by Ted Turner
I might have had room to negotiate on price, but I decided to focus on terms. I told Dan, “Look, I’ll buy the team, but I can’t afford to pay cash. How about I give you a million dollars down and you give me nine years to pay the rest, with interest?” He said he’d need to talk to his partners and would get back to me. I knew that since I’d been given the first look I needed to put in a strong bid. My offer was unconventional, but it would allow them to tell the world that they got their $10 million asking price. (Incidentally, throughout my career I’ve been criticized for being a poor negotiator and overpaying for things. But by not hesitating to make quick, aggressive bids, I usually got the deal and even my higher priced acquisitions have turned out to be good investments.)
Dan got back to me quickly and told me my offer had been approved. I was elated, but we were only halfway home. The next hurdle was approval from the Major League Baseball owners. In addition to my not fitting their mold, I think I was the first person to try to buy a team with less than 100 percent cash. Some were also concerned about my ultimate intentions on the TV side of things. I would be just the second owner who controlled both a team and its broadcast station (Gene Autry of the California Angels was the first), and I had made a few comments about distributing WTCG on cable outside Atlanta. Some owners worried about what this might mean in terms of TV competition in their home markets. But the Braves were a bad team in a relatively small southern city and I don’t think many of them saw me as a threat.
Still, I couldn’t take any chances so I went into full sales mode and did everything I could to get into baseball’s good graces. In a lucky break, the guy running national sales for Channel 17 just happened to be Stan Musial’s son-in-law, and when it came time for me to meet with commissioner Bowie Kuhn and the rest of the owners, none other than “Stan the Man” provided my flattering introduction. I was also careful to make sure that Bill Bartholomay agreed to stay on as Braves chairman after our deal closed. Through our previous rights negotiations I learned that he was a man of integrity and I knew that the other owners liked and respected him. Major League Baseball was a new world to me and Bill’s presence would be very helpful.
We successfully resolved our financing and league approval issues through the fall of ’75, and in January ’76 Turner Communications Group took over as owner of the Atlanta Braves. It was a thrill for all of us at the company. The team might have been losers, but they were in the big leagues, and now so were we. I’d become successful in billboards, broadcasting, and sailing through dedication, motivation, smarts, and plain old hard work. I assumed that baseball would be no different. I figured I’d simply go in there, fire up the team with enthusiasm, and we’d be tearing up the league in no time.
Boy, did I have a lot to learn!
The first thing I figured out was that to be good in baseball you needed to be able to hit, run, field, and throw. If you couldn’t do those things well, no amount of motivation or enthusiasm could make the difference. Unfortunately, this was precisely the situation we inherited with the ’76 Braves. I did make the effort, though. I remember inviting all the players up to our station offices on West Peachtree. I packed the team into a small conference room and introduced myself and told them a little about our company. I told them about my sailing and business experience and my belief that a lot of the keys to success in those fields applied equally to baseball: play as a team, be disciplined, work hard—these all were essential whether you were racing boats, selling ads, or playing baseball. The players relaxed, laughing, and excited about being part of a new ownership team.
Enthusiasm was high across the league the first part of that off-season. The 1975 World Series between the Cincinnati Reds and the Boston Red Sox was one of the greatest ever played and drew some of the highest TV ratings in history. Then a labor dispute almost blew the whole thing. By February of ’76, discussions around free agency and the reserve clause grew so difficult that the owners locked the players out of spring training. There I was, all geared up for my first season, and we were going to shut down. It was very frustrating for everyone.
Because of the lockout, we would now lose spring training games that we had sold to sponsors and were counting on airing. The players weren’t allowed to have official practices but they got together informally to stay in shape and be ready as soon as the season began. Meanwhile, I became friends with Bill Veeck of the Chicago White Sox. Bill was known for being a lot less traditional than his peers and he and I hit it off. Together we decided to get our nonroster players together to play what we called a “nongame” that we could televise back in Chicago and Atlanta. As a show of support for our advertising partners, we gave them free airtime in the telecast and it turned out to be a big win all the way around. The players got some practice, the fans saw a game, our sponsors got free airtime, and we generated a lot of good publicity. The lockout ended a couple of days later, but if it hadn’t, I’m sure we would have tried to do more games.
A TED STORY
“A Real Breath of Fresh Air”
—Terry McGuirk
Shortly after buying the team, Ted moved some of our offices down to Fulton County Stadium. In addition to freeing up space at West Peachtree, it gave our sales team a little cachet to be housed at the ballpark. By being around the front office I had gotten to know a lot of the guys pretty well and one day Ted walked into my office with Eddie Robinson, the team’s general manager. They explained that they wanted me to go with them to Florida the next morning for the opening of spring training, and literally out of the blue, Eddie said, “You’re going to put on a uniform and pretend you’re a nonroster invitee. You’re going to play with the team during the day and at night you and Ted can get together and he can ask you questions.”
