Executive privilege

Maybe it's time we second-guess CEOs like we do athletes

It's been a rough few weeks for a fellow named Jack Welch. For those of you who haven't made it past the sports section lately, Welch is the former chairman and chief executive of General Electric whose divorce proceedings generated public documents that have made for some very interesting reading. Among other things, they revealed that Welch's personal assets totaled $456.2 million, which happens to be more than the gross domestic product of Grenada. If that doesn't make the enormity of the number sink in, think about it this way: It's even more than the team payroll of the New York Knicks.

It can't be much fun having one's private finances laid bare for all to see, even when the picture is as impressive as Welch's. But there is one thing he should be grateful for -- at least he's not an athlete.

If he chased a ball for a living, Welch's wealth would be a target of much greater resentment, especially the fact that his retirement income, after taxes, is $1.41 million ... a month. That's not a misprint. Welch is making millions upon millions every year for doing next to nothing. He might as well be Mo Vaughn . But for some reason, the public only seems to object to ballplayers making obscene amounts of money. When a guy who wears a suit and carries a briefcase is rolling in dough, it's somehow considered more acceptable.

That's at least partly because we generally expect it to take years of hard work to build a big bank account, and athletes do it too quickly for our taste. Some of the objections to players jumping straight from high school to the NBA, for example, are surely fueled by the belief that something is just wrong about young men becoming so rich so soon. We can accept someone having youth or wealth, but when they have both envy starts to kick in. We can't avoid the fact that race is a factor, as well. America has a long tradition of rich white men, but when non-whites are holding the green, some people find it jarring.

Fans probably will never be as accepting of athletes' wealth as they are of executives'. The perception will always be that athletes play, while businessmen work. But in the interest of fairness, maybe it's time to start treating CEOs like QBs and CFs. Maybe we should start dealing with overpaid businessmen the way we do overpaid athletes. When an executive fails to close an important deal, fans should be in the boardroom ready to boo him and call him a bum. At the end of their workdays, sales VPs should have to wear nothing but a towel while answering reporters' questions about their poor performance at the stockholders' meeting.

Athletes have been saying for years that fans wouldn't be as resentful of their salaries if the numbers weren't such common knowledge, and they're right. It's much easier to find out what Jason Giambi makes than George Steinbrenner . Like ballplayers, executives' salaries should follow them around like a bad penny. If every story about Alex Rodriguez contains "$252 million," in reference to the value of his contract, shouldn't every story about Rodriguez's boss, Texas Rangers owner Tom Hicks , include the number at the bottom of his tax return?

Plenty of athletes make salaries that are far bigger than their contributions to their teams. But ballplayers aren't the only ones stealing money -- they're just the most visible ones. We're more likely to get angry at a $4 million-a-year shortstop who boots a ground ball than we are to get incensed at a $40 million-a-year CEO who drives his company's stock into the ground. But just remember: At least the shortstop isn't wrecking your 401(k).

Sports Illustrated senior writer Phil Taylor writes about a Hot Button issue every Monday on CNNSI.com

 

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