Passan: Rob Manfred has five years to define his legacy — how will he use them?
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Jeff Passan, ESPN
Rob Manfred announced his 2029 retirement as commissioner of Major League Baseball on Thursday in the most Rob Manfred of ways. In an answer to a question about the awarding of future All-Star Games, Manfred made an offhand comment about his limited time remaining in the job. A follow-up elicited more clarity: He plans to step down upon the expiration of the new contract owners awarded him this past July.
The odd timing — and odder setting, at a general media availability in Florida — was on brand for Manfred, who took over from Bud Selig in 2015. His public handling of some of the crises of his tenure as commissioner — the Houston Astros cheating scandal, the Oakland A’s move, the 2021-22 lockout — have turned into crises themselves. Appealing to fans, of course, isn’t a prerequisite for the modern commissioner. Manfred’s job is to serve 30 billionaires, and in those team owners’ eyes, his tenure has been a success.
In his first decade as commissioner, Manfred oversaw an increase in industry revenue and a significant jump in franchise value, two factors that owners care about much more than fans do. Sometimes he can serve both, as he did with the 2023 implementation of a pitch clock, a rousing success that also coincided with a nearly 10% increase in attendance. But over the past 10 years, he has made abundantly clear the party for which he works, and the owners believed in him enough to offer an extension for his $25 million-a-year job.
Which sets up a fascinating half-decade ahead as Manfred balances his bosses’ whims and the legacy he wants to leave. How Manfred handles these remaining years will shape history’s view of him. For all of its warts, baseball is in a good, if tenuous, place. Incredible athletes populate the game. Business keeps booming. And, as ever, one misstep could jeopardize that momentum.
His most immediate order of business is figuring out how to weather the near-collapse of the company that handles local-TV broadcasts for about half the teams in the sport. It also offers Manfred his greatest opportunity yet to simultaneously satisfy fans and owners. Television blackouts have prevented tens of millions of fans from watching the sport, a Faustian bargain that traded the game’s long-term health for owners’ short-term profit. Manfred has said he wants to rid the game of blackouts and intends to do so by packaging the TV broadcasts of the affected teams and, eventually, bringing all 30 under the service’s umbrella.
Navigating such treacherous terrain takes a nimble operator, and Manfred always has been more Doberman than Dachshund. He faces immense pushback from big-money teams that own their own regional sports networks — the New York Yankees, Chicago Cubs and Boston Red Sox among them — and a package with half of MLB’s teams would be the ultimate half-measure that could deepen the game’s already-widening chasm between the haves and have-nots. Finding an elegant solution would go a long way toward future-proofing MLB.
Just as concerning, if not more so, is the prospect of another lengthy work stoppage, in service of owners trying to squeeze every last penny out of a new collective bargaining agreement in 2026. The last collective bargaining talks saw MLB lock out the players for 99 days and narrowly avoid devastating the sport. The complications of the commissionership — placating a coterie of wealthy owners with factions whose loyalties could be imperiled by the outcome of the media-rights deal — are laid bare during collective bargaining. Compounding the inherent difficulty of the economic negotiations that define every basic agreement are additional elements Manfred is seeking — all of which the MLB Players Association must approve.
Manfred said Thursday he wants two expansion cities to be named by the end of his tenure. Getting the $2 billion-plus in expansion fees for each team necessitates a deal with the union. Further, one of Manfred’s chief goals over the next half-decade — continuing to increase MLB’s reach, in part through international and special-event games — requires buy-in from a group of players who regard him with, at best, begrudging respect and, at worst, contempt.
Bettering the on-field product remains of great import, too. The pitch clock made baseball a better game, shaving about 30 minutes off every game by simply cutting out dead time. MLB’s newest innovation, a computerized zone that brings uniformity to ball-and-strike calls, could arrive as soon as 2025. Whether the league goes fully automated or implements a challenge system, change of any variety rankles a segment of baseball fans and adds another pothole on the road to retirement.
Of course, despite Manfred’s intentions now — we know now that when he signed his 2024 extension, he’d suggested to owners that this was his last term — all of this speculation might well be for naught. In December 2006, Manfred’s predecessor, Bud Selig, said he would retire when his contract expired in 2009. Barely a year after his announcement, he signed a new deal through 2012 and pegged his retirement to its conclusion. At the behest of owners, Selig reneged again, signing up for two more years before backing Manfred as his heir to one of the most powerful seats in sports.
