by Felipe Alou
When I held my introductory team meeting with the players on May 22, 1992, I went to a chalkboard and drew a small circle. “You guys have been operating inside this circle, this tight little circle, and it looks like you couldn’t live inside this one,” I said. “You guys had a problem complying with the rules.”
Then I drew a circle about three times the size of the first one. “This is my circle,” I said. “I only have three things I demand of you—be on time, make curfew, and keep your appointments with the trainers. That’s it. But I am telling you right now, if you cannot live inside this circle, then you are going to find out that the fine is as big as this circle.” I also told them I was giving them their money back.
That night veteran Dennis Martínez, who just turned thirty-eight, was the pitcher for my first game. A Nicaraguan, Martínez had a commanding presence, which contributed to his nickname—El Presidente. He was his own man, and I respected that. But what I didn’t like is what I saw a couple of times that season. When Runnells went to the pitcher’s mound to relieve Martínez, El Presidente was reluctant to give his manager the ball.
I pulled Martínez aside before the game. “Listen,” I said, “I know you’ve been pitching a long time. But when I go to the mound, I want the baseball.”
He didn’t say anything. He simply pitched a gem against the Atlanta Braves, and their excellent pitcher Tom Glavine. Martínez went the distance, hurling a two-hitter in a 7–1 victory.
After the game the coaches and I were celebrating in my office, drinking wine. Late in the evening, well after the other players left, Martínez appeared at my office door. I knew something was up.
“Hey, jefe,” he said, which is Spanish for “chief” or “boss.” “I understand you’ve been around the game a long time, but there are times when I feel I can get the next guy out or finish a game.”
“I know that,” I said. “But I still want you to know that when I go to the mound, I am coming for the ball. I have already signaled the bullpen.”
We locked eyes for a second, and then Martínez gave me a hug. He also gave me something else—the ball. He gave me the game ball from that win, my first as a big-league manager. Those two years I had Martínez in Montreal, El Presidente never once challenged me when I came for the ball.
The next day after my debut I heard from some of my fellow managers, buddies of mine who were happy for me.
Jim Leyland, who was managing the Pittsburgh Pirates, called. “Congratulations, Felipe,” he said. “You’re finally going to be able to buy a decent fishing boat.”
Detroit manager Sparky Anderson, whom I played Winter League ball with, also called. “Felipe,” he said, “go to the mirror and see how many black hairs you have. And then after the season, go and see how many gray hairs you have.”
After Dennis Martínez pitched us to a victory in my managerial debut, we lost eight of our next twelve games. I never for a moment lost hope, though. I never lost confidence. Not hardly. I knew there was talent on that roster, and I knew I could manage.
Sure enough, the team took off and won thirty-one of our next fifty games. We went from a 23-28 record on June 5 to a 54-48 record on July 30 and a tie for first place. We maintained our momentum the rest of the way, and in my first—albeit partial—season managing in the Major Leagues I notched a 70-55 record. Add that to the 17-20 mark from the start of the season under Tom Runnells, and the Expos finished 87-75, which was quite an improvement over the 71-90 record and last-place finish in the National League East the year before. In fact, that 1992 record was good for second place in the NL East, nine games behind the Barry Bonds–led Pittsburgh Pirates.
Bonds, who turned twenty-eight that summer, was hitting his prime. He made the All-Star team that season, won the Silver Slugger and Gold Glove Awards, and was named the NL’s Most Valuable Player for the second time in three years. I recall thinking that he would be some type of player to manage. Little did I know . . .
Our finishing with a winning record in 1992 really got the fans going. In the two games before I was named manager, our attendance was 8,760 and 9,651. By mid-July, when we returned home from a two-week road trip that saw us climb to a .500 record, we drew an average of 30,026 fans for a four-game series against the San Diego Padres. Several days later we pulled in crowds of 41,935 and 46,620 fans for two weekend games against the Los Angeles Dodgers.