Ted wanted to learn more about baseball and this was his solution! I couldn’t believe it but it sounded like it could be fun. Dave Bristol, the team’s manager, and one of the coaches were in cahoots, but my identity was a secret to all the other players and coaches. So the very next day, there I was suited up and training with the Atlanta Braves. I did this for about three weeks and debriefed Ted every night. He is such a quick learner and his memory is so strong that his understanding of the game of baseball went from zero to 100 percent during that short period.
It all finally ended one day when we were playing the Mets in one of our first spring training games. We were in one of those stadiums where the bullpens are open and just off the foul lines and Dave Bristol had sent me out to guard the pitchers and catchers from foul balls. The game was a long one and came to the point where we had played practically everyone on the roster. If he were ever going to put me in a game, now would be the time. But Dave was a serious baseball man and couldn’t bring himself to do it. At that moment it became apparent to Ted and me that the jig was up. The next day, I came clean with the other players and coaches and let them know I was heading back to my real job in Atlanta. My last night there I took a bunch of guys out for dinner and we all had some good laughs over the whole thing (and I did well enough that they offered me an AA contract!).
As strange as the whole thing was, I think it confirmed to everyone that Ted was going to do things his way and for most people in the Braves organization he was a real breath of fresh air. For me, it was just another example of how my career with Turner would never be dull.
During the lockout I decided to stir things up and jump into the middle of one of that year’s highest-profile player negotiations. As I learned about the game, everyone told me that strong pitching would be the key to turning the team around, and the big free agent going into 1976 was a pitcher many considered to be among the league’s best. His name was Andy Messersmith. As you might imagine, I wasn’t the only one interested in him and I soon found myself in the middle of a bidding contest with, among others, George Steinbrenner of the New York Yankees. Steinbrenner was every bit as competitive as I was and he was in the country’s number one TV market and had deep pockets. He saw free agency as a h
uge opportunity and he wanted to make Messersmith one of his first blockbuster signings. As hard as it was going up against the Yankees, Messersmith’s agent did nothing to help matters. I was pretty sure he was simply using my offer to increase the bidding by Steinbrenner and the other interested owners. By the end of March, the Yankees were declared the winners of the Messersmith sweepstakes.
Shortly after the public announcement from New York, Messersmith claimed that his agent had negotiated the contract without his authority and he didn’t want to be a Yankee. Apparently, their money was good but New York put in a bunch of other clauses Andy didn’t like. For example, in addition to taking a big share of his endorsement income, the Yankees included their standard clause that required their players to have short haircuts and no facial hair. That wouldn’t be a problem for me—heck, I was the owner and I had a mustache. Suddenly, we were back in the running and I moved quickly. With Steinbrenner out of the way I was in front of Messersmith with a big smile and a big offer, and about a week later, he signed with the Atlanta Braves for more than $1 million over three years. That doesn’t sound like much today but it was big money back then. This was a high-profile signing and the fact that we’d landed him ahead of the New York Yankees really pleased our fans. We hadn’t played a game yet, but we’d created a ton of excitement going into opening day.
We opened that season on the road, winning two out of three in San Diego against the Padres. Heading back to Atlanta after that encouraging start, I wanted to make sure our home opener was a big, fun event. Helping matters was the fact that we were playing the Cincinnati Reds, the team that had just won the dramatic 1975 World Series. That night, after the Reds and Braves lineups were introduced, I ran out to a microphone on the field and gave the entire stadium a pep talk. Then, with a full marching band behind me, I led the fans in singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” I’m sure some of the players didn’t know what to make of the whole scene but our fans ate it up.
These ceremonies caused the game to start a little late but before the first pitch I took my seat down next to the field. Many owners sit upstairs in glass-enclosed suites but I thought watching a game in a suite was like kissing a girl through a window. I wanted my seat in the front row, right next to the home dugout. So there I was sitting field-side and in the bottom of the second inning with no score, Ken Henderson, our outfielder, came up to bat. We had acquired him in the off-season and there was a buzz in the stadium when he stepped to the plate. In his first at bat with the Braves he hit the team’s first home run of the season. The crowd —me included—went absolutely wild. I was so caught up in the excitement that without even thinking I jumped over the wall in front of my seat and ran onto the field. By the time Henderson rounded third I was standing at home plate with the other players ready to shake his hand! Not being a big fan I didn’t think that what I had done was all that unusual but by the time I made it back to my seat I could sense that I’d created a stir. Henderson’s homer wound up being the Braves’ only highlight that game and we lost 6–1. Still, the opener that night gave our fans a feeling that this season might be different.
Braves fans might have enjoyed my on-field activities on opening night but when we played those same Reds on the road, I realized that some of the other owners weren’t quite as enthusiastic. Cincinnati gave me field-level seats that I’d requested but when I got there I found a security guard with his back to the field, facing me. The Reds front office placed him there specifically to keep me off the field and they notified our promotions department that if I went on the field in Cincinnati, I’d be arrested. Welcome to Major League Baseball!
