Bud Selig nailed two birds with one stone yesterday.
In a with ESPN, the baseball commissioner expressed his outrage that Texas Rangers pitcher Kenny Rogers would return to the mound seven days earlier than his MLB-imposed suspension had originally intended. Selig was distraught, disgusted that Arbitrator Shyam Das had ruled that the commissioner's penalty was too severe. Selig was appalled by the message that the ruling sent to players, reporters and fans. And, he said all of this, in bold, uncertain terms.
But, here's what he didn't say: that he's secretly delighted by the decision.
You see, by allowing Rogers to return to the field sooner than expected, Das discreetly pushed a soap box in front of Selig and asked him to climb aboard. Selig can now stand at the puplpit and talk about Rogers' inexcusable behavior, about the absurdity of the arbitrator's ruling and about the dangerous precedent the decision sets.
But, Das also got Rogers back on the field. And, just in time for a start in Boston, no less. By Rogers starting in Boston, baseball stayed on the newspaper's front pages. And, as a lead story on SportsCenter. And, as a topic of conversation on countless talk radio shows.
To recap, Selig got to make a stand against professional baseball players acting like sleep-deprived children. He got an All-Star back on the mound in a baseball-crazy city. (Incidentally, if I were Kenny Rogers, I may have thrown a temper tantrum when my manager proposed the idea of me starting in Boston. Are there more hostile crowds to pitch in front of? Did they launch Fenway Franks at him?) And, on top of that, he secured for his sport a spot in the national limelight.
Not a bad day's work. Even for a commissioner.
11 August 2005
01 August 2005
How not to get from here to there
I don’t travel often. And, it’s for good reason.
If the Bible instead offered a gruesome depiction of unfortunate travel sagas, you’d find my picture right next to Job’s.
Late departures, missed connections, canceled flights, I’ve endured them all. Misplaced luggage, miserable movies, snarky attendants and obese seat neighbors, they are par for my course. Rare is the day and festive the occasion when I get from Point A to Point B without even a slight hiccup. And, it’s usually more like an explosive burp.
I’ve spent nights on scrubby airport floors and nights in hotels so wretched that I longed for those scrubby airport floors. I’ve been told I couldn’t take a bag on the train even though I had taken the same bag on the same train not two days before. I’ve been delayed going to job interviews and once to a lacrosse game--- and I was the team’s coach!
But nothing even holds a candle to what happened this weekend.
I showed up at La Guardia airport at 7:30am Saturday morning, about 1.5 hours before my flight. When I check in at the automated kiosk, I learned that my flight to Atlanta had been canceled. In hindsight, it should have raised a red flag when they told me that I had to go through Atlanta in the first place--- it’s not exactly en route between New York and San Francisco.
So, I called Delta and learned promptly that all flights in the next few hours were booked. I could, however, get on a 1:20pm flight. But, it wouldn’t get me in until after 9:30pm.
That wouldn’t do, I reasoned. I had to pick up my race packet by 5pm, so I pleaded with her. I explained my situation. I cried. Well, I didn’t cry, but I did beg.
And, she bought it.
Miraculously, she found a direct flight that left at 10am and arrived at 1pm, roughly an hour before my original flight. Hallelujah! But, it left from JFK. And, I was at La Guardia. Shit.
No problem, she said. We’ll send a car for you. Wow. This lady was not only charming, but also helpful, an unprecedented duo in the annals of customer service.
So, I got to JFK at 8:30am, and this time checked in with an agent. And, that’s when I learned that I had been given a reservation on the 10am flight, but not a seat assignment. There’s a difference? I felt like I was stuck in the Seinfeld episode in which Jerry explains to the lady at the rental car agency that she clearly knows how to take a reservation, but not how to hold it.
Confused, I checked my bag and proceeded to the gate where I waited patiently for my name to be called. Boarding began, passengers piled into sections one through eight and they made not one mention of me.
So, as they closed the gate’s door, I walked to the counter to inquire about getting on the plane. She told me that I was the next name on the list, the proverbial first horse to the glue factory. But, as we were talking, her phone rang. There’s what… he didn’t… one more…
Sir, she said. There’s one more seat on the plane. You’ll have to run.
Lady, I thought. I’m running a marathon tomorrow. I think I can handle it.
So, they opened the door for me and I took off down the ramp towards the plane. As I neared the door, a stewardess was walking towards me.
I’m sorry to get your hopes up, she said. But, he was actually in the bathroom.
No shit.
With that, I turned, sank my shoulders and hung my head, and began the ultimate walk of shame back into the airport.
So, I slinked my way back to the counter to learn my fate. Quickly it became clear that I was not leaving this airport anytime soon. And, this presented an interesting quandary. Not only could I not check in for the race, but my bag had gone off on the plane and, given my luck, I was now facing the likely possibility of lining up at the marathon’s starting line in worn-out sneaks, blue jeans and a pinstriped blazer. Yikes!
It’s 10am and the next available flight is at 6pm. That’s eight hours from now. And, that means I don’t arrive until 9:30pm. And, that means a late-night, a short nap and a very early start.
Without many options at this point, I called Andy who, bless him, agreed to pick up my race packet. And, I began to wage a war for compensation. And, they got me on a direct flight. And, they bumped me up to first class. And, they gave me a voucher for future travel. And, they even gave me two $7 meal vouchers.
So, I settled in for a day at the airport. I read the paper and made some phone calls. I window-shopped and people-watched. I spent my $7 vouchers, one of which got me the startling small booty of two bananas and a coffee.
The day passed slowly. But, eventually I got onto my flight and made it to Andy’s house in San Francisco by 10:30pm. And, with my bag, nonetheless.
My door-to-door journey had lasted for more than 18 hours. I had spent more than 10 hours sitting in airports. And, I was supposed to run a marathon in about seven hours.
But the wasted day and forfeited sleep weren’t the worst of it.
The worst part of the whole episode was that I got to sit in first class where they were serving free cocktails, and I had to abstain. That, my friends, is real torture.
If the Bible instead offered a gruesome depiction of unfortunate travel sagas, you’d find my picture right next to Job’s.
Late departures, missed connections, canceled flights, I’ve endured them all. Misplaced luggage, miserable movies, snarky attendants and obese seat neighbors, they are par for my course. Rare is the day and festive the occasion when I get from Point A to Point B without even a slight hiccup. And, it’s usually more like an explosive burp.
I’ve spent nights on scrubby airport floors and nights in hotels so wretched that I longed for those scrubby airport floors. I’ve been told I couldn’t take a bag on the train even though I had taken the same bag on the same train not two days before. I’ve been delayed going to job interviews and once to a lacrosse game--- and I was the team’s coach!
But nothing even holds a candle to what happened this weekend.
I showed up at La Guardia airport at 7:30am Saturday morning, about 1.5 hours before my flight. When I check in at the automated kiosk, I learned that my flight to Atlanta had been canceled. In hindsight, it should have raised a red flag when they told me that I had to go through Atlanta in the first place--- it’s not exactly en route between New York and San Francisco.
So, I called Delta and learned promptly that all flights in the next few hours were booked. I could, however, get on a 1:20pm flight. But, it wouldn’t get me in until after 9:30pm.
That wouldn’t do, I reasoned. I had to pick up my race packet by 5pm, so I pleaded with her. I explained my situation. I cried. Well, I didn’t cry, but I did beg.
And, she bought it.
Miraculously, she found a direct flight that left at 10am and arrived at 1pm, roughly an hour before my original flight. Hallelujah! But, it left from JFK. And, I was at La Guardia. Shit.
No problem, she said. We’ll send a car for you. Wow. This lady was not only charming, but also helpful, an unprecedented duo in the annals of customer service.
So, I got to JFK at 8:30am, and this time checked in with an agent. And, that’s when I learned that I had been given a reservation on the 10am flight, but not a seat assignment. There’s a difference? I felt like I was stuck in the Seinfeld episode in which Jerry explains to the lady at the rental car agency that she clearly knows how to take a reservation, but not how to hold it.
Confused, I checked my bag and proceeded to the gate where I waited patiently for my name to be called. Boarding began, passengers piled into sections one through eight and they made not one mention of me.
So, as they closed the gate’s door, I walked to the counter to inquire about getting on the plane. She told me that I was the next name on the list, the proverbial first horse to the glue factory. But, as we were talking, her phone rang. There’s what… he didn’t… one more…
Sir, she said. There’s one more seat on the plane. You’ll have to run.
Lady, I thought. I’m running a marathon tomorrow. I think I can handle it.
So, they opened the door for me and I took off down the ramp towards the plane. As I neared the door, a stewardess was walking towards me.
I’m sorry to get your hopes up, she said. But, he was actually in the bathroom.
No shit.
With that, I turned, sank my shoulders and hung my head, and began the ultimate walk of shame back into the airport.
So, I slinked my way back to the counter to learn my fate. Quickly it became clear that I was not leaving this airport anytime soon. And, this presented an interesting quandary. Not only could I not check in for the race, but my bag had gone off on the plane and, given my luck, I was now facing the likely possibility of lining up at the marathon’s starting line in worn-out sneaks, blue jeans and a pinstriped blazer. Yikes!
It’s 10am and the next available flight is at 6pm. That’s eight hours from now. And, that means I don’t arrive until 9:30pm. And, that means a late-night, a short nap and a very early start.
Without many options at this point, I called Andy who, bless him, agreed to pick up my race packet. And, I began to wage a war for compensation. And, they got me on a direct flight. And, they bumped me up to first class. And, they gave me a voucher for future travel. And, they even gave me two $7 meal vouchers.
So, I settled in for a day at the airport. I read the paper and made some phone calls. I window-shopped and people-watched. I spent my $7 vouchers, one of which got me the startling small booty of two bananas and a coffee.
The day passed slowly. But, eventually I got onto my flight and made it to Andy’s house in San Francisco by 10:30pm. And, with my bag, nonetheless.
My door-to-door journey had lasted for more than 18 hours. I had spent more than 10 hours sitting in airports. And, I was supposed to run a marathon in about seven hours.
But the wasted day and forfeited sleep weren’t the worst of it.
The worst part of the whole episode was that I got to sit in first class where they were serving free cocktails, and I had to abstain. That, my friends, is real torture.
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