The players were practicing their putts on the golf course or their puttering at home. The networks had settled in for a long summer's strike. And one fan among many dozed in front of a baseball-deleted TV set. Then came words to be cherished, perhaps even believed: the strike was over.
It happened so quickly. On Tuesday, Aug. 16, owners and players agreed to bring in a mediator: Big Rock Candy Mountain Landis, grandson of commissioner Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis, who had ruled the sport with an iron fist in the '20s and '30s. Young Landis convened the warring parties in the Who-Needs- a-Commissioner's Office in Manhattan and presented each with a baseball cap full of paper slips. For the players, Donald Fehr drew a slip reading "No Salary Arbitration." For the owners, Richard Ravitch pulled out a note saying "This is the only cap you get," thus dispensing with the proposed salary ceiling. The season resumed the following day. The players agreed to make up the games lost during the strike; for the new opening day, the owners slated doubleheaders on a pay-what-you-wish policy. The voice of Ernie Banks could be heard: "Hey guys, let's play two!"
There was joy in Mudville, which had become the collective name for the 26 major league cities. Fans packed the stadiums on the first day of the "second season." Atlantans heralded the return of Greg Maddux by ringing the pitcher's mound with roses; the Montreal faithful threw small packets of money (Canadian money, but still . . .) toward their low-paid, first-place stars; and a few of Philadelphia's famously cranky spectators actually applauded their own team. In Kansas City, Vince Coleman was greeted with affectionate firecrackers; Cleveland stalwarts shied welcome-back corked bats at Albert Belle. In Toronto, fans waved banners saying WE KNEW YOU WEREN'T IN IT FOR THE MONEY and PLAYERS & OWNERS: OUR HEROES.
Other evidences of sanity followed. The Baseball Network dropped its practice of airing only regional games and re-established the national game of the week, allowing fans to become part of a countrywide community again. In Seattle, whose domed stadium had been closed for a month when ceiling tiles fell into the stands, the town burghers came to the radical conclusion that baseball is an outdoor game; they requisitioned a giant can opener and removed the dome entirely -- and with the mood upon them, they replaced the Kingdome's fake turf with natural grass. Some concession stands even tried putting real meat in hot dogs, but the fans rebelled. The experiment was curtailed.