 60% of All-Star Game and World Series broadcast revenue to the pension pool. There was still no contribution from regular-season TV or other revenue streams.
Robin Roberts, an early visionary advocate for players, foresaw a future in which television—and merchandising—would become far more lucrative. But owners, convinced TV would cannibalize ticket sales, dismissed his concerns. Many had even opposed early radio broadcasts, which today seems absurd.
In 1965, the owners agreed to fund the Players Association with $150,000 for an office and director—while pushing their preferred candidate to lead it. The plan might have succeeded if not for Roberts, who championed a young labor economist named Marvin Miller. Miller won a narrow vote, and baseball would never be the same.
One of Miller’s first tests came with the 1966 holdout of Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale. While assisting them, Miller spotted a vulnerability in the Reserve Clause, which effectively stated that a player who played a year without a contract would become a free agent. That wasn’t the literal wording, but it was the effect.
At that time, owners controlled everything. Teams sent players a contract with a take-it-or-leave-it stance. If a player wanted to play baseball, he accepted—because he had no alternative. Clubs could trade or release players at will, while players had zero control over their own careers. Miller aimed to negotiate better pay, better working conditions, and some measure of autonomy for the players, but it would take time.
After Miller’s hiring, the “Lords” retaliated by pulling the annual $150,000 payment. The fledgling union had just $5,400 in the bank. To survive, Miller had to dock each player $344 per year.
He then set about earning their trust by focusing on smaller but meaningful issues: ballpark safety, travel expenses, hotel accommodations, scheduling. One of his toughest tasks was helping players understand their own value. Some—Jim Bouton, Mike Marshall, Tim McCarver, Joe Torre, Reggie Jackson, Mark Belanger—caught on quickly and became union stalwarts. Others took longer.
Many teams were still owned by wealthy, old-money families. A telling moment came when Mets owner Joan Whitney Payson declared at an owners’ meeting, “Let’s not get involved with any of these awful little union people. We’re sportsmen. We’re not in this for the money.”
Senators owner Calvin Griffith growled in response, “Like hell. This is my livelihood.”
A seemingly small issue Miller tackled was the contract Topps required for baseball cards. Topps locked players into five-year deals for just $125 annually, then often “renewed” them early—keeping players tied to Topps indefinitely. Players mostly shrugged it off as pocket money and were thrilled to be on a card.
Miller persuaded them to stop signing. The result: in 1968 and the years immediately after, several stars—Willie Mays and Hank Aaron among them—had cards recycled with old photos because Topps couldn’t shoot new ones without contracts. Eventually, Topps relented, raising payments to $250 per year and agreeing to share revenue with the union.
With the players unified, Miller turned to the heart of the issue: the Reserve Clause. His first major test came in 1969, when the Cardinals traded Curt Flood to the Phillies—along with future Royals Joe Hoerner and Cookie Rojas. Flood refused to report and wrote an eloquent letter to Commissioner Bowie Kuhn requesting free-agent status. Kuhn denied him, invoking the Reserve Clause.
Flood sued for $1 million. Stars like Sandy Koufax, Lou Brock, Dick Allen, Jackie Robinson, and Hank Greenberg supported him; others, most notably Carl Yastrzemski—“Carl bleeping Yastrzemski,” as my mother called him—spoke against him, declaring that Flood’s cause would “ruin the game.” Flood lost in the Supreme Court, ending his career, but he laid the groundwork for what came next.
The decisive blow came in 1975, when Andy Messersmith and Dave McNally challenged the Reserve Clause. Their victory opened the door, and when Catfish Hunter became a free agent in 1976, that door blew wide open. After a decade of unrelenting effort, Miller had finally emancipated the players. To borrow from Martin Luther King Jr.: Free at last.
Kansas City factored prominently in Helyar’s account. The Athletics’ move from Philadelphia to Kansas City enabled the Dodgers and Giants to shift west. Later, owners grudgingly accepted Charlie O. Finley as A’s owner after Arnold Johnson’s death. Finley, though often abrasive, was a visionary: pitch clocks, night World Series games, colorful uniforms, an orange baseball, and a designated hitter. Ideas owners mocked eventually became reality.
Kansas City also played a major role in early free-agency pursuits. The Royals nearly landed Catfish Hunter in 1976. Hunter knew Kansas City from his A’s days, and the Royals were an ascendant young team. They offered six years at $825,000 per year plus $50,000 annually to age 70. Hunter was ready to sign but asked one question: “What if I die before 70?”
GM Joe Burke replied, “Well, that’s the end of the contract.”
Hunter asked, “What about my wife?”
Burke answered, “We won’t have to worry about that, will we? You’ll be dead.”
Clunk.
Hunter crossed the Royals off his list. Burke, in my view, rode Cedric Tallis’s coattails anyway, and this only cements it. The Yankees signed Hunter, won two World Series with him, and Hunter—who indeed died at 53—had been right to ask the question. Had Burke simply agreed, the Royals might have won multiple more titles with Hunter anchoring the rotation.
The Royals were also serious contenders for Pete Rose. Kansas City made the best offer, and Rose liked Ewing Kauffman. But Rose insisted on staying in the National League to break the league’s hit record. That decision came back to haunt the Royals in the 1980 World Series, which they lost to Rose’s Phillies.
The book clarified many of the key personalities in baseball’s labor wars. Helyar doesn’t play favorites; he reports the facts. I realized how wrong I’d been about several figures from the 1970s and ’80s. My past opinions were shaped by mainstream media accounts that, I can now see, were often misleading. People portrayed as heroes were boors; people vilified were decent. There was a time when mainstream sports media commanded respect. That time is gone.
With baseball lurching toward another potential work stoppage, this is a perfect moment to read Helyar’s book. It’s a long read—604 pages—but never drags. It also invites comparison between the legendary Miller and current Players Association head Tony Clark. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’ve never been convinced Clark fully has the players’ backs. He seems too friendly with Commissioner Rob Manfred—who, for his part, is little more than an owners’ tool, and not a particularly inspiring one. Based on his past comments, I’m not convinced Manfred loves the game or even understands its history.
His one competition seems to be Roger Goodell for most tone-deaf commissioner in major American sports.
One issue I remain passionate about, and have written on before, is the unconscionable exclusion of pre-1980 players from the pension plan if they accrued fewer than four years of service. Clark seems unmotivated on the matter, and Manfred will only act if forced. More on that in the weeks to come.
