[ The players who make America’s pastime possible have had
enough of dismal working conditions, and they’re organizing to
change them.]
[[link removed]]

HOW MINOR LEAGUE BALLPLAYERS WON A UNION  
[[link removed]]


 

Kelly Candaele and Peter Dreier
March 6, 2023
The Nation
[[link removed]]


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_ The players who make America’s pastime possible have had enough
of dismal working conditions, and they’re organizing to change them.
_

Throwing strikes: Garrett Broshuis spent four seasons in the minors
before going to law school. His first case was a class-action suit
against Major League Baseball, Jeff Roberson / AP // The Nation

 

Trevor Hildenberger is a 32-year-old pitcher for a minor league
affiliate of the San Francisco Giants. He was used to spending his
days thinking about balls, strikes, and fielding errors, but helping
organize a union with his fellow ballplayers taught him a lot about
political psychology.

“When I started to talk to players about how collective action could
make things better for us, I had those conversations during batting
practice, on the buses, or in the clubhouse,” Hildenberger
remembers. “I always spoke loud enough so that it didn’t seem like
I was whispering secrets to them, as if I was afraid that what I was
asking them to do was dangerous.”

Hildenberger, whose parents are active in a Northern California nurses
union, believes that his efforts are simply a matter of dignity,
fighting for what is fair for himself and the 5,500 other minor league
players.

“My parents are proud of what I’m doing,” he says.

Hildenberger, whose parents are active in a Northern California nurses
union, believes that his efforts are simply a matter of dignity,
fighting for what is fair for himself and the 5,500 other minor league
players.

“My parents are proud of what I’m doing,” he says.

Since the early 20th century, thousands of young athletes have
endured low wages
[[link removed]],
overcrowded housing, indifferent medical care, and all-night rides in
uncomfortable buses in order to play in baseball’s minor leagues,
hoping to eventually make it to “the show”—the major leagues.
These players have long complained about their working conditions, but
rarely in public. Many were grateful just to be paid to play
baseball—a step up from working on farms or in factories back home.
They also knew that players who grumbled about their circumstances
could quickly lose their jobs or even get blacklisted by professional
teams. So they kept quiet.

Now the decades of whispering have ended.

In mid-September, a majority of minor league players signed cards
[[link removed]] stating
their desire for the Major League Baseball Players Association (MLBPA)
to represent them through collective bargaining. Baseball’s 30 team
owners, 24 of whom are billionaires
[[link removed]],
immediately recognized the union as the minor leaguers’
representative—meaning that when play resumes in March, baseball’s
entire player workforce will be unionized.

The fall announcement shook up the baseball world. Many sportswriters
claimed that the union came out of nowhere. That’s because the
players had kept the organizing efforts quiet—despite the many phone
calls, e-mails, and one-on-one meetings they employed to spread the
word.

A union for minor league players was considered a pipe dream only a
decade ago. One major stumbling block was the players’ reluctance to
take on the team owners. Even Marvin Miller, the MLBPA’s legendary
first executive director—who negotiated the first collective
bargaining agreement in professional sports in 1968—believed that
minor league players, who had “stars in their eyes” about making
the major leagues, would never unionize.

“The notion that these very young, inexperienced people were going
to defy the owners—it’s just not going to happen,” Miller
told _Slate_ 
[[link removed]]in
2012.

But in the past few years, a group of minor leaguers had begun
organizing to change the conditions that they once believed were
unchangeable. Like any organizing drive against a powerful and
implacable employer, it’s impossible until it’s not.

And as with any social movement, the minor leaguers’ success
depended on a combination of harsh conditions, missteps by
baseball’s owners, and the presence of a handful of agitators and
organizers who persuaded competitive and individualistic ballplayers
that only by joining forces could they improve the conditions of their
work and not jeopardize the slim chance they had to climb the ladder
to the big leagues. What follows is an exclusive, inside account of
just how that was accomplished.

 

Out in deep left field: Organizer Bill Fletcher Jr. heard about the
players’ predicament from his wife, who told him, “These guys need
a union.” (Franklin & Marshall College  //  The Nation)
Standing in the Dodger Stadium dugout before a game against the
Arizona Diamondbacks this past September, Gavin Lux, the Los Angeles
Dodgers’ second baseman, reflected on his experiences in the minor
leagues.

