Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126)

by Jackson, Reggie; Baker, Kevin

  I loved playing for Earl Weaver. He was just an East Coast Tommy Lasorda. Just a lovable guy who loved the game. All his players loved playing for him. He was one of those characters who would get so mad that he was almost funny. Cussin’ like a sailor. As coarse as it is, Lasorda’s swearing sounded like a poem. He’s a YouTube star today because of it. Earl Weaver was the same way. When he cursed, it was like a melody.

  I liked Baltimore, too. It was a great baseball town. My family was living there, including my sister and my mother. Baltimore was a city that didn’t feel like a city. It was a city that felt like a community. It was in the South, but it had lots of Middle America in it. It was more of a plain, folksy kind of place, full of a lot of country folks. Because of that it felt a little more comfortable to me. They didn’t have a lot of newspapers, didn’t have a lot of skyscrapers, more two-family homes. I liked Baltimore and its fans.

  I loved playing there with Jim Palmer, who was a longtime friend. I loved playing with Brooks Robinson, who was still in the organization. I loved playing with Lee May and Bobby Grich, who were both outstanding players. We all worked well as a team—good history, good record of success. It was all very comfortable.

  Hank Peters, the general manager, was like a dad to me. Jerry Hoffberger, who owned the team, nice man, nice family. Lou Gorman was there, as the assistant general manager. Tom Giordano was there, as the director of scouting and player development. These were great baseball people, who had built a great baseball organization.

  I liked it so much I would just as soon have stayed in Baltimore.

  I even made them an offer in August 1976. I’d spoken to Gary Walker and we came up with an idea of taking care of my future like any other businessperson. The first move I made wasn’t greedy, wasn’t full of demands. I made the Orioles a very reasonable offer: a $1.5 million contract, for five years. Thirty thousand of that would go to my father every year, another twenty thousand a year to my mother. Break it down, that would’ve come to just $250,000 a year for me, personally, and I was already making $190,000 a year. All I was really asking for was a good raise, without ever testing the market.

  They turned it down.

  Knowledgeable as the men running the Orioles were, no one had the foresight to see around corners and understand where salaries were going. Just like Oakland, the Orioles didn’t have the capital to compete for most players in the open market. They weren’t going to sign free agents; they were going to lose them, guys like Bobby Grich and me.

  Baltimore was a great team and could have been a better team than the Yankees in that period of 1977–81. The clubs were close enough that there were any number of players on both teams—maybe Jim Palmer, Eddie Murray, Mike Flanagan on the Orioles, or on the Yankees, maybe Thurman Munson, Rich Gossage, Ronnie Guidry, or me—who might have changed the history of the American League in those five years if they had changed teams. They were that close.

  It wasn’t just me who could have made the difference. But I was the only one of those players who switched teams.

  5

  “LIKE A GUY TRYING TO HUSTLE A GIRL IN A BAR”

  I KNOW ALL the stories about how I said they’d name a candy bar after me if I played in New York. How I was longing to come and play on the big stage and become Mr. October.

  Most of it is just that—stories. I was already a star before I came to New York, and I was going to take my star with me anywhere I went. In fact, New York was about the last place I thought I would end up.

  The way they did free agency that first year was different from how it is now. They set up a draft where up to twelve teams could draft you—plus the team you were already on. I was one of only twelve players who were selected by the maximum thirteen teams. And as it turned out, I was the very first player picked, in the very first free-agent draft, by the Montreal Expos.

  The number one pick—at last! And nobody asked about what color my girlfriend was. I guess that was progress.

  In a quiet moment, after this all went down, I mentioned to my agent, Gary Walker, how I could only laugh inside. It did feel good. It was symbolic of how slow the social progress was in our country and in our game. But at least the social mores were forced to adapt.

  If a team hadn’t drafted you, it wasn’t allowed to negotiate with you. But that still left me with a lot of choices. I’ve read all kinds of things telling me where it was that I wanted to go. But my real first choice was the Dodgers.

  To me, the Dodgers made perfect sense. They were a good team. I played in the World Series there in 1974, and the ballpark felt small to me. I hit a ball out of there to left field off Andy Messersmith, hit a couple doubles to right center off Don Sutton. I always hit very well there. I always loved the environment there. It was a beautiful, attractive facility—and it still is today, almost forty years later.

  They had a manager who was full of energy in Tommy Lasorda. They had a great farm system, great ownership in the O’Malleys. I always admired the family: They were minority conscious, and they had always been community conscious. They were the team that signed the first black player, Jackie Robinson—they had a great history. Their values were something you wanted to be around.

