Sometimes I dream about owning a baseball team; occasionally the dream turns into a nightmare ... It's just so damn confusing.
Look, I'm a simple guy. I go to the office every day and try to run my business, just like any other working Joe. I gotta put bread on the table, and I want my kids to have a better shake at life than I did when I started. And, OK, I want to feel good at the end of the day.
I used to feel good. Man, those were the days. When I made that killing in the corporate world, I felt damn good. It was about hard work then and street smarts and not running away from a fight. It was about taking a risk once in a while. I made it — and on my terms.
Was it easier then? Nah, I'm not saying that, but I knew who the enemy was and I set the goals. It was about making dough. Getting the jump on the other guy, building a better mousetrap, growing the business. The box score — the monthly ledger — let me know how I was doing. And when it showed I was doing real well, I knew I could do what I wanted to do rather than what I had to do.
I was on top of the world, a winner with plenty of cash and even more balls. I earned a reward and bought myself a baseball team. The ultimate rush. Instant membership in the most exclusive club in America. Hell, the Senate has 100 guys, but Major League Baseball has 30. Big man on campus. The mousetrap business can't do that for you.
But here's where it gets nuts. I thought I'd make a little scratch, have a little fun. You gotta win to do that, but, hey, it's simple. Beat the other guys, finish on top. It's what I do. I'm the good guy, they're the bad guys. Right?
Wrong.
My competitors are actually my partners. We each own one-thirtieth of the league. What's good for them is good for me. Sometimes it's hard to figure out whose side I'm on, but, hey, I'm a savvy guy.
What's really confusing is that most of those guys aren't making any bucks anyway. They're all spending their children's inheritance on the latest left-handed, short-relief, sinkerball-throwing sensation from some Caribbean country. The guy could be 16 or 36, but what's the dif? His contract will expire before his arm does and he'll be a free agent, a mercenary in baseball wars who is better at driving up salaries than setting up the closer.
So, OK, all businesses have their ugly realities. I can deal with that. I'm a winner.
Spending yourself into the poorhouse never made any sense to me. But this revenue-sharing stuff ... well, I've already admitted that I'm a little confused about whether the other owners are my mortal enemies or my partners. But revenue sharing is another story. Where I come from, when a man has his hand in my pocket, he's no partner.
It's for the good of the order, they tell me. But even if I'm buying that, how is it that the guy who's sharing my dough is trying to take my spot in the World Series? The same guy who shared my foxhole in the collective-bargaining battles is trying to beat me out of the left-handed, sinkerball-throwing, setup man of indeterminate age.
At the bargaining table, they told us we had to speak with one voice, work as a team to get a fair contract with the players. Then they say we can't work as a team, not when we are driving a bargain with a particular player. If we do, it's against the law. "Collusion."
Man, what ever happened to free speech and free enterprise? What ever happened to working hard, applying your wits, using sound business judgment and making money. I guess that's for the mousetrap guy I used to be, but not for us big men on campus.
John Genzale (jgenzale@sportsbusinessjournal.com) is editor-in-chief of SportsBusiness Journal.
