Not pictured: Canada's former prime minister
Saying “sorry” is a hard thing to do.
Scratch that — saying the word “sorry”, in a disingenuous attempt to move beyond an uncomfortable situation, is troublingly easy.
But apologizing — expressing genuine remorse for something you’ve done and the way it’s affected other people — that is hard. It’s hard because the first step is taking full responsibility for your imperfect actions; and, in so doing, confessing to your own fallibility and vulnerability.
This week, we were provided with two examples of situations where a sincere apology could (and should) have been tendered: in the case of an elected political leader who was conclusively proven to have conducted shady business transactions while in office, and in the case of a sports official who was conclusively proven to have made a split-second error in judgment.
And of course you know which one of them actually stepped up.
“Inappropriate” was the key word taken from the findings of the Oliphant inquiry, which was commissioned to investigate the relationship between former prime minister Brian Mulroney and greasy German businessman Karlheinz Schreiber. If you’re like most Canadians and your eyes glaze over when you hear the name “Karlheinz Schreiber”, in brief: dude was giving the PM cash-stuffed envelopes in hotel rooms, while Mulroney was in office, and while Mulroney’s decision-making power could be beneficial to Schreiber.
That’s an abuse of power. You know it. I know it. Justice Oliphant knows it. Everyone who has a basic understanding of what constitutes acceptable behaviour by an elected official knows it. And in his heart of hearts, Mulroney must know it too.
The inquiry and his legal fees have cost the taxpayers millions of dollars. And what has been accomplished? Independent corroboration of an already-obvious truth? That Mulroney has something to apologize for?
So why can’t he admit it? Why can’t he apologize?
Sorry, let me rephrase — why won’t he apologize?
The answer is obvious: the protection of his legacy. Elected leaders are, let’s face it, put in untenable positions. They forfeit their lives from the moment they first run for any sort of office, expected at all times to be above the fray, superhuman, able to handle a hundred different tasks and responsibilities while exercising flawless judgment and impeccable morality.
At the same time, though, they’re supposed to be “real” — they should be physically attractive (or at least, not repulsive), have a soothing voice, a nice smile, a good-looking spouse, cute kids, a firm handshake, a decent wardrobe and express empathy and vulnerability in exactly the right amounts, at exactly the right times.
Mulroney, no doubt, had to negotiate this balance for much of his adult life. And sure, his tenure as prime minister went down in flames, thanks in large part to the GST. But, in his mind, that could be written off as a policy decision. A poor economic choice, but not something that cut to the heart of his existence as a moral and ethical being. His legacy could still, theoretically, be saved… the one bit of light at the end of a tunnel for any politician whose life has been turned over to the voracious masses.
But admitting to influence-peddling? Yeah, you can’t really crawl out of that hole. Admitting that you fell victim to temptation makes you not a leader of men, not a world-renowned power-broker, it makes you… human.
And yeah, politicians should be “human”… but not, y’know, actually human. No legacies being made there. They should be seen to be fallible… but only seen as such. Actual fallibility is anathema, in the public’s eyes.
When it comes to sporting officials, the veneer of infallibility has to be laid on thick. It’s part and parcel of the job. If you’re susceptible to temptation, doubt, poor judgment… well, what good are you? A referee or umpire is not supposed to be a living, breathing, three-dimensional human being with thoughts, emotions, opinions, dreams and a family. They’re unthinking automatons, in place to perform specific tasks.
A 100% success rate at performing those tasks is the minimum acceptable standard. Anything less is sufficient justification for angry taunts, verbal abuse, personal threats and even, in some parts of the world, actual physical violence.
It’s this culture that makes what Jim Joyce did this week so remarkable.
Jim Joyce — whose name you likely saw trending on Twitter at some point — is a Major League Baseball umpire who was at the centre of a controversy of his own making on Wednesday night. Armando Galarraga, a young pitcher for the Detroit Tigers, was one out away from a perfect game, which is one of the rarest feats in all of sports (it’s only happened 20 times in over 130 years of recorded baseball history — though, anomalously enough, twice this year already).
Then, on the play that should have been the game’s last out, Joyce wrongly called the runner safe. Perfect game blown.
Joyce could have done what most officials — sporting officials, public officials, bureaucratic officials — do when they make a mistake: deny, ignore, obfuscate. Hide behind your professional credos — that exist to defend your decision-making, no matter what — and lay low until the whole thing blows over.
Joyce did not do this. He, to his immense credit, found Galarraga after the game and apologized to him for missing the call. He publicly and unequivocally declared he’d messed up, and that his error had had a deleterious effect on someone else. His apology seemed genuine and heartfelt. Here was not a heartless robot, but a human being who had the strength of character not to hide from his momentary shortcomings, but to seek atonement for them and the way they’d changed the course of other people’s lives.
And what has the fallout from Joyce’s decision been?
He’s received support. Overwhelmingly. By having the fortitude to instantly recognize and admit to his mistake, and seek forgiveness from those affected, Joyce redeemed himself. Sure, it helps that Galarraga has been terrifically magnanimous about the whole thing. And yeah, the commissioner of baseball might go back and overturn the ruling, giving Galarraga the perfect game, at least in the official record books.
But everyone knows Armando Galarraga threw a perfect game. I do, you do, he does. Jim Joyce certainly does. These would all be the case whether or not Joyce had copped to his error — but by doing so, he has allowed everyone to move on from something that befalls each and every single one of us, many times over: a lapse in judgment. By ignoring it, fighting it, refusing to admit it, Joyce would have only exacerbated his own troubles, tarred his own image and made himself into a villain.
Instead, oddly, both he and Galarraga are both now tragic figures in this story, both worthy of the public’s sympathy.
As for Mulroney? Every day that passes, every column inch that is used to write about his legal issues, every opportunity to finally come clean that is missed… he only continues burying himself deeper, fanning the flames of scorn from the public he is, ostensibly, still attempting to win over.
Jim Joyce’s legacy? “The guy who blew Galarraga’s perfect game… but at least he admitted it.”
Mulroney’s legacy? That’s for you, and I, to decide. And I know which way I’m leaning.