by Slade Sohmer

A message for baseball owners and players: Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, well, cut it out ya jerks.

On August 12, 1994, the surging Montreal Expos captured only the second division title in their 25-year history. But instead of spraying champagne and gearing up for a playoff run likely to include the club’s first World Series appearance, Les Expos were simply cleaning out their lockers. Overheard in Canada: “We got hosed, eh?”

The MLB Players Association’s decision to strike that day meant All-Stars like Larry Walker, Pedro Martinez, and Moises Alou would be joining their brethren on the picket lines, not vying for championship rings come October. More importantly for baseball fans, the impending fiscal war between millionaires and billionaires spelled a premature halt to the season, and the cancellation of the Fall Classic.

Baseball struggled for years to win back its fans from the mid-'90s debacle. The Post-Strike Age finally received a shot in the arm from a few shots in the ass, as steroid-ingesting freaks provided a traveling longball show each and every night. The fortuitous combination of juiced balls and jacked sluggers drew record crowds to ballparks across the country, and America’s Pastime seemed to be flourishing once again in the Live Ball Era.

But it’s been a tough season for Commish Bud Selig and his owner cronies, with nearly two-thirds of major league stadiums reporting record-low attendances. And now comes word that the 2002-03 campaign may be cut short by another players’ strike, as early as the All-Star Break according to the Colorado Rockies third baseman Todd Zeile. The difference between this season and 1994, though, is that a strike now wouldn’t hurt the Montreal Expos; this time, it’s their inadequacies inflicting damage on the league. Overheard in Canada: “Looks like the foot’s on the other hand now, eh?”

The damage may be permanent this time. A July players’ strike may not kill baseball ‘til it's dead, but the lifeless sport would require an adrenaline shot through the heart a la Mrs. Mia Wallace after her date with Vincent Vega. Now if we could only get Vinnie Vega to accidentally shoot players’ rep Donald Fehr in the face like he did Marvin, then maybe baseball would come out unscathed. Not bloody likely, though, so it may just be time to hatch Plan B, fellas.

This season must play out. Here are a few reasons why we cannot afford a work stoppage this summer (Incidentally, doesn’t “work stoppage” sound like a phrase coined by Pauly Shore?):

No American League Postseason: If all goes according to plan, three of the four teams in the AL playoffs (playoffs, you’re asking me about playoffs?) will have 100 wins by season’s end. That is, of course, if the Red Sawx don’t need the Usual September Heimlich For a Grade-A Choke Job.

The mystique and aura of the 2001 World Series could come alive for all of these games. Potential match-ups between the Red Sox and Mariners, Yankees and Mariners, and hopefully a Sawx/Yank’ums ALCS have nerds like me drooling. No no, sorry, that’s my retainer; my retainer caused the drool.

Players have to go back to real lives: An elongated off-season could bring trouble to a number of major leaguers, who look forward to getting away from normalcy (aka families) during the season. A strike may send these boys home…

Chuck Finley, for example, anticipates extended road trips far from Cleveland, a fantastic chance to get away from his soon-to-be-ex-wife Tawny Kitaen and her fits of endless kicking and slapping. So instead of going back home if the season is called, Finley has plans to stay at Jose Mesa and Wil Cordero’s place.

Roughly 19 of the 25 Devil Rays will have to go back to summer school if the season folds. Conversely, Jesse Orosco and Mike Morgan will be due back at the morgue a little earlier than expected. Junior Griffey may not be able to return home at all, since his three roommates are all performing well and don’t require his presence in the house.

And think about rookie Kevin Pickford, the recently called-up Padres relief pitcher. Where’s he gonna go? Poor Kev wanted to throw a party after graduation, but the keg guy bricked (“inconveniece for yoooou…wrong Pickford residence altogether”). Now his parents are staying home from their trip, and the fiesta has to be moved to the Moontower. Ah, guess he’ll go back to tampering with mailboxes.

Fans have to go back to real lives: With no five-hour, nine-inning games to attend, and no fantasy stats to memorize or lineup changes to make, what the hell are we gonna do? Thank God the WNBA will be in full swing. Riiiiiiight (Nipsey Russell, 1986). And what will we watch? Could you imagine a summer without Baseball Tonight? I think I can go longer without food and water than I can without Gammons and Reynolds. Oh Gammons, you came and you gave without taking…

But most of all: We can’t afford to miss the beauty of the summer. Not to get all Crash Davis on you here, but we’ll miss Randy and Curt, the Twins’ defense, Sosa sprinting out to right, the three-headed God of Torre, Zimmer, and Stottlemyre, a Jack Wilson-to-Pokey Reese 6-4-3 double play, Zito’s curve and Colon’s heater, Giambi’s first summer with a short right porch, Ichiro slappin’ and A-Rod gappin’, the Mets booting grounders, Philly booing Scott Rolen, and Pedro facing the Yanks.

That is Baseball. That is American Beauty. That is ours. Strike two, and we’re all out.

Slade Sohmer wears a Rusty Staub jersey. He can be reached at sladeny@yahoo.com.

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