“In Rancho Cucamonga, where it’s as expensive as shit, we were
living five or six guys to an apartment and sleeping on blow-up
mattresses,” he recalls. (The LA suburb is home to a Dodgers
Single-A minor league team.) “When I moved to Oklahoma City [the
Dodgers’ Triple-A affiliate], I had to pay for my new place plus an
apartment that no one was living in anymore.”

The conditions Lux describes are typical for the over 5,000 minor
league ballplayers who, in any given year, are employed by one of the
30 major league teams, which collectively own 120 minor league
franchises. For decades, the players accepted that “grind”—low
salaries, poor living conditions, no power or voice in their
professional careers—as the sacrifice required to make the big
leagues. Only about 10 percent of minor leaguers eventually play in
the majors.

In 2022
[[link removed]],
players in Triple-A leagues, one step below the majors, made a weekly
minimum of $700—but only during the baseball season. Double-A
players made a minimum of $600, and Single-A players $500. Minor
leaguers didn’t get paid at all for the weeks they spent at spring
training. Most minor leaguers made less than $15,000 a year
[[link removed]],
which means they had to take second and third jobs during the
off-season to pay for rent, food, and other living expenses.

Caleb Joseph, who spent parts of seven seasons (2014 to 2020) in the
majors with the Baltimore Orioles, Arizona Diamondbacks, and Toronto
Blue Jays, vividly remembers his seven years in the minors. “One
peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a banana between games of a
double-header was very common,” he recalls. Fifteen years ago,
Joseph made $350 a week—before taxes—playing for the Orioles’
Single-A affiliate in Aberdeen, Md. “When you’re looking at $2,000
a month in rent, and you’re not even making $1,500 a month in
salary, those numbers just don’t add up,” he says.

“I lost money playing baseball every year until I got called up to
the big leagues,” Joseph says. “If you are married, which I was
when I was 26 years old in Triple-A, you are absolutely behind the
eight ball, because you can’t shack up with a bunch of other guys to
make the rent.”

“I’ve seen teammates who were homeless and guys who had families
who couldn’t pay for diapers for their kids,” says Dominic Pipkin,
a pitcher for the Jersey Shore BlueClaws, the Philadelphia Phillies’
High-A affiliate. “You wouldn’t want to wish this on anyone.”

“I thought it was a little crazy how teams essentially prey on
guys’ dreams,” says Dodgers pitcher Walker Buehler, lounging on a
couch in the Dodger Stadium clubhouse before an afternoon game in
September. “Only 10 or 20 percent of those guys will ever play in
the big leagues, maybe,” says Buehler, who studied political science
and sociology at Vanderbilt University, “so being part of a union
will give them more leverage to help get the pay they deserve for
being professional athletes.”

His teammate, future Hall of Fame pitcher Clayton Kershaw, says, “I
got paid a lot of money when I signed out of high school…but I
understand there are a lot of guys who didn’t get that kind of
signing bonus or make a lot of money in the minors. So having a union
would be really awesome for those guys.”

“I was in the minor leagues for five years, and I remember my first
paycheck was $353,” Dodgers manager Dave Roberts says. “We talk a
lot about the value of the farm system, but the compensation or how
the players are taken care of is not reflective of that value. It’s
been a long time coming.”

 

 

Garrett Broshuis grew up in the small town of Advance, Mo., graduated
from Advance High School as class valedictorian with a perfect 4.0
GPA, and went to the University of Missouri on both an academic and an
athletic scholarship. In his senior year, the 6-foot, 2-inch pitcher
was 11-0, earning All American honors.

After he graduated in 2004, Broshuis was drafted by the San Francisco
Giants into their minor league system. For the next five seasons, he
played for four teams, rising to Triple-A but never advancing to the
major leagues.

“Once I got into minor league baseball, it seemed like a step down
from college baseball,” Broshuis says. “The talent was better, but
in terms of how players were treated, it was much worse. In college, I
had my own apartment with two friends. But in the minors, I shared an
apartment with five other players, and we all slept on air mattresses
on the floor. It was even worse for players from Latin America, who
were sending money back to their families on their meager paychecks.
We were playing in front of five or six thousand fans, but we
weren’t getting paid a living wage.”