Where the fans go, the media are sure to follow, and one of the story lines the media were all over was the father-son angle. It seemed as if everywhere we went, reporters wanted to know what it was like managing my son and, from my son Moisés’s perspective, what it was like playing for his father. I still get asked that today, and I’m sure Moisés does, too.
In retrospect, I was probably a little too tough on Moisés. But I will say this: it seemed to turn out well. When you’re managing a team and your son is one of the players, you obviously think about the perception people might have. You’re extra cautious to not present even a hint of favoritism. I was also aware that every one of my players was a son to somebody, that I was dealing with the sons of other fathers. I took that responsibility seriously. So with Moisés I overcompensated. But again, it seems to have turned out well.
It sure helped that Moisés had a lot of talent—all five tools. When Moisés was coming up in the Pirates organization, Leyland was the first person to tell me my son was going to be a good player. That was a solid endorsement as far as I was concerned. Still, I didn’t know how good Moisés was until I got him in Montreal. I never saw Moisés play baseball when he was growing up because Moisés didn’t play baseball. Basketball was his sport. It wasn’t until his mother took him to play in the Manny Mota Baseball League in the Dominican Republic, when Moisés was a teenager, that he began to show an interest in baseball.
I knew Moisés was a tough kid. I knew that from various experiences when he was growing up. Toughness is in his DNA. I also believe the divorce of his parents and tragically losing his oldest brother added to his inherent resolve. But it’s when I saw Moisés’s toughness on the baseball field that I really came to fully appreciate it.
In a September 16, 1993, game at St. Louis, at a time when Moisés had established himself as our left fielder and a middle-of-the-order bat, he got a base hit against Cardinals pitcher Lee Guetterman. It was his second hit of the game, and it was one of those hits where Moisés thought about going for two. But after making a wide turn around first base, Moisés decided better. When he put on the brakes to retreat to first base, his cleats caught on the artificial turf, and his lower left leg snapped and his left ankle dislocated. People still call it one of the most gruesome injuries to occur on a baseball field. As Moisés held his leg up, it grotesquely dangled from the middle of his shin, his bone protruding from the skin. It was difficult to look at, and some chose not to. Second base umpire Bill Hohn turned away and covered his face with his hands.
I didn’t run to where Moisés was. I walked. I dreaded what I would encounter. The year before, Moisés finished second to Los Angeles Dodgers first baseman Eric Karros in the National League Rookie of the Year voting. But now I thought for sure his career was over. At that moment I was both a father and a manager—and probably in that order. My heart hurt. When I got to Moisés he was sitting between first and second base with several players hovering around, including St. Louis third baseman Todd Zeile. When Zeile’s gaze caught mine, I saw tears in his eyes. I looked at Moisés, and the expression on his face was as if nothing had happened, as if it was somebody else who had broken their leg. That was Moisés. Tough. When he was in the hospital having surgery, which included inserting a pin, Jim Leyland sent a fruit basket and a nice card. You don’t forget gestures like that, especially when it comes to your son.
Even with that season-ending injury, Moisés hit .286 with 18 home runs and 85 runs batted in.
Baseball is not a contact sport, but awful injuries do happen. Moisés’s injury prompted me to think back to 1969, when my brother Jesús was p
laying left field for the Houston Astros in a June 10 game against the Pittsburgh Pirates and our brother Matty. In the third inning Al Oliver hit a pop fly between shortstop and left field. Jesús ran in, and shortstop Héctor Torres ran out. The collision was horrendous. Torres’s forehead smashed into Jesús’s face so violently that it caused Jesús to swallow his tongue. As Jesús lay unconscious, Pirates trainer Tony Bartirome rushed to the scene and probably saved my brother’s life. Bartirome pried open Jesús’s mouth, inserted a rubber tube, and breathed into it. Doing that opened an air passage enough so Jesús could breathe again. Both players were carted off the field on stretchers and whisked to a hospital. In addition to almost dying, Jesús suffered a fractured jaw, and he and Torres both incurred concussions. Jesús missed six weeks and finished that season with one of his lowest batting averages in the big leagues—.248. But he bounced back in 1970 to hit .306.
