Nothing will help baseball heal its self-inflicted wounds better than a better-late-than-never return to action. But even if an answer arrives, the parade of pettiness that produced it will not simply fade away. Blame Manfred. Blame Clark. Blame the owners and the players. Blame me for hoping baseball, our most romantic game, might actually turn a moment of national suffering into a chance to be more than cold-blooded business.
Fans don’t know who to believe. How could they? Owners cry poor but won’t fork over the financial documents to prove it. Players pressure owners to set a schedule that pays prorated salaries, then balk at the first one offered.