Five years out, there is no clear successor to Manfred. Owners could coalesce around an internal candidate at the commissioner’s office. They could tab a team president. They could look externally. Two owners Thursday said it’s far too early to speculate. Too much can happen over the next half-decade.
Manfred’s tenure so far has seen more wins than his detractors care to acknowledge. These next five years, though, bring the opportunity to burnish that legacy. A commissioner not angling for a new contract can put aside the politics and mollifying inherent in the job and prioritize the future of the game, not the owners’ investments. He could fix an international signing system that sees 12-year-olds agreeing to deals and others lying about their ages to make them more attractive to teams. He could help repair a broken youth program that sends pitchers into professional baseball with scars already on their elbows. He could incentivize teams to spend earlier in free agency and prevent another slog of an offseason like the current one bleeding into spring training.
These are novel thoughts, and perhaps naïve ones, too, because Rob Manfred is still here due in large part to his success in making rich men richer. He is ownership’s attack dog and flak jacket. Manfred has said time and again that he is commissioner because he loves the game. As the clock ticks on the tenure of Major League Baseball’s 10th commissioner, he has the chance to prove it unequivocally.
JIM ABBOTT IS sitting at his kitchen table, with his old friend Tim Mead. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, they were partners in an extraordinary exercise — and now, for the first time in decades, they are looking at a stack of letters and photographs from that period of their lives.
The letters are mostly handwritten, by children, from all over the United States and Canada, and beyond.
“Dear Mr. Abbott …”
“I have one hand too. … I don’t know any one with one hand. How do you feel about having one hand? Sometimes I feel sad and sometimes I feel okay about it. Most of the time I feel happy.”
“I am a seventh grader with a leg that is turned inwards. How do you feel about your arm? I would also like to know how you handle your problem? I would like to know, if you don’t mind, what have you been called?”
“I can’t use my right hand and most of my right side is paralyzed. … I want to become a doctor and seeing you makes me think I can be what I want to be.”
For 40 years, Mead worked in communications for the California Angels, eventually becoming vice president of media relations. His position in this department became a job like no other after the Angels drafted Abbott out of the University of Michigan in 1988.
There was a deluge of media requests. Reporters from around the world descended on Anaheim, most hoping to get one-on-one time with the young left-handed pitcher with the scorching fastball. Every Abbott start was a major event — “like the World Series,” Angels scout Bob Fontaine Jr. remembers. Abbott, with his impressive amateur résumé (he won the James E. Sullivan Award for the nation’s best amateur athlete in 1997 and an Olympic gold medal in 1988) and his boyish good looks, had star power.
That spring, he had become only the 16th player to go straight from the draft to the majors without appearing in a single minor league game. And then there was the factor that made him unique. His limb difference, although no one called it that back then. Abbott was born without a right hand, yet had developed into one of the most promising pitchers of his generation. He would go on to play in the majors for ten years, including a stint in the mid ’90s with the Yankees highlighted by a no-hitter in 1993.
Abbott, and Mead, too, knew the media would swarm. That was no surprise. There had been swarms in college, and at the Olympics, wherever and whenever Abbott pitched. Who could resist such an inspirational story? But what they hadn’t anticipated were the letters.
The steady stream of letters. Thousands of letters. So many from kids who, like Abbott, were different. Letters from their parents and grandparents. The kids hoping to connect with someone who reminded them of themselves, the first celebrity they knew of who could understand and appreciate what it was like to be them, someone who had experienced the bullying and the feelings of otherness. The parents and grandparents searching for hope and direction.
“I know you don’t consider yourself limited in what you can do … but you are still an inspiration to my wife and I as parents. Your success helps us when talking to Andy at those times when he’s a little frustrated. I’m able to point to you and assure him there’s no limit to what he can accomplish.”
In his six seasons with the Angels, Abbott was assisted by Mead in the process of organizing his responses to the letters, mailing them, and arranging face-to-face meetings with the families who had written to him. There were scores of such meetings. It was practically a full-time job for both of them.
“Thinking back on these meetings with families — and that’s the way I’d put it, it’s families, not just kids — there was every challenge imaginable,” Abbott, now 57, says. “Some accidents. Some birth defects. Some mental challenges that aren’t always visible to people when you first come across somebody. … They saw something in playing baseball with one hand that related to their own experience. I think the families coming to the ballparks were looking for hopefulness. I think they were looking for what it had been that my parents had told me, what it had been that my coaches had told me. … [With the kids] it was an interaction. It was catch. It was smiling. It was an autograph. It was a picture. With the parents, it ran deeper. With the parents, it was what had your parents said to you? What coaches made a difference? What can we expect? Most of all, I think, what can we expect?”
