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Doug Glanville, who came up with the Cubs and later played at various times for the Phillies and the Rangers, writes an occasional piece for the New York Times. A couple of days ago, he wrote about his experiences being traded, and what it meant to him as a player and as a person. I found his perspective thought-provoking:

A trade is often a stealth move made outside the players’ knowledge, and certainly without his consent….As players, we all understand that to some degree we are property, an asset that can be depreciated and whose title can be transferred. On a whim, no less.

As I fan, I know I’ve often thought of players in these terms, as an asset to be managed, developed, used, and/or traded, all as a means to an end: a World Series title. How many times have I lamented the Danny-Haren-for-Mark-Mulder trade (which came just a year before the Redbird’s 2006 championship, though the parties involved had little to do with it)? Or the Placido-Polanco-for-Scott-Rolen trade, about which I have more complicated feelings? For all my speculation on the values of these, and other, trades to the Cardinals’ chances for success, never did I wonder how Haren, Mulder, Polanco, or Rolen felt about having been traded.  Drafts, trades, free-agent signings—these are the stuff of sports-bar arguments, but seldom do we consider the players involved as actual people.

Let’s make this personal: What if, in a hypothetical world in which such a thing were possible, my employer suddenly decided to trade me to a different institution in a different city? Glanville writes, “I had an apartment lease I needed to cancel. I had to somehow move everything I had to Chicago—including a car—and be in uniform the next day. Not to mention say goodbye to teammates and pack my baseball equipment at the stadium.” Could I make a similar hair-pin transition, and on someone else’s whim, and how would I feel about it?

For one thing, I accepted my current job in large measure because of its geographical location; I wanted to live in this city, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable having to suddenly pick up and leave. I certainly wouldn’t want to be forced into being relocated to a strange and unfamiliar place on just a few hours notice.

But more importantly, I’m sure I’d feel betrayed by my employer, to whom I’ve given years of hard work and loyalty. Every baseball trade is an attempt by the team to improve itself, either immediately or down the road, in one way or another; if I were traded, therefore, this would mean that my employer saw my departure somehow as an improvement to the organization. How would I interpret such a trade? As an attempt to dump my ever-increasing salary for a younger, cheaper, less-experienced replacement? As a judgement on the quality of my job performance? As a way, perhaps, to rid the institution of an unwelcome personality?  Baseball players, after all, are traded for all of these reasons every year.

As Glanville writes, “Initially, I was offended. After all, I grew up as a baseball fan in the 1980s, when loyalty was still a big part of the professional sports mentality.” He implies, correctly, that loyalty no longer plays much of a role in professional sports (see Ramirez, Manny), but I don’t think that’s true for most of the rest of us. It certainly isn’t true at my job, where many of my colleagues have worked for decades.

Of course, it is different for professional athletes, and Glanville points out that players understand this part of their job. Nevertheless, even as I hope the Cardinals are able to trade for some desperately-needed bullpen help, I also hope I can keep in mind that these are people and their futures, and not just their stat sheets, being discussed.