I didn’t know if Moisés would bounce back.
That offseason I would go fishing in my aluminum boat. Moisés would grab his crutches and come with me, dangling his injured leg off the side of the boat, letting the saltwater wash over it. I looked at the leg, still discolored and with all the zippered scars from surgical incisions. I couldn’t see how he could come back and have a career.
But that following spring Moisés was ready to go. He batted .339, became an All-Star for the first time, won a Silver Slugger Award, and finished third in the MVP voting. He proved to be a fast healer. I think he got that from his old man.
The one thing Moisés didn’t get from his old man—and I do want to be clear about this—is this ritual he had of peeing on his hands to supposedly toughen them up. Moisés was known for never wearing batting gloves, which I don’t know why should be a big deal. In my generation hardly any of us wore batting gloves. We worked calluses into our hands during spring training, and that’s how we toughened our hands. If you find an old picture of me wearing a batting glove, it’s only because I was protecting a hand injury. Moisés, on the other hand—no pun intended—would pee on his hands, convinced it was toughening his skin. Don’t ask me. And I never asked Moisés about it, either. I do know this: baseball players will invent crazy rituals that defy logic.
When I became Montreal’s manager early in 1992, Moisés was coming off shoulder surgery that caused him to miss the entire 1991 season. When the 1992 season started, the doctors and trainers wanted to bring him along slowly. But Moisés wanted to go full speed. A couple of times he came into my office with a question on his lips.
“I want to know why I’m not playing,” he said. “I deserve to play.” At that point he was one of my players and then my son—in that order.
“You’re going to play,” I said. Then I explained to him what the doctor’s orders were, that he was gradually recuperating, and he would therefore gradually return to the lineup as an everyday player.
“I’m healthy now,” he insisted.
“Well, you’re going to have to be patient,” I said. “You’ll get your chance.”
Moisés was like that TV soap opera—young and restless.
But isn’t that how all of us start—young and restless? Time catches up with everyone, though. It caught up to Gary Carter that year, the man they called “the Kid”—even when he was no longer one. The Expos plucked Carter off waivers on November 15, 1991, which meant I had him my first season managing the team in 1992. Carter came up through the Expos organization and was an icon in Montreal, beloved by the fans. He was also thirty-eight, and the game and the surgeries and all the wear and tear that go with the catching position had beaten his body down.
I always liked Carter, going back to when I was the first base coach on the 1984 Expos team. Carter batted .294 that season and tied Philadelphia third baseman Mike Schmidt with 106 RBI to lead the National League. In addition to being a fan favorite, he was the team’s best and highest-paid player. It was only two years earlier, in 1982, when Montreal signed him to a seven-year $14 million contract. But because of being a small-market team, I could sense the Expos’ front office was having buyer’s remorse. One September day during the 1984 season, when Lucie and I were dating, I went to her parents’ home and repaired their fence. It was more work than I thought it would be, and I got to the ballpark at 3:30 p.m., about ninety minutes late. When I walked into the coaches’ room, it was empty. I could see street clothes hanging in lockers, but none of my fellow coaches were anywhere to be seen.
One of the clubhouse attendants appeared at my side. “Felipe, they’re waiting for you upstairs,” he said. “They’re having a meeting in Mr. Bronfman’s office.”
Bronfman was Charles Bronfman, the team owner, so I knew it was serious. Still in my street clothes, I hustled to his office. When I walked in I saw Bronfman with our manager, coaches, and other front-office personnel. Someone was collecting pieces of paper.
When general manager John McHale saw me, he said, “Felipe, we’re having a vote. Should we trade Gary Carter? It’s only yes or no.”
I was handed a piece of paper, and I wrote NO.
A little while later I was back in the clubhouse and about to change into my uniform when the clubbie appeared again.
“Felipe,” he said, “they want you back in Mr. Bronfman’s office.”
I thought maybe I was in trouble for being late.
When I got to Bronfman’s office, it was just him, McHale, and me. Bronfman spoke to me, saying, “Felipe, you’re the only person who said don’t trade Gary Carter. Why?”