“It wasn’t asking for autographs,” Mead says of all those letters. “They weren’t asking for pictures. They were asking for his time. He and I had to have a conversation because this was going to be unique. You know, you could set up another player to come down and sign 15 autographs for this group or whatever. But it was people, parents, that had kids, maybe babies, just newborn babies, almost looking for an assurance that this is going to turn out all right, you know. ‘What did your parents do? How did your parents handle this?'”
One of the letters Abbott received came from an 8-year-old girl in Windsor, Ontario.
She wrote, “Dear Jim, My name is Tracey Holgate. I am age 8. I have one hand too. My grandpa gave me a picture of you today. I saw you on TV. I don’t know anyone with one hand. How do you feel about having one hand? Sometimes I feel sad and sometimes I feel okay about it. Most of the time I feel happy. I hope to see you play in Detroit and maybe meet you. Could you please send me a picture of you in uniform? Could you write back please? Here is a picture of me. Love, Tracey.”
Holgate’s letter is one of those that has remained preserved in a folder — and now Abbott is reading it again, at his kitchen table, half a lifetime after receiving it. Time has not diminished the power of the letter, and Abbott is wiping away tears.
Today, Holgate is 44 and goes by her married name, Dupuis. She is married with four children of her own. She is a teacher. When she thinks about the meaning of Jim Abbott in her life, it is about much more than the letter he wrote back to her. Or the autographed picture he sent her. It was Abbott, all those years ago, who made it possible for Tracey to dream.
“There was such a camaraderie there,” she says, “an ability to connect with somebody so far away doing something totally different than my 8-year-old self was doing, but he really allowed me to just feel that connection, to feel that I’m not alone, there’s other people that have differences and have overcome them and been successful and we all have our own crosses, we all have our own things that we’re carrying and it’s important to continue to focus on the gifts that we have, the beauty of it.
“I think sometimes differences, disabilities, all those things can be a gift in a package we would never have wanted, because they allow us to be people that have an empathetic heart, an understanding heart, and to see the pain in the people around us.”
Now, years after Abbott’s career ended, he continues to inspire.
Among those he influenced, there are professional athletes, such as Shaquem Griffin, who in 2018 became the first NFL player with one hand. Griffin, now 29, played three seasons at linebacker for the Seattle Seahawks.
Growing up in Florida, he would watch videos of Abbott pitching and fielding, over and over, on YouTube.
“The only person I really looked up to was Jim Abbott at the time,” Griffin says, “which is crazy, because I didn’t know anybody else to look up to. I didn’t know anybody else who was kind of like me. And it’s funny, because when I was really little, I used to be like, ‘Why me? Why this happen to me?’ And I used to be in my room thinking about that. And I used to think to myself, ‘I wonder if Jim Abbott had that same thought.'”
Carson Pickett was born on Sept. 15, 1993 — 11 days after Abbott’s no-hitter. Missing most of her left arm below the elbow, she became, in 2022, the first player with a limb difference to appear for the U.S. women’s national soccer team.
She, too, says that Abbott made things that others told her were impossible seem attainable.
“I knew I wanted to be a professional soccer player,” says Pickett, who is currently playing for the NWSL’s Orlando Pride. “To be able to see him compete at the highest level it gave me hope, and I think that that kind of helped me throughout my journey. … I think ‘pioneer’ would be the best word for him.”
Longtime professional MMA fighter Nick Newell is 39, old enough to have seen Abbott pitch for the Yankees. In fact, when Newell was a child he met Abbott twice, first at a fan event at the Jacob Javits Center in Manhattan and then on a game day at Yankee Stadium. Newell was one of those kids with a limb difference — like Griffin and Pickett, due to amniotic band syndrome — who idolized Abbott.
“And I didn’t really understand the gravity of what he was doing,” Newell says now, “but for me, I saw someone out there on TV that looked like I did. And I was the only other person I knew that had one hand. And I saw this guy out here playing baseball and it was good to see somebody that looked like me, and I saw him in front of the world.
