Other Perks That Come Next for MLB Stars After Signing Big-Money Contracts
Some people wonder what perks come with signing a big big league contract. I mean, one of the huge contracts. A funny-money contract that gets compared to the gross national product of nations and makes for selfies with bar receipts showing tips in the thousands because, you know, it's chump change for you now.
Anyone who has ever wanted for money doesn't need to hear about how having piles of it is a perk. We all get it. But because sports fame and money are all so intrinsically linked, you may not fully understand what it's like to be, say, Giancarlo Stanton, who went from a well-paid prospect to plutocrat with a wave of his pen-equipped hand.
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First, understand that to receive oodles of dollars in sports, you have to produce on the field. And typically if you're producing on the field, people are going to know who you are. Athletes aren't the Kardashians; they don't get paid for doing nothing.
So when athletes do make the huge bucks, they've usually already carved out a niche for themselves in pop culture by playing sports hero. When you mix it all together—cultural impact, notoriety, money, sports heroism—you get the real perks of the game: access.
Roll back the clock. I'm in Boston with the Jays in 2009.
It was my first real taste of the bigs, so lots of things like having famous singers or actors show up to hang out at the club still blew my mind.
"Hayhurst!" Kevin Millar shouted at me from behind the Red Sox batting cage. He'd won a ring with the Sox and had more than 10 years in The Show, so he could merrily stroll over to the now-enemy team and hug and kiss like he was still part of the club. "Hayhurst, come 'ere!"
En route, I walk by the head athletic coach, the guy whose job it is to run stretch and make sure we're all ready to go. He is powerless to stop me in the face of Millar, because Millar has been drinking from that punch bowl of big league power, money and success long enough that he can do what he wants and call it preparation. I obey Millar because of the same basic rule. I had less than a half-season in the big leagues by that point, so if Millar wanted me to go refrost his tips, I would have.
"Pete, this is the guy, Dirk Hayhurst—he's writing a book, said he wanted to meet you." Millar whacks me on the back and walks off scene, leaving me in the presence of Peter Gammons, baseball reporting royalty.
I used Millar's foot-in-the-door help to petition Gammons for a book plug. He said he'd be thrilled. So I added him to the growing list of those who had said they'd be thrilled, each one afforded to me purely because I was a big leaguer writing a book and nothing more.
But that's just the tip of the all-access iceberg. Millar also said that Stephen King made it into town for a lot of the Sox games. Millar had met him, and—since he knew some people who knew some people—he could get me a meeting with him too. Would I like to meet Ben Affleck? Of course I would. How about his good pal, country singer Toby Keith? Jack Nicholson? The Jonas Brothers?
OK, so, no, I didn't want to meet the Jonas brothers. I actually don't think they wanted to meet me either, but back in Toronto, Vernon Wells invited them on, and, hey, the next thing I'm saying is, "Gosh, I really love your music."
I guess that one is easy to forgive compared to the time I met Avril Lavigne under similar circumstances and said the same thing. Side note: She thought I was Brandon League. Even called me Brandon after I told her my name was Dirk.
It's not money that people with money respect. It's the currency of being socially relevant. The iconic status. The possession of something that seems inhuman. While a lot of relevancy can be bought, sports relevancy can't. That's why actors and singers and politicians enjoy meeting athletes. The money just makes it possible to get memberships at the same clubs they go to, smoke the same cigars and drink the same super high-end booze.
That's not to say that the money doesn't factor in to some upgraded big league experiences, or that there aren't folks who cater to rich athletes in ways they don't cater to the relatively less fortunate.
When the Jays would travel from Canada to Texas, Vernon Wells would often charter his own flight so he could get into town faster and spend some time with his family.
In the minors, if you play in your hometown, you can't even ride into the place with your parents as a chaperone because it's against team policy to let you stray from the team bus. In the big leagues, boy oh boy, you can charter your own private friggin' cross-national jet—which, mind you, is a head-scratcher since team jets are already privately chartered cross-national jets!
As for these individuals who profit from directly greasing and lubing your expensive big league appetites? They are known as the Clubhouse Attendants.
Now, the clubhouse staff is the salt of the earth, and they'll do anything for you. The scope and priority of that "anything" is where the cash considerations come in. For example, if Roy Halladay or Vernon Wells or Millar wanted something done in 2009, there was no talk of how much it would be or when; it would just be done.
If a big-name, well-compensated player needs jerseys from opposing players signed and brought to him—say no more. A bottle of high-proof something or other back in the hotel room? Done. Said hotel room number and key card delivered to some young hotness in the front row? Done. Something more risque set up with multiple ladies on the down-low? Rest assured, they have no idea what you're referring to, wink, wink.
You know those stories you hear about women getting sent back to hotel rooms en masse for certain stars? Yeah, they aren't just stories.
Depending on how much you tip, no task is too far outside of the built-in concierge service provided by the clubhouse personnel. Some of them even keep lists of the things you like when you come into town, similar to how a hotel might have your personal room preferences on file. Except, replace room preference with smokeless tobacco flavors, hard alcohol and golfing reservations.
How does that all come to pass? Simple. The megastars with the mega contracts tip upward of $50,000 to $100,000. Sometimes more. In fact, all told, the combined tips of the players easily dwarf the head clubhouse attendant's salary.
And how do these clubhouse attendants get these elite access passes for their players? Because those players grant elite access for other elites. It's an elite access commodity system. Remember, what might be mundane for a player—like playing catch on a big league field, taking batting practice or wearing a jersey with your name on it—is a thrill a second for someone else.
Backstage passes for the team in exchange for live batting practice? Deal.
When you're making ridiculous money in conjunction with ridiculous fame, you can afford to outsource your whims. While the first-year big leaguers are calculating the price of purchasing their debut uniform, the 10-year vet is clapping his hands together and watching things materialize. But it doesn't stop there.
The higher up you get on the player-power spectrum—success, contract status, fame—the more powerful you become even as compared to coaches and the general manager. After all, when a team has a bad year, and the star player is at odds with the manager, who is going to get fired? Reach a certain lumen power of superstardom, with enough people invested in you, and you can do what, go where and act how you please.
That's the perk of the big big league contract. The money is only an accessory to the crime.
Dirk Hayhurst is a former pitcher who spent nearly a decade in professional baseball between MiLB and MLB. He is also an accomplished author and has appeared on Baseball America, ESPN, TBS' MLB postseason broadcasts, Sportsnet Canada and more.
