Last November, an organization called Link20 sent a letter to Robert Manfred, commissioner of Major League Baseball. Link20 refers to itself as “a global social movement led by a network of young activists, with and without disabilities, who advocate for and advance the inclusion of people with disabilities throughout our society.”
The letter asked that MLB officially change the name of the list consisting of players unable to play due to injury from “the disabled list” to “the injured list.” The letter said, “Using the term ‘Disabled List’ for players who are injured reinforces the belief that people with disabilities are injured and therefore are not able to participate or compete in any sports. This perception is misleading and incorrect and has the unfortunate connotation that people with disabilities cannot take part in any professional sports. As we all know, there are many professional athletes with disabilities in all major sports in the U.S. and in the world.”
It would have been exceedingly silly for MLB to put up a fight about this one.
And so a month later, the commissioner’s office sent a memo to all MLB teams informing them that henceforth, the disabled list would be called the injured list.
And that was that. A done deal. No pickets or boycotts necessary. None of this Washington Redskins messiness.
And why not? It would have been exceedingly silly for MLB to put up a fight about this one. By taking action so swiftly and decisively, the leadership of MLB demonstrated how easy and important it is for major sports leagues to be responsive and sensitive to public perception—whenever it doesn’t cost any money.
But suppose there was an MLB team called the Indianapolis Injured Persons, aka the Indy Injies. And suppose that team’s logo looked something like that wheelchair stick person you always see on those blue access signs.
If activists demanded that the logo be changed so as not to falsely equate disability with the inability to play, it’s likely there would not have been such an immediate and unconditional surrender. There would be too much on the line. The team’s owners would freak out about the potential cost of rebranding. They might have to issue recall notices on all those baseball caps with the wheelchair stick person logo emblazoned on front and on all those T-shirts that say “Go Injies!” And maybe even the Injy bobblehead assembly line would have to be retooled. That could cost a fortune!
No, the demand for a change would be rejected in the name of preserving the team’s “heritage”—a.k.a. profits. So then the picketing and boycotting begins, maybe even a raucous jersey burning outside Injy Stadium.
And team owners would respond with a PR barrage. They might hire some crippled Injy fans to come to a press conference and say they don’t find the name or logo offensive. They may give a bunch of adorable kids with cerebral palsy free tickets to a game and arrange a meet-and-greet with the star third baseman.
And the fight would go on for years.