  On the field, they always had great pitching, guys like Tommy John and Don Sutton and Messersmith. And they had a lineup that was almost all right-handed. Davey Lopes, Steve Garvey, Dusty Baker, Ron Cey—all right-handers—and then Reggie Smith, who was a switch-hitter. It would have been perfect—for them and for me. They were going to get right-handed pitching coming at them all the time. I could have feasted!

  Los Angeles was a good spot for me in many ways, on and off the field. It was just three hundred miles from my home. My mother had moved to California by then, two of my sisters were there, my brother was there. And I knew the Dodgers wanted me. Al Campanis, their general manager, was always trying to get me in a trade. A small ballpark, in a fastball league. It was the place, dude!

  Los Angeles picked me in the free-agent draft. But then they didn’t make an offer. I don’t know what they were waiting for, but they moved late. They had Maury Wills make the first call to my agent, but by that time it was too late. Things were moving too fast for them. They laid back—I never did find out why.

  By then, I already had a big offer from Montreal. On behalf of the Bronfmans, John McHale, their general manager, offered me $5 million—$1 million a year for five years, with the possibility for that to go up with bonuses, incentives. They made mention of me wearing number 7, because they owned Seagram’s 7.

  It would have been interesting to go to Montreal, too. The Expos already had some terrific young talent and more on the way, guys like Tim Raines, Steve Rogers. They were an expansion team, but they wound up being a contender within another couple years. Hitting between a couple of righties like Andre Dawson and Ellis Valentine, I might’ve made the difference, and they had just hired my old manager from Oakland, Dick Williams, who I always got along with and respected.

  But I don’t know, I just wanted to stay in this country. America just seemed … more like major-league baseball. I just thought it was important for me to play in the United States. And while I was considering the Bronfmans’ offer, my agent, Gary Walker, told me, “There’s a lot more money in New York than in Montreal.” He said, “With your career, and your skills, you should play with the Yankees. It’s a franchise with a great legacy. Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, and Mantle. Yogi and Whitey. You should play in New York.”

  New York. Gary also told me, “I don’t know if you’ll like New York, but …”

  Because I was a small-town kid. I’d grown up in a small town in Pennsylvania, lived in a small city in Oakland, lived in Berkeley. Oakland had one newspaper. There were a few others, like the San Francisco Chronicle, the San Francisco Examiner, the Berkeley Gazette, the Sacramento Bee, the San Jose Mercury News. But that was about it—and sometimes the San Francisco papers didn’t cover our games.

  New York was something else. I wasn’t sure I
was interested. And they weren’t interested in me.

  I wasn’t the Yankees’ first pick in the free-agent draft. The one they went right out and signed first was Don Gullett, the pitcher for the Reds who’d just shut them down in the World Series. After that, Joe Rudi was Billy Martin’s choice. George Steinbrenner and Gabe Paul, the Yankees’ general manager, wanted to sign Bobby Grich and move him from second base back to shortstop, where he’d played in the minors.

  I couldn’t blame them. I came up with Rudi. I played with him for years and saw how great he was. An underrated player, but a great player. Good hitter, played well in the field both at first and in left. A complete player. He would’ve fit in very nicely with the Yankees.

  Bobby Grich, I played with him in Baltimore, then later with the Angels. He was a terrific player, very athletic. He was one of the best defensive second basemen in our era. The Orioles only moved Grich out of shortstop because they already had Mark Belanger. He was also a great offensive player, and hit for power.

  Some people thought neither Rudi nor Grich was a good fit because they were both right-handed hitters, in a Yankee Stadium that still tilted toward lefties in those days. That was still a huge park back then, even after they made over the original Stadium—430 feet to left-center, I think, 417 to center.

  I think they still would’ve been fine, but as it worked out, both of them got hurt with the Angels in 1977 and missed most of the season. Grich came back strong; Joe was never really the same player again. But if they’d signed one of them instead of me, who knows what would have happened?

  Whatever the Yankees decided, it seemed like it would have nothing to do with me. That was another rule that first year of free agency: You could only sign a maximum of two players—unless you had lost more than two free agents yourself.

  The Yanks had already signed Gullett, which left them with room for just one more, Grich or Rudi, they had to choose. But the Angels were allowed to sign three guys because they’d lost that many free agents, and they snapped up Joe Rudi very quickly. Then Don Baylor, who’d been traded for me just the year before, got out of Oakland and signed with them, too. That decided it for Bobby Grich, who George Steinbrenner was courting very heavily. Grich had been friends and teammates with Baylor since their minor-league days with Baltimore, so once Don went to the Angels, Bobby wanted to go there, too.

  I later found out that Steinbrenner did everything he could to sign Grich. He even told Bobby the Angels had manipulated the market, and he was going to file a protest with the league commissioner, maybe go to court. He told Grich he’d win the protest, and then Bobby would be left out in the cold.

  The Boss bluffed a lot, but he wasn’t very good at it. Bobby Grich signed with the Angels. The commissioner, Bowie Kuhn, turned down the protest, and George didn’t bother to take it to court.

  All of a sudden all the guys the Yankees had been looking at were off the market.

  All that was left was me.

  I’m not sure who it was who first advised George to take a good look at me. I don’t know just how important Gene Michael was with the team at the time, but I know later, when he was very influential in the makeup of the roster, he always loved left-handed power for Yankee Stadium. So did Birdie Tebbetts, the former catcher, who had become another one of George’s “baseball people.”

  Or maybe it was George himself. George Steinbrenner always said he wanted to bring a big name to the Yankees. What he understood was marquee value, showbiz value. He saw the full potential of having a name in New York. He saw the potential with me.

  I said it at the time: George Steinbrenner went after me like a guy trying to hustle a girl in a bar.

  He went after me just the way Charlie Finley did, more than ten years earlier. Even though I was aware of what he was doing, the game he was playing, I have to admit I was flattered. I was charmed. He just made me laugh.

  He flew me into New York, had me to his apartment at the Carlyle hotel, and asked me what kind of money it would take to sign me. I laughed at him trying to get around my agent like that.

  I told him right back, “I just wanted to meet you, see what kind of money you’re talking about.”

  So then he told me, “Well, we don’t want to spend more than two million. I don’t think we can do business.”

  That was the nerve he had, right there, trying to lowball me already. He laughed, too. That was George. He loved to compete, loved to negotiate.

  When he saw I was onto him, he took me to the ‘21’ Club for lunch. And once we sat down at the table, we really got along pretty well, not like adversaries in a business deal. He really tapped a chord with me on certain ideas and philosophies he had. I could relate to all of it. His desire to win, his desire to build the franchise into a perennial champion. It might sound like “win at all costs,” but he also spoke about some of the players on the team with great affection, guys like Thurman Munson, who was the captain, Lou Piniella, Sparky Lyle, the new kid Willie Randolph, Chris Chambliss. I was very impressed by his commitment.

  George also made sure that most of his closest business friends and advisers were there or came by to meet me: Tony Rolfe, Larry and Zach Fisher, Bill Fugazy, Mike Forrest. The one gentleman who wasn’t there that day, who he relied on heavily, was George’s wealthiest partner. I had to meet Lester Crown before he signed me, because George had such great respect for him. These were all men who became friends and supporters during my time in New York, and they were some of the most successful businessmen in New York City.

  The ‘21’ Club was a revelation for me. There were all these business cards and items that hung from the ceiling and these older businessmen in suits and ties there. I quickly understood it was a fraternity for the men who ran the business of New York City. I looked around and said, “There isn’t even a carpet on the floor! I have to wear a tie to get into this place, and they don’t even have wall-to-wall carpeting!”

  After we ate and met everyone, George did this very smart thing. He sent his driver on, and we walked back to the Carlyle. And as we walked to his apartment, all along the way people in the street noticed. They came up to us, saying, “Mr. Steinbrenner,” or “George, bring Reggie to New York. Get him signed to a contract.” Or, “We love you, Reggie. We want you here. This is the place for you.”

  I mean, all these kinds of comments from cabdrivers and the people on the street. Bus drivers stopped in the middle of the street to call out to us. The passengers opened their windows to call out to us, people waved. It was like a movie.

  I don’t think he had it planned. I think it just went that way. I think he didn’t have it planned. Or put it this way: Maybe George already knew his city that well. Maybe he just knew exactly how it was going to go. This was really my first time walking around New York like that. For all the times we’d played there before, I just stayed at the team hotel with the team and went to Yankee Stadium and back.

  I just felt I was here to play for a good team and win a few games. To take care of myself, Mom and Dad, and my family. New York was a great place to do it, and the Yankees were a great team with an owner who wanted to win. But when I thought about it later, about everybody coