On 19 June, the New York Times published an article on the hostility toward minority members of the military at the Department of Defense and the blocking of several promotions of minority, non-male officers despite their decorations and accomplishments. The Times attributed the ideological climate to defense secretary Pete Hegseth, who, according to the newspaper, is waging a “war on diversity”. Four days earlier, California governor Gavin Newsom said that the Department of Justice was investigating him and his wife for alleged financial irregularities, adding to the speculation long held that Donald Trump’s administration would spend its second term weaponizing the government to settle scores.
As Hegseth attacks race, gender and “diversity” through the military with the aim of restoring an unchallenged and unquestioned white, Christian leadership, and the justice department harasses Trump’s political opponents, the DoJ used the San Francisco Giants’ honoring of pride month to open yet another front in what the president sees as a culture war against white men. The Giants incurred additional damage, all of it embarrassingly self-inflicted. Their milky, cowardly response betrayed their own city, a large part of their fanbase and the organization’s history.
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Hegseth’s defense department has already attacked baseball over racial lines, last year attempting to erase Jackie Robinson’s history of military service before backing down after vocal opposition, ultimately retreating by saying Robinson’s erasure was a “mistake”. After MLB criticized three Giants pitchers – Landen Roupp, Ryan Walker and JT Brubaker – for protesting Pride Night by adding Bible verses to their rainbow-logoed caps, the justice department sprang into action, vowing to investigate whether the players’ rights to religious expression were violated.
The Giants players were not fined nor disciplined. They were not required by MLB to wear the rainbow cap. They could have easily not participated. In the middle of a labor negotiation, it might have appeared that the players won some form of victory against MLB, but under no circumstances is the Trump DoJ even remotely in favor of labor. It got involved in the controversy for one reason: Trump and his justice department saw an opportunity for another ideological fight, this time asserting Christian values are being threatened by a baseball cap.
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One of those ideologies – promulgated largely by Trump but circulated with equal zeal by members of the larger American right wing – is that white, heterosexual, Christian men face the most discrimination in the country. “It’s Black over white. Female over male. Gay over straight,” The Times quoted Hegseth from his book The War on Warriors.
The Giants were once leaders. Thirty-two years ago, in 1994 – less than three years after Magic Johnson’s announcement that he was HIV positive – they were the model for a baseball team not only existing within a city, but reflecting its culture and values. The Giants were the first team in professional sports to recognize the devastation of HIV/Aids by holding the “Until There’s a Cure” game, raising money and HIV/Aids awareness. The Giants partnered with Aids activist group The NAMES Project. Rod Beck, the late Giants reliever, and his wife Stacey were active in raising money for pediatric Aids care and resources. The Becks were major supporters of Camp Sunburst, a camp for children affected by Aids.
Those Giants of the early 1990s were helmed by Dusty Baker. Their superstar was local hero Barry Bonds. Beck made a clear impact on Bay Area children, and their alumni represented San Francisco with a dynastic intensity. They were a part of the San Francisco bloodline.
Beck died in 2007. The original legends – Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, Gaylord Perry, Orlando Cepeda – are all gone. Only Juan Marichal, who turns 89 this fall, is left. There is no need for hagiography, for given what we know about homophobia and division in this country all of the old times certainly were not harmonious, but the Giants knew their home, and respected the necessity to understand what mattered to San Francisco, a city that occupies a rich and important place in LGBTQ+ history.
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What remains of the Giants is embodied by their owner, Charles Johnson, the 93-year-old shadow power behind right-wing politics and causes. The players in protest reflect their owner and not their city, and the face of the front office – Buster Posey – was supposed to represent the best of the franchise: a three-time World Series champion, Giants icon as a player, fan favorite and trusted hope to turn around a club that has failed in recent years after winning a franchise-record 107 games in 2021. He didn’t.
Facing a suddenly energized San Francisco media demanding answers for its city on Tuesday, the baby-faced Posey looked small and distant, surprisingly in a place but not of the place whose fans once adorned his jersey more than any other. Posey sat in the dugout annoyed, clinging stubbornly to the line that he would only answer “baseball questions”. When that did not end the questioning, he waited, childlike, to be rescued meekly by his public relations department, the supposed leader unable to lead for himself. Posey didn’t even know how to say the right things to the city on behalf of the franchise, even if they did not suit his personal values – which is more often than not half of the job.
Posey spoke loudest when not speaking at all. He is another athlete emboldened by Trump – even if he is not as extreme as one of his former teammates, Aubrey Huff – aggrieved soldiers in a culture war of their own making, standing in opposition to much of his team’s fanbase and the decades-long legacy of the Giants as a social institution of the city. The leader couldn’t lead. His smallness forced a reappraisal of him standing in his catcher’s gear as a playerduring all those Pride Nights and “Until There’s a Cure” ceremonies during his career, when people believed that he represented them. What was he thinking then? Good ballplayer, though.
