COLUMN: The Dolorous Strike

From Marc Teillon's "The Public Pillory," Fall '95 From Marc Teillon's "The Public Pillory," Fall '95When I think of a strike, I think of my Carpatho-Russyn forebears in Pine Mine, Pa. trying to get a equal wage for their back-breaking work mining coal. As the prices for the product kept on going up, their wages kept on going down and down. Some dismal economist will argue that these practices were not the result of miserly company men squeezing every last cent out of their vulnerable workers, but the market regulating the industry. Unfortunately, economic theory doesn't account for illiterate immigrants with mouths to feed at home and debts to pay in the company stores. It also doesn't take into consideration the fact that the only reason these poor chicken farmers from the Ukraine came over was to work in the mines and hopefully give their children a chance to avoid a life of 16 hours a day, six days a week spent crawling in long narrow tunnels covered head-to-toe in black residue. An economist also might argue that these people chose to work in the coal mines and because of this transaction, they felt the wage they received fully compensated them for the difficulties of the labor and the risk involved. Well, how many Hunkies were told about black lung disease? How many were told about potential loss of eyesight? Were the frequent blowouts caused by the slightest spark also part of the job description? Despite what your most hard-core free market economist will tell you, the market doesn't always work to perfection. By no means is this writer advocating government regulation of wages or the concept of modern day labor unions who are concerned more with keeping workers out of an industry to avoid any competition, than demanding an acceptable wage. But sometimes it is necessary for workers to form collective units to meet their employers at the bargaining table to hammer out an agreement guaranteeing certain benefits to which the workers are entitled. How such an image is distorted in the 1990s. Strikes today don't involve poor, unwary men being ripped off because they don't understand the system. The two sides that come to the table are not contrasted by three-piece suits and tattered overalls. Hungry children don't suffer while their fathers negotiate in dark, smoked-filled offices. In this day and age, workers battle their employers in conference rooms at the Ritz Carlton or the Four Seasons. The only differences between the two sides' appearance is the age differential. Other than that, both sides wear Italian suits and are chauffeured around in limousines. The strikers don't hang out at taverns or drink beer. They sniff cognac and rub elbows with models and movie stars at the latest hot night club. What is going on in professional baseball hardly requires any of the sympathy the players keep calling for. The major league minimum salary is more than 95 percent of this country will ever make in a year, but that is not satisfactory. They want their piece of the revenues so they can collect a few more vintage cars and put a few more swimming pools in their backyards. To say this messy situation is merely about money is an understatement. The players and the owners are making so much money alike, they are arguing over mere peanuts. While the players are finding out that the owners and the industry determines the rules, it is the American public that is learning the valuable lesson. Like it or not, baseball players, and all athletes for that matter, are looked up to by millions of people around the country. You can argue that athletes are simply entertainers and that CEOs and Senators are the occupations to which children should aspire. But when I was home over spring break, the little kids in my neighborhood were not playing mock United States Congress or running pretend multinational corporations. They played sandlot baseball and dreamed of becoming professional ball players. While there is nothing wrong with wanting to be a sports star, there is something wrong with the bizarre notion that athletes, because of their power or speed, are honorable individuals worthy of imitation. Some men like Joe DiMaggio and Roberto Clemente are, but not because of their achievements on the diamond. They are role models because of their character and courage. One writer in Sports Illustrated lamented the fact that little boys have been let down by the greed in the Major Leagues. But it's the grown men who are letting down children by telling them to look to Darrell Strawberry, Wade Boggs and Dwight Gooden for moral and spiritual guidance. Television and the movie industry have done their fair share in glorifying professional sports, and the deification of homerun hitters starts all the way back in semi-professional Little League baseball. The gods are who we should emulate and since professional baseball players are treated as such, then they, too, must be worthy of imitation. When they fail to live up to our lofty expectations, the fault lies not in the fact that we are worshipping false idols, but in the ball players for not living up to the responsibilities inherent in the ability to throw a 95 mph fast ball. If the country really desires virtuous individuals and actions to emulate this summer, then it is better off reading books like the Bible, the Bhughauat Gita and Le Morte D'Arthur. If we want to be entertained, then take a trip down to the local ball park, pay 20 bucks for tickets and food, and savor the diving catches and upper-deck homeruns. And when tales of misdeeds occur on the diamond and in the locker room, then we better not lament the fact that there are no heroes to be found and no honorable actions being performed. We are looking in the wrong place.