I was stunned. Relieved that I wasn’t in trouble for being late, I was stunned that I was the only one who thought trading Gary Carter, a future Hall of Famer, was a bad idea.
“Charles,” I said, knowing that Bronfman preferred being called by his first name, “you have told me many times, and I have read many times, that you don’t want to get out of this game until you get to the World Series. I believe good teams start with good catchers, with good leaders behind the plate.”
“Well,” he said, “I’ve heard that Gary has problems with the black players.”
I knew that wasn’t true. I knew this was strictly a financial decision, and it bothered me that any kind of negative innuendo was attached to Gary’s name. I also knew there were guys who didn’t like Carter’s squeaky-clean image. Finally, I knew human nature, and human nature is such that when somebody lives their life in a way that makes someone else feel guilty about the way they’re living their lives, the tendency is to tear down that person. That’s what I believed was going on with Gary and some of his teammates.
“Gary Carter is a clean player,” I told Bronfman. “But there are rumors that some of the players are using drugs, and I can tell you that Gary Carter isn’t one of them.”
What I said didn’t matter, though. That offseason—on December 10, 1984—Montreal traded Gary Carter in what I believe was one of the biggest mistakes the franchise ever made. They sent Carter to the New York Mets in a four-for-one trade that brought Hubie Brooks, Mike Fitzgerald, Herm Winningham, and Floyd Youmans to the Expos. Two years later the 1986 Mets won the World Series with Gary Carter behind the plate.
So when Gary returned to us in 1992 for a final hurrah, I wanted to give him a proper send-off. Our last home game that season was September 27 against the Chicago Cubs. I put Gary in the lineup, at catcher. In the seventh inning, with two outs and Larry Walker on first base, Gary came to the plate against Cubs pitcher Mike Morgan. Morgan, no doubt knowing this would be Carter’s final career at-bat, grooved a couple of fastballs. They weren’t exactly batting-practice pitches, but they were right there for Gary to hit. Gary fouled them both and was now in an 0-2 hole. The third pitch came in, another grooved fastball, and Gary connected slightly late on it, sending the ball deep to right field, just over the outstretched glove of Cubs right fielder Andre Dawson.
Montreal fans were ticked at Dawson, a former Expo, for going all out for the ball and almost catching it. Thankfully, it fell in for a double, a one-hopper off the wall
that scored Walker in what proved to be a 1–0 victory for us. I substituted a pinch runner for Gary, allowing him to bask in the love of the Montreal crowd as he came off the field, waving his helmet and pumping his fists in the air, smiling that big Gary Carter smile that could light up a room. To this day people say they never heard Olympic Stadium thunder with so much applause and cheering as it did at that moment.
A year later, during the offseason, I was sitting at home in South Florida when my phone rang. It was Gary Carter.
“Hey, skip,” he said, “I feel good. I had knee surgery, and I feel better right now than I did the last three, four years when I was playing. I want your advice. Do you think I should make a comeback?”
I knew where Gary was coming from. Every retired ballplayer goes through the same things—the same thoughts and emotions. I know I did. I missed playing when I retired. I still miss playing. To this day I have dreams that I’m still playing. Sometimes I have nightmares, like Mickey Mantle and other ballplayers have had, where I’m late for a game or I’ve missed a team bus to the ballpark. It’s unfortunate that there is often a perception that ballplayers are in it only for the money, because I’ve had retired players tell me they would pay to be able to play the game again.
I paused for a second before I tried to let Gary down gently. Firmly, but gently. When a guy like that loses it, it’s visible from every form and angle. You lose something in your body. You cannot compete with that baseball anymore—that white rabbit. You lose your timing. When I retired I was still strong enough to pick up a desk and throw it across the street, but I could not time a fastball anymore. It happens to everybody. You reach a point with that white ball where you cannot time it to hit it and you cannot time it to catch it. But then you get away from the game for a few months, a year, and you forget that. You believe you can come back and help a team, but it never happens that way.