The Demise of the Activist-Athlete
by Dayn Perry

Question: "A student of mine wrote a paper in which he juxtaposed the image of Tommie Smith and John Carlos in 1968 versus that of Charles Barkley and Michael Jordan during the 1992 Olympics-the raised black fist compared to a draping America flag strategically placed to cover up a Reebok label on their sweatsuits. What do these opposing images say about the last thirty years of black sports participation?"

Answer: "It says that black athletes have become sufficiently integrated into the sports system. They have a stake in all of the business dimensions of that system. Thirty years ago there would not have been any issue of them covering the Reebok slogan because they would not have had the Nike contract that was in conflict with it. That would have gone to a white athlete. So what this change tells me is that black athletes are sufficiently integrated into the business matrix of sports … Thirty years ago that was not the case. We are talking about different times."

In the above exchange, the interlocutor is David Leonard of ColorLines Magazine, and the respondent is Dr. Harry Edwards, renowned sociologist and avocational sports commentator. It hits on something that is both uncomfortable and profound.

This is the year 2006. The "trickle-up" global economy, technology, prevailing affluence and, yes, a modicum of social progress all mean that the upper strata of black Americans are doing better than they ever have. That's of course a good thing. But we're losing our rebels.

Elite athletes of any color are paid beyond their wildest hopes, and it's no surprise that, like many of the exorbitantly well heeled, whatever rabble-rousing edge they once had is-to pilfer T.S. Eliot for a moment-lying etherized upon a table. Sure, there are the perfunctory nods at imbalance and discrimination that Barry Bonds, Terrell Owens, Allen Iverson and others give us from time to time, but even the black athlete these days is so woefully removed from the hoi polloi that their laments are perhaps nothing more than nostalgic vacuities. This isn't to say racial discrimination doesn't exist-only a fool would suggest we've conquered bigotry. But today's athletes are so lavished in money that they no longer are in somber accord with the blighted classes in America.

Witness, for instance, baseball players who are union stalwarts when it comes to the Players Association, but outside of those self-interested environs, they largely vote Republican and, by extension, are hostile to the interests of labor. The working classes-those who really need unionization-don't merit their solidarity.

On another level, even if an athlete of color (or any other flavor of celebrity) does have a hard-won grievance, the all-too-common rejoinder will be something to the effect of, "You make millions of dollars, and you're still complaining." Again, we're losing our rebels.

In 1960s, who could, from an examined perspective, argue with Smith's and Carlos's jarring gesture in Mexico City? Who could take umbrage at Muhammad Ali's refusal to report for duty? And who could say Curt Flood was an insubordinate malcontent? People did, sure, but by doing so they laid bare their prejudices and gallingly narrow world-view.

In Flood's instance, his struggle still resonates. It was a vital one, it entailed a great deal of personal sacrifice, and it ultimately came to grief-a noble struggle fought boldly and lost proudly. When the disenchanted Flood relocated to Europe following his retirement, it certainly harkened back to black ex-pats like Richard Wright and Paul Robeson, who found European sensibilities more accommodating. Flood was also an accomplished artist and a pensive soul. This isn't to say we're without renaissance types in today's sporting environment, but, well, where are they? And where is the evidence of their humanism?

In an odd way, Flood's cause bears some of the blame. That's because his challenge to baseball's economic structure laid the groundwork for the lushly moneyed professional athletes we have in our midst today. Flood, in being such a prominent and vital activist-athlete, actually heralded the sad death of the activist-athlete. Edwards directly addresses this when he speaks of the black athlete's being "sufficiently integrated into the business matrix of sports." We're all guilty of craven assimilation in one form or another, but when those most visible in our society have their linkage to the under classes eroded, it's the under classes who pay the price.

In fact, the sports world seems to be broadly cutting ties with common folk. Escalating ticket prices; the social insularity of athletes; the rise of pay-per-view broadcasts and subscription packages, and the gradual shift of sports programming from network to cable television-they all combine to make accessibility to the sports world a diminishing phenomenon. It only follows that professional athletes, now so far removed from the banal concerns of the working class, begin to worry more about lowering their marginal tax rates than stumping for social justice. How quickly they forget.

We're losing our rebels? Not really. It's just that our rebels aren't on TV anymore. The front lines of resistance are no longer in the clubhouse, on the diamond, or on the Olympic medal dais. They're elsewhere. The shame in that is that those voices are by and large hushed and marginalized. Most professional athletes are wealthy individuals concerned with protecting and increasing that wealth. Most high-profile sporting events these days are one part competition, one part jingoist pep rally-a tepid and perhaps dangerous state of affairs, to be sure.

It's a belated blessing that the strains of racism in our society have been reduced, but it's lamentable that professional athletes have been co-opted by the inwardly rotten corporatists in the enduring American class struggle. That's why we miss Curt Flood, Tommie Smith, John Carlos, Muhammad Ali, Jim Brown, Bill Lee, Dick Allen and those like them more than we probably realize. Our games need a rebel who's selfless enough to speak for a group he or she is no longer a part of. It's been far too long since we've had one.