“A roommate of mine wouldn’t eat breakfast, and sometimes skip
lunch, when we were on the road…. He told me he couldn’t afford
it,” Broshuis says. “He racked up a credit card debt…. The whole
time, he had debt-collecting companies going after him. He made it to
Triple-A, but never to the majors.”

The Giants didn’t pay minor league players during the off-season, so
Broshuis took on several jobs—as a personal trainer, giving pitching
lessons, and in a cognitive-psychology lab at St. Louis University.
Late at night, he lifted weights and ran to stay in shape.

“I was working from 8 AM until 9 or 10 o’clock at night. I was
always exhausted. My wife worked full-time as a physical therapist,
but we still couldn’t make ends meet.”

Broshuis began writing articles for _The Sporting
News_ and _Baseball America_ about the life of a minor league
player. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to make the
majors, he decided to go to law school. He studied for the LSAT during
the long bus rides between games and was accepted at St. Louis
University’s law school.

He went into private practice with a St. Louis firm—but he didn’t
leave his baseball career far behind. One of his first cases, in 2014,
was a class-action lawsuit against Major League Baseball, its 30
owners, and former commissioner Bud Selig on behalf of several minor
league players. Eventually, more than 20,000 players and ex-players
joined the suit, which claimed that MLB failed to pay minor leaguers
the federal minimum wage and did not compensate them for overtime
hours.

The same year that Broshuis filed the lawsuit, Matt Paré, a Boston
College graduate and minor league catcher who was earning $7,500
during the 22-week baseball season, started a blog called _Homeless
Minor Leaguer_
[[link removed]].
It featured videos about players, including Paré himself, who hoarded
free clubhouse food, often resorted to couch-surfing during the
off-season because they couldn’t afford an apartment, and
accumulated huge debts in order to pursue their baseball dreams.

Broshuis’s lawsuit and Paré’s blog triggered news stories about
the minor leaguers’ predicament, including a lengthy article
[[link removed]] in _The
Washington Post_ in August 2016. Candice Cason, a psychologist living
in Maryland, read the article, gave it to her husband, Bill Fletcher
Jr. (a _Nation_ editorial board member), and told him, “These guys
need a union.”

“She wasn’t simply informing me,” recalls Fletcher, a veteran
union organizer, civil rights activist, and former assistant to the
president of the AFL-CIO. “She was giving me my marching orders.”

Fletcher, a baseball fan, contacted Broshuis, who had been mentioned
in the article. They quickly hit it off and began talking regularly
about how to bring a union to the minor leagues. At the time, Fletcher
says, the Major League Baseball Players Association indicated that it
didn’t think that was even possible, so Fletcher reached out to
other unions—including the United Steelworkers and the Communication
Workers of America—but those discussions didn’t pan out. Broshuis
and Fletcher quickly concluded that no union drive could succeed
without the MLBPA’s support, so they developed a strategy that they
hoped would gain enough momentum to persuade the MLBPA to jump on
board.

 

Talking union: When MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred shut down 42 minor
league teams in 2019, it gave players an incentive to fight back.
Union organizers often say “a bad boss is the best organizer.”

In 2016, in response to Broshuis’s lawsuit, the MLB team
owners—who are big donors to both Republican and Democratic
politicians—persuaded Representatives Cheri Bustos (D-Ill.) and
Brett Guthrie (R-Ky.) to introduce the Save America’s Pastime Act.
The bill purported to protect teams in financial peril by exempting
MLB from the federal minimum wage and overtime laws—but only for
minor league players. Facing criticism, Bustos dropped her support and
the bill quietly died, but MLB didn’t give up. In March 2018,
Congress incorporated the provisions into a 2,232-page omnibus
spending bill, which President Trump quickly signed.

The bill mandated that minor leaguers need not be compensated for more
than 40 hours of work a week, even if they actually spend 60 or 70
hours a week practicing, playing, and traveling with their teams.

Minor league teams—many of which are partially owned by the parent
organization—provide only the ballparks, equipment, travel, and
hotels when teams are on the road. It’s the major league parent
clubs that are responsible for minor leaguers’ pay, health care, and
pensions.

The 30 MLB teams hardly need a financial bailout. They are currently
worth an average of $2.07 billion
[[link removed]]—an
all-time high and an increase of 9 percent over last year. The value
of the teams ranges from the Miami Marlins’ $990 million to the New
York Yankees’ $6 billion. In the 2022 season, MLB set a revenue
record of $10.8 billion
[[link removed]] from
ticket and concession sales, parking fees, corporate sponsorships, and
TV contracts to broadcast games.

When Congress passed the omnibus spending bill, including provisions
of the Save America’s Pastime Act, Trevor Hildenberger was in his
first year in the majors, after being promoted to the Minnesota Twins
in 2017. “Major League Baseball argued that we were ‘seasonal
apprentices.’ That was inflammatory,” says Hildenberger, who
attended the University of California, Berkeley. “We sacrifice
weddings and funerals and births to be here, and they don’t even
want us to make minimum wage. That was a big eye opener for me and
many other players.”

The players’ anger was compounded when, in November 2019, MLB
Commissioner Rob Manfred announced that he was shutting down 42 minor
league teams, eliminating one-quarter of all positions for minor
league players in one fell swoop.

“More than a thousand minor leaguers lost their jobs overnight,”
says Harry Marino, a former minor league pitcher who was an early
recruit to the players’ crusade. “It reinforced a sense of
powerlessness, but it also provided an incentive to fight back.”

Then, in early 2020, Manfred and the owners canceled the minor league
(but not the major league) season when the Covid-19 pandemic hit.
Suddenly, more than 5,000 players were out of work—and out of money.
The MLBPA and some major league players provided some financial
support, but it didn’t replace the minor leaguers’ lost salaries.
 

No viable options: When Kieran Love­grove was transferred from Los
Angeles to Huntsville, Ala., he was given 36 hours to find a place to
live.
In 2018, Jeremy Wolf (a former minor leaguer), Slade Heathcott
(who’d spent 10 years in the minors and part of one season with the
Yankees), and Simon Rosenblum-Larson (a former Harvard pitcher then
playing in the minors for the Tampa Bay Rays) started More Than
Baseball [[link removed]]. Rather than organize
players, the group would help them pay their housing, food, equipment,
phone, and medical bills and offer financial guidance and emotional
support. During the canceled 2020 season, More Than Baseball provided
over $1.3 million in direct aid to 1,300 players, money raised from
major league players, fans, and businesses. (After an injury-riddled
2021 season in the minors, Rosenblum-Larson expected to play for the
Rays’ Double-A team, but last June, a few weeks after he wrote
a _Washington Post_ op-ed
[[link removed]] about
minor league working conditions, the Rays released him).

In contrast, Fletcher, Broshuis, Marino, and a few other ex-players
began talking to minor leaguers to test the organizing waters. They
were careful at first not to broach the idea of forming a union.
Instead, they talked to players about how to apply for unemployment,
cataloged the complaints about housing, and kept track of which teams
were providing stipends to help players navigate the pandemic.

“It wasn’t necessarily about talking union all the time,” Marino
says, “but just how collective action and sticking together
works.”

A New Jersey native, Marino pitched for Williams College, a Division
III school. After his graduation in June 2012, he signed a contract
with the Arizona Diamondbacks as an undrafted free agent. He spent the
2012, 2013, and 2014 seasons in the low minor leagues, but after three
years he reluctantly acknowledged that he wasn’t going to make it to
the major leagues. Instead, he went to law school at the University of
Virginia, where he wrote a law review article analyzing the flawed
theory of democracy underpinning the Supreme Court’s _Citizens
United_ decision. Marino graduated in 2017 and, after serving as a
clerk to two federal judges, spent a year working for the powerful
D.C. law firm Williams & Connolly.

In 2020, Broshuis and Fletcher set up a nonprofit, Advocates for Minor
Leaguers, and recruited other players and ex-players to join the
board. To avoid the impression that the group was linked to the
class-action lawsuit, Broshuis resigned from the board and was
replaced as chair by Fletcher. Marino gave up his big law-firm salary
to volunteer for Advocates. Soon the MLBPA took notice and provided
the nonprofit with some seed funding, which along with a grant from
the Ford Foundation allowed Advocates to hire Marino as a full-time
executive director and, later, to hire several organizers.

“Harry took off like a bat out of hell,” Fletcher says. “He
started plotting out how to spread the word.”

The pandemic also gave these athletes a chance to view their jobs and
futures in a different light. “Early on, there was a justifiable
amount of fear…knowing they might be jeopardizing their future
careers and their major league aspirations,” Marino says. “It took
a great deal of courage for them to stick their necks out.”

There were also logistical challenges. “You have 120 teams scattered
throughout the country, in big cities and small towns, with the teams
on the road half the time,” Marino says. And many minor leaguers
don’t play on the same team for the entire season. They get promoted
or demoted to other teams; a handful will spend part of the season in
the majors.

Over the next year, Advocates recruited a core of players to spearhead
the effort, focusing on improving pay and living conditions. Through
Zoom calls, texts, and phone conversations, Marino and the
player-organizers personally recruited more than 1,000 players, who in
turn reached out to their teammates, quickly gaining momentum.

Hildenberger, who spent part of the 2022 season with the Giants’
Triple-A affiliate in Sacramento, says that social media was a
powerful tool: “Players were sharing their living and working
conditions with thousands of fans, what food they were eating, where
they were sleeping.”

Kieran Lovegrove, a veteran of nine seasons in the minors with several
teams, was an early recruit. He decided to help with the organizing
effort after Marino contacted him about his housing situation in May
2021. At the end of spring training in Arizona, the Los Angeles Angels
told him he’d be playing for the Rocket City Trash Pandas in
Madison, Ala.—a Double-A team. According to Lovegrove, the Angels
gave him a list of possible housing options 36 hours before he left.

“A group of us players started calling the numbers on the sheet, and
we found there were no viable options,” says Lovegrove, who is now
retired from baseball. “Some of the apartments were far above our
price range, unavailable, or not even built yet. I was furious, and we
ended up renting hotels or Airbnb for a month.”

According to Marino, housing was the top issue for many minor
leaguers, including high rents, overcrowding, and forfeited security
deposits when the players were moved from city to city.

“The Phillies want to treat their players well,” says Craig Stein,
a co-owner of the Philadelphia Phillies’ minor league clubs in
Reading and Allentown, Pa. “[The Phillies] don’t want to see
players sleeping in their cars.”

Such words of sympathy, however, didn’t help players pay the rent.

In September 2021, players for the Jersey Shore BlueClaws and the
Brooklyn Cyclones—affiliates of the Phillies and the New York Mets,
respectively—wore wrist bands during a game with “#FairBall”
printed on them to protest their wages and living conditions. In
a statement
[[link removed]],
they explained: “Minor League baseball players have been severely
underpaid and silenced for decades. It is time for every Minor Leaguer
to be paid a living wage.”

Some major leaguers—including Andrew McCutchen, Jason Heyward, David
Price, Chris Taylor, and Trey Mancini—expressed solidarity by also
wearing the wrist band.

Three days after the minor leaguers made their public statement, MLB
announced that the owners had agreed to provide free housing for minor
league players starting in 2022.

That victory was crucial for showing skeptical or fearful players that
progress was possible if they spoke out and stuck together. The
organizing drive was also bolstered in May 2022, when Major League
Baseball settled Broshuis’s lawsuit, which had been winding its way
through the courts since 2014. MLB agreed to pay $185 million to
minor league players
[[link removed]],
which proved to them again that the owners were not invincible. MLB is
expected to start allocating the settlement money this year, according
to Broshuis.

“These victories really ignited a fire,” Lovegrove says. “The
owners saw fans and the media supporting us.”

Many major league players were angered when Manfred orchestrated a
lockout—an owners’ strike—in December 2021. It quickly became
clear to most players that MLB was trying to weaken or even destroy
their union. The lockout
[[link removed]] ended
in March 2022, after 99 days, when the two sides reached an agreement,
but it left a bitter taste in the players’ mouths.

That experience gave the MLBPA leaders an additional incentive to
embrace the minor leaguers’ organizing drive. Tony Clark, a former
player and MLBPA executive director, recognized that having minor
leaguers in the same union would make it easier for the MLBPA to
inculcate a sense of union solidarity long before players reach the
major leagues.

The union also made a special effort to reach out to Latino and Latin
American players—who make up close to 30 percent of minor league
rosters. Jose Brizuela, originally from Venezuela, who played for
parts of five seasons in the minor leagues, was hired by Advocates for
Minor Leaguers as an outreach coordinator.

