MLB’s botched makeover is giving many players fits
Jays split on ill-fitting, occasionally see-through new uniforms
DUNEDIN, FLA. It has turned into a panto of the pantaloons.
Broad comedy cross-stitched with baseball tradition turned inside out: The folly and ill-fit of the unis.
New Major League Baseball threads for 2024 that are getting dressed down by players for poor tailoring, gimcrack manufacture and embarrassing transparency. From MVP bespoke to trashy VPL (visible panty lines). Button-segmented crests that don’t align properly across the chest. Shrunken lettering on the back. A cheesy knock-off vibe.
But most aggro-inducing are the somewhat diaphanous trousers that apparently provide fans with more than a modest eyeful of a player south of the belly-button Mendoza line. As “The Tonight Show” host Jimmy Fallon cracked: “I get the feeling this year we’re going to see a lot more dingers.”
A peek-o-briefs and the crumple of tucked-in jerseys: nothing soft porno, but discomfiting still to some. MLB and the players union have certainly had an earful of complaints since the overhauled uniforms were unveiled — emphasis on the unveiling — at the start of spring training.
Kind of X-ray vision semi-transparent, the white version of the garb a worse offender, and especially under the glare of portrait lighting as when players had to pose for official team photos. When Shohei Ohtani showed up for his first official clicks in Los Angeles Dodgers raiment, the pack of Japanese media that documented the event wondered aloud: “Why is Shohei wearing see-through pants?”
Exposed as well by ballpark lighting, particularly in the stretch of a catch or a slide, silhouetting taut trou. And sunlight, too? Nowhere to hide the jewels and the BVDs.
Rather different from the buttocksand crotch-clinging pants associated with former Toronto Cy Young winner Robbie Ray — that pair of breeches had its own Twitter handle. But vogueing Ray was orchestrator of the exhibitionism. Not so much the current crew of players who pull them on one leg at a time, reluctantly.
“When you’re wearing a blue jersey, you can see underneath,” Jays outfielder Kevin Kiermaier, no style slouch, was saying on Monday. “My wife saw it the other day, taking pictures with our kids.”
Kiermaier is the first to admit he’s a traditionalist in this most traditionalist of sports and chafes at the newfangled, but particularly the newfangled without consultation or justification.
“I really liked the product they had for years. I’m not huge into change for a lot of things in life. My early thought was, like, man, I don’t know why they felt like changes were needed. They’re trying to change so many things: pants, cleats … From a business standpoint, I understand it. But a lot of us, we’re stubborn with what we’ve liked for years.
“But this is a game of adjustments. We’ll adjust. You’ve got to accept it.”
The why of it has been explained, if not convincingly, by both Nike and Fanatics — the two-headed beast that produces baseball apparel (also NHL, NBA, NFL). In a statement, Nike claimed it had created “the most advanced uniforms in the history” of major league baseball. Fanatics is the online sports merchant that in 2017 acquired Majestic, which had for decades produced the baseball jerseys at a Pennsylvania factory now also owned by Fanatics. They’ve whined about taking the blame for simply meeting the specs laid down by Nike.
“We’re purely doing exactly as we’ve been told, and we’ve been told we’re doing everything exactly right,” Fanatics founder Michael Rubin said at the MIT Sloan Sports Analytics Conference on Friday. “And we’re getting the s--- kicked out of us.”
Boo hoo. That aforementioned why has a whole lot to do with a blatant cash grab, of course, coupled with “shrinkflation” feeding off fan devotion, which means shelling out upwards of $450 (U.S.) for a genuine team jersey. At least players don’t pay for their kit. Fanatics, by the way, was estimated by the Wall Street Journal at a valuation of $31 billion a couple of years ago.
The objective was to craft upgraded garb of a lighter, looser, cooler quality, albeit still constructed from that godawful double polyester fabric. In days of distant yore, uniforms were made of itchy wool and hot flannel. Once upon a time it was all about the defining stirrup stockings, not the jerseys or the pants — or the headbands. This is a sport where three teams are named for socks, after all.
Somewhere along this most recent trail of the redo, Nike and Fanatics lost their way. Players have crabbed that unis look cheap, rather shabby in the production end and, crucially, are no longer made to measure. They’re off the rack, even for the big leaguers. Nobody asks if a guy hangs left or right.
“The uniforms aren’t great; there’s a number of issues,” sniffs Toronto moundsman Chris Bassitt. “But I’d say the biggest one is, you can’t tailor the uniforms anymore. If five people wear an XL, they’re not the same XL. They used to come in and measure us.
“For me, I feel like my body size is quite standard. But for other guys that wear the same size, it’s definitely not.”
Sam, you made the pants too long! Closer Jordan Romano also found his trousers an awkward fit. Clubhouse do-it-all fixers to the rescue, for a bit of personal training.
“We’ve got great clubhouse guys here,” said Romano. “They gave some of us the VIP treatment. I don’t know if they’re allowed to do that, but mine fit great now. They were just a little baggy to start. We tapered them down a little bit.”
Romano is an ankle-biter-pants guy, worn down to the arch of his feet — usually: “Maybe if I’m pitching really bad, I might roll them up to the knees once in a while, a lot of switching it up if things aren’t working. Otherwise I’m keeping them down to the ankle.”
Tall and lanky, the pants often seem to hang off him. That, too, suits his tastes: “Definitely not super-tight. If I was a little bigger, spent more time in the weight room, maybe. But no, for me just a nice loose, comfortable fit is great.“
Nor is Romano an avowed hater of the new habiliments.
“I might be in the minority here, don’t really mind them. I put on the jersey and it doesn’t feel any different.”
And others just don’t give a toss. Incoming DH Daniel Vogelbach over there, built like a fireplug squared, is wrestling into a pair of black leggings that go beneath his game pants.
“I’m not really picky. Just put ‘em on and play.”