Shopping for elite talent in your local bargain bin

Please don’t go Randy.

One of the profound speculations in sport has always been, to me, if athletic prowess were sold at Wal-Mart, in what section would it be found?

Would it be packaged among the frozen pizza in the grocery section? Would it hang beside the Wrangler jeans in the clothing isle? Could it reside amongst the candy bars and gum in the checkout lane?

Never before has this question earned more relevance than in recent weeks. As a 25-year-old accused rapist dismantles the NBA’s flagship franchise and the Yankees try to dangle a talentless farm system and a bag of money in the face of the Arizona Diamondbacks in order to lure the Big Unit to the Big Apple, talent is something to be bought, sold or swapped, not cultivated or cherished.

Over the course of the past year, both baseball and basketball have seen an unprecedented relocation of elite talent. The path laid by the Red Sox and Yankee wars over Alex Rodriguez, and Tracy McGrady’s self-inflicted exile from Orlando, Shaq’s departure and the Big Unit’s desire for a trade are just bricks on the path to Oz.

The trend began years before when loyalty suddenly became the property of the chosen. From Cal Ripken to John Elway, a select few were heralded for their dedication to their team while the rest were thrown overboard as the wind pushed the bottom line’s sail in a different direction. Great teams were dismantled and great players flocked to teams with healthy bank accounts or salary cap space.

From the Florida Marlins of 1997 to the Chicago Bulls, championships were no longer the property of players, but of the owners, who either bought great players for a quick fix (Marlins) or sold them off to rebuild (Bulls).

With the stage set, loyalty is now irrelevant. Players are still rewarded for staying with one team (even Kobe Bryant is receiving praise for staying with the Lakers), but it is no longer their choice, no one’s untouchable. General managers and owners trade baseball players like kids trade baseball cards and the players have grown to expect it, always looking for a greener pasture.  

Look no farther than Randy Johnson. At age 41, Johnson is one of the game’s most dominant and feared pitchers. This year he leads the league in strikeouts and he pitched a perfect game in May. His fastball still clocks in the high 90s and he will always be 6 foot 11 and grisly.

For a hapless franchise like the Diamondbacks, stuck in the cellar of baseball’s worst division, or any franchise for that matter, he should be a godsend, one bright spot in a season stuck under a dark cloud.

Most great athletes, at one time or another, are marred by some scandal (even Michael Jordan wasn’t immune, not forgetting his profligate wagering), Johnson has always flown just below the radar, known for his family-first attitude and work ethic.

He brought the Diamondbacks out of expansion irrelevance to a world championship and yet, as the trade deadline approaches, the Diamondbacks and Johnson have yet to declare their love for one another and guarantee their marriage is eternal.

It’s not that I blame either for their openness to change, Johnson should want to win championships and the Diamondbacks should be looking toward the future. They are victims of a trend, subject to temptation.

Cal Ripken is an appropriate example of how the approach has changed. For almost 20 years, Cal Ripken was the Orioles, through good times and bad. For any self-respecting baseball fan, imagining Ripken in anything but an Orioles jersey is like imagining the world without sun.
Johnson is one of the greats of this or any other generation, yet his value to the fans in Arizona no longer outweighs his championship aspirations or his owner’s bottom-line.

Athletes are no longer the property of the city they play in.  Though this may have always been an illusion, it was an illusion owners and players were willing to feed. Now, with one great player after another relocating, it seems they are intentionally trying to starve it to death.