“The first thing I did was to explain that as a human being, you
have rights, and this is what we are fighting for,” Brizuela says.
“If we raise the salaries of players, the economic impact back in
their home countries can be big. I’ve had teammates where their
whole paycheck would go back to the Dominican Republic or Venezuela to
take care of not just wives or kids but Mom, Dad, Grandma, and
Grandpa.”

“Many of the players didn’t know what a union was,” Brizuela
adds, “but I found guys that other players listened to. Those are
the natural leaders who players trust.” He explained to their
teammates that having a union meant “you have to have each other’s
backs.”

Once the MLBPA decided to fully embrace the minor leaguers’
efforts last August
[[link removed]],
it took only 17 days to successfully complete the organizing campaign.
Since Major League Baseball did not demand a secret-ballot election
(which it could have done under National Labor Relations Board rules),
the union won its victory after a majority of players simply expressed
their desire for union representation by signing cards affirming their
support for joining the MLBPA.

Major League Baseball didn’t oppose the unionization effort because,
insiders noted, the minor league players had generated so much
sympathy from the public and from their major league counterparts.
Nor, after the lockout battle, did the owners have the appetite for
another protracted fight with players. MLB was also worried about the
Senate Judiciary Committee’s plan, announced in July, to hold
hearings on its exemption from federal anti-trust laws, particularly
with regard to the minor leagues.

Once the MLBPA joined the fight, Marino and his colleagues disbanded
Advocates for Minor Leaguers and joined the MLBPA’s staff.
Negotiations began in November. MLB Deputy Commissioner Dan Halem
heads the owners’ negotiating committee, along with Colorado Rockies
owner Dick Monfort, who was virulently anti-union during his days as
owner of a family cattle and meatpacking company. Bruce Meyer, the
MLBPA’s deputy director, is heading the players’ bargaining team
along with Marino. Minor league players have been present at the
negotiations, either in person or by Zoom.

The players union put several proposals on the table dealing with
housing, minimum salaries, food, transportation, health care,
pensions, and grievance procedures. Both sides say they want to
finalize the first collective bargaining agreement in minor league
history by the start of this season, which begins at the end of March.
It isn’t clear how far apart the owners and players are.

In September, the MLBPA joined the AFL-CIO
[[link removed].]—the
labor movement’s umbrella federation—and its newly formed Sports
Council, comprising unions of professional football and soccer
players.

“There’s been a reawakening to the power of collective bargaining
sweeping the country,” says the MLBPA’s Tony Clark, “and it’s
being driven by those who, like our players, have a heightened sense
of fairness and equity and are determined to effect positive change in
the workplace.”

“Organizing is clearly contagious,” says AFL-CIO President Liz
Shuler, referring to the recent nationwide surge of worker activism.
“Workers, including minor league baseball players, are desperate for
change—and the best way to achieve that change is through a
union.”

In 2018, during postseason games in Boston, some major league teams
reserved rooms for players in hotels where the workers were on strike.
After the teams refused to switch hotels and players crossed the
union picket lines
[[link removed]],
labor activists cried foul. Now that the players’ union has joined
the AFL-CIO, employees who are organizing in their own workplaces
could reap the benefits. Major leaguers could support these
rank-and-file efforts by making statements of solidarity or even
showing up on the picket lines and at union rallies.

Trevor Hildenberger is optimistic.

“We now know what can be done,” he says. “We have power as
workers, we understand the power of collective action, and we have a
vision for what we can accomplish in the future.”

_[KELLY CANDAELE, a union organizer for 15 years, produced the
documentary film A League of Their Own about his mother’s years in
the All American Girls Professional Baseball League._

_PETER DREIER teaches politics at Occidental College and is author of
several books including Baseball Rebels: The Players, People, and
Social Movements That Shook Up the Game and Changed America, published
in April, 2022.]_

_Copyright c 2023 The Nation. Reprinted with permission. May not be
reprinted without permission
[[link removed]].
Distributed by PARS International Corp
[[link removed]]. _

_Please support  progressive journalism. Get a digital subscription
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to The Nation for just $24.95!_

* baseball
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* sports
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* Labor Organizing
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* Trade Unions
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* MLBPA
[[link removed]]
* MLB
[[link removed]]
* Bill Fletcher
[[link removed]]
* Minor League Baseball
[[link removed]]
* player unions
[[link removed]]
* sports unions
[[link removed]]

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