“He was out there like me and he was just living his life and I think that I owe a lot of my attitude and the success that I have to Jim just going out there and being the example of, ‘Hey, you can do this. Who’s to say you can’t be a professional athlete?’ He’s out there throwing no-hitters against the best baseball players in the world. So, as I got older, ‘Why can’t I wrestle? Why can’t I fight? Why can’t I do this?’ And then it wasn’t until the internet that I heard people tell me I can’t do these things. But by then I had already been doing those things.”
Griffin.
Pickett.
Newell.
Just three of the countless kids who were inspired by Jim Abbott.
When asked if it ever felt like too much, being a role model and a hero, all the letters and face-to-face meetings, Abbott says no — but it wasn’t always easy.
“I had incredible people who helped me send the letters,” he says. “I got a lot more credit sometimes than I deserved for these interactions, to be honest with you. And that happened on every team, particularly with my friend Tim Mead. There was a nice balance to it. There really was. There was a heaviness to it. There’s no denying. There were times I didn’t want to go [to the meetings]. I didn’t want to walk out there. I didn’t want to separate from my teammates. I didn’t want to get up from the card game. I didn’t want to put my book down. I liked where I was at. I was in my environment. I was where I always wanted to be. In a big league clubhouse surrounded by big league teammates. In a big league stadium. And those reminders of being different, I slowly came to realize were never going to go away.”
But being different was the thing that made Abbott more than merely a baseball star. For many people, he has been more than a role model, more than an idol. He is the embodiment of hope and belonging.
“I think more people need to realize and understand the gift of a difference,” Dupuis says. “I think we have to just not box everybody in and allow everybody’s innate light to shine, and for whatever reasons we’ve been created to be here, [let] that light shine in a way that it touches everybody else. Because I think that’s what Jim did. He allowed his light to permeate and that light, in turn, lit all these little children’s lights all over the world, so you have this boom of brightness that’s happening and that’s uncontrollable, that’s beautiful.”
NEW YORK — Chicago Cubs center fielder Pete Crow-Armstrong is projected to receive the largest amount from this season’s $50 million pre-arbitration bonus pool based on his regular-season statistics.
Crow-Armstrong is on track to get $1,091,102, according to WAR calculations through July 8 that Major League Baseball sent to teams, players and agents in a memo Friday that was obtained by The Associated Press.
He earned $342,128 from the pool in 2024.
“I was aware of it after last year, but I have no clue of the numbers,” he said Friday. “I haven’t looked at it one time.”
Pittsburgh pitcher Paul Skenes is second at $961,256, followed by Washington outfielder James Wood ($863,835), Arizona outfielder Corbin Carroll ($798,397), Houston pitcher Hunter Brown ($786,838), Philadelphia pitcher Cristopher Sánchez ($764,854), Cincinnati shortstop Elly De La Cruz ($717,479), Boston catcher Carlos Narváez ($703,007), Red Sox outfielder Ceddanne Rafaela ($685,366) and Detroit outfielder Riley Greene ($665,470).
Crow-Armstrong, Skenes, Wood, Carroll, Brown, De La Cruz and Greene have been picked for Tuesday’s All-Star Game.
A total of 100 players will receive the payments, established as part of the 2022 collective bargaining agreement and aimed to get more money to players without sufficient service time for salary arbitration eligibility. The cutoff for 2025 was 2 years, 132 days of major league service.
Players who signed as foreign professionals are excluded.
Most young players have salaries just above this year’s major league minimum of $760,000. Crow-Armstrong has a $771,000 salary this year, Skenes $875,000, Wood $764,400 and Brown $807,400.
Carroll is in the third season of a $111 million, eight-year contract.
As part of the labor agreement, a management-union committee was established that determined the WAR formula used to allocate the bonuses after awards. (A player may receive only one award bonus per year, the highest one he is eligible for.) The agreement calls for an interim report to be distributed the week before the All-Star Game.
Distribution for awards was $9.85 million last year, down from $11.25 million in 2022 and $9.25 million in 2023.
A player earns $2.5 million for winning an MVP or Cy Young award, $1.75 million for finishing second, $1.5 million for third, $1 million for fourth or fifth or for making the All-MLB first team. A player can get $750,000 for winning Rookie of the Year, $500,000 for second or for making the All-MLB second team, $350,000 for third in the rookie race, $250,000 for fourth or $150,000 for fifth.
Kansas City shortstop Bobby Witt Jr. topped last year’s pre-arbitration bonus pool at $3,077,595, and Skenes was second at $2,152,057 despite not making his big league debut until May 11. Baltimore shortstop Gunnar Henderson was third at $2,007,178.
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