Still, there is something of a modern parable in the recent A-Rod saga. A blessed young man discovers that money isn’t all there is to life. Thus enlightened, he seeks to surrender a small part of his fortune in pursuit of the happiness that playing for a contender brings.
But in the end, this real-life parable didn’t provide the object lesson one might have hoped for. In my perfect version, Alex Rodriguez would have voluntarily taken a huge pay cut, the union would have applauded him, the Texas Rangers would have used the savings to transform their team and A-Rod’s financial sacrifice would have led to the first World Series triumph ever in the Lone Star State. But that was never going to happen. Instead, the lesson garnered is something a wee bit more cynical. A-Rod barely takes a financial hit at all and winds up deserting Texas to soldier with the Goliaths in the Bronx.
In truth, I blame A-Rod for virtually none of this. No young superstar–and Rodriguez was just 25 when he took the record $252 million deal from Texas–has yet, to my knowledge, eschewed a megabucks deal on the table. And Texas assured him that his contract was but the beginning, the golden foundation of a championship team. If owner Tom Hicks and his front-office team couldn’t foresee the disaster ahead–three successive last-place finishes–there’s no reason the kid should have been prescient. Perhaps only athletes in the swan-song stage of extremely, lucrative careers can properly assess the relative value of more and more millions versus a championship ring. Both Karl Malone and Gary Payton, certain basketball Hall of Famers, decided to lowball themselves this season in order to play for the L.A. Lakers, with the hope that they might plug the one conspicuous hole in their NBA resumes.
For all my fascination with the A-Rod tale, there is nowhere this issue–money versus winning–plays out in more intriguing fashion than in the National Football League. Since the institution of a hard salary cap a decade ago, NFL executives have been grappling with variations on the A-Rod parable in one form or another. Team success yields stars, stars demand more money, bigger salaries force teams to shed other valuable players–and the team’s success, as a result, often proves fleeting.
Right now this fundamental dilemma puts Peyton Manning, the premier quarterback in the NFL, stage center. Just this week the Indianapolis Colts designated the superstar as their team’s “franchise player,” assuring that he will not escape into free agency while Indy tries to hammer out a long-term deal with him. As a franchise player, Manning would earn in excess of $18 million next year, or about 23% of the team’s entire payroll under the salary cap. NFL teams have until Tuesday to comply with the 2004 salary cap; open season on free agents begins the very next day. Even if Manning and the Colts work out a more cap-friendly, long-term agreement, Indy will almost certainly have to shed valuable talent to accommodate this year’s more expensive version of the same guy.
Manning is both a bright guy and a student of the game. Yet ego appears to demand that he become the highest-paid quarterback in history–the guessing is a record $30 million signing bonus. Colts fans will be overjoyed when the team locks up their hero for the long-term. But that signing could presage a less bright future for the franchise than it might have appeared when Indy reached the AFC Championship game against the New England Patriots last season.
The Patriots offer a valuable object lesson in this matter. Not the Pats’ current championship team, which has become a model of payroll efficiencies, but New England in a previous incarnation. That was back when Drew Bledsoe was still quarterbacking the team. It may be hard to recall, especially after we watched an aging Bledsoe look confused, clumsy and, at times, downright awful in a futile 2003 season with the Buffalo Bills. But Bledsoe was once, like Manning, the toast of the NFL, the very first draft pick in the entire league and a consensus Pro Bowler.
In 2001, the 29-year-old quarterback signed a 10-year $103 million contract that, the Associated Press wrote at the time, “should keep him in New England until he retires.” But, of course, as things turned out, it kept him there for only one more season. Because as Bledsoe had become steadily more and more expensive, he was inevitably surrounded by less and less talent. His offensive line turned porous, which not only forced him to suffer a regular beating, but highlighted Drew’s lack of mobility. The team couldn’t afford to acquire any superstar receivers, so New England became more and more dependent on short dump-off passes, the one type conspicuously absent from Bledsoe’s arsenal. Tom Brady replaced Bledsoe only after a severe injury. But it was inevitable that the Pats would eventually dump him and turn to a quarterback who made their shortcomings less glaring. (Absolutely nobody, though, imagined quite the transformation that would take place).
It is unlikely that Manning, who is a more complete package than Bledsoe, will price himself out of a job so quickly. Probably not for a few years anyway. But he has been privileged in recent years to operate with an extraordinary array of offensive weapons and a stellar line in front of him. And while the Colts’ defense is not championship calibre, it has made some strides. As soon as Manning assumes that big price tag, the reverse strides on both sides of the line will begin. And last year’s championship game, rather than the building block that most Colts fans hoped it was, may prove to be as far as Peyton Manning can ever take his team.
Maybe some day a really smart quarterback will actually demonstrate it. Instead of buying his offensive line a steak dinner or even a Rolex, he will reject the megamoney, settling for just huge money, and insist that the rest be spread around to bolster his team. Because, of course, that ultimately bolsters his stature and could even significantly prolong his career. First guy to do that, well, I’ll write a parable about him.