I went on many road trips in those early days and made a point to meet with as many of the other teams’ owners and executives as I could, in part to get to know them but also to learn the business and figure out how to do a better job of running our franchise. On one trip I realized other teams put out onions and relish for hot dogs and hamburgers, but in Atlanta, we only had mustard and ketchup. I ordered that we add onions and relish. In every business I’ve ever been in it’s been clear that doing even the smallest things to take care of your customers is essential and running a ball club was no different.
I found that hanging out with the players was just like spending time with my sailing crew or the guys at our TV and radio stations. I was still in my thirties and a few times in spring training I even went out on the field with the guys and did calisthenics and wind sprints. Since most games were at night, when I traveled with the team we all had a lot of time to kill during the day. Some of the players liked to play poker, and on occasion I’d join them. These were low-stakes, nickel-and-dime games—if you were lucky you’d win $10 or $20—but everyone had a great time. When word of this got around the league, Chub Feeney, who was National League president, told me to knock it off.
“Owners aren’t supposed to play poker with the players,” he told me.
“Why not?” I asked. I wasn’t trying to challenge him, but I truly didn’t understand.
“It just isn’t done,” was his reply.
This all seemed wrong to me. There was clearly a huge gulf between players and the team owners. It was like they were on different teams and the owners didn’t treat their players as equals. When I first came in the clubhouse the guys were saying “yes, sir,” and “no, sir” and I said, “You call me Ted just like everyone else.” At the owners meetings everyone complained about how the players were taking them to the cleaners and the union was too powerful. I’d ask them why didn’t they get to know their guys any better? Go out and have a beer with them or invite them over to your house for a party? Who knows—maybe if they had tried that in the past, there never would have been a union in the first place.
I wouldn’t let the baseball establishment get me down. I had worked my way into the broadcasting and sailing communities and I was determined to do the same in baseball. Fortunately, I had great people around me. In addition to keeping Bill Bartholomay, I was able to retain Bob Hope, the team’s marketing director. He wasn’t related to the famous comedian but Bob did have a great sense of humor. He was constantly generating ideas and I was just the guy to let him run with them. I didn’t even mind participating myself when I could. One time, we held ostrich races on the field. We dressed up in horseracing silks and silly hats and I rode out first to kick things off. Sometimes we even involved opposing players. On one occasion I agreed to an offbeat race with colorful Tug McGraw of the Philadelphia Phillies. We had to push baseballs from first and third base to home but we couldn’t use our hands or feet, just our noses. We got down on all fours and as I pushed my ball as fast as I could, I nudged it off the edge of the grass and on to the rougher base path. I refused to quit and as I kept going I skinned my face raw in the dirt. I beat Tug by about six feet and when I stood up and raised my arms in victory there was blood all over my face. Our fans loved this kind of stuff but I also did it in hopes of making an impact on our players. I wanted them to know I was a competitor—that I would do anything for the team, even if it meant getting down on all fours and bloodying my face.
Having their dad as the team owner was also a lot of fun for the kids. They got to be batboys and girls on occasion and we’d have players over to our house for birthday parties. I did everything I could to keep the relationship between the players and myself, and between the team and our fans, as informal as possible. In our TV ads we called the Braves “The Big League team with the Little League spirit!” and Bob Hope thought it would be fun for our home uniforms to have the players’ nicknames on them instead of their usual names. So instead of “Jones” it might say “Jonesy,” or for the famous knuckleballer Phil Niekro, his jersey said “Knucksie.” Andy Messersmith, our high-profile pitcher, also had a flair for the dramatic and came to me and said, “Hey, Ted—how about giving me number seventeen and making my nickname ‘Channel’?”
What a great idea! Next thing you know, one of the most famous pitchers in the game is taking the mound with
“Channel 17” on his back—I loved it! Unfortunately, commissioner Bowie Kuhn didn’t. He told me this was considered advertising and there were league rules against putting commercial messages on jerseys. Oh, well. It was fun while it lasted and we drummed up publicity in the meantime.
Off the field, when it came to the Braves front office I could tell right away that our costs were too high. People were flying first class, staying at fancy hotels—all luxuries that were customary across the league but the kind of expenditures we simply couldn’t afford. I had to make some changes and one of my more controversial ones was the time I fired a guy named Donald Davidson. He had held various jobs with the team but when I came along he was the traveling secretary, and it just so happened that he was only about four feet tall. I had nothing against him personally but I could tell right away that he didn’t particularly like me.
Like a lot of other career baseball people he thought I was just some rich guy who didn’t know what he was doing. When it came to the game on the field, I did have a lot to learn, but off the field I could tell when money was being wasted. For example, when the Braves traveled, Davidson stayed in the huge VIP suites. Seeing the guy who booked the rooms staying in a luxury suite made me angry. Digging into the situation I realized that the traveling secretary basically booked flights, hotel rooms, and bus trips to the stadiums. It didn’t seem like all that much work and at the same time our three TV and radio announcers, who were also on the team’s payroll, hung out all day without much to do. I decided to cut Davidson and assign the travel secretary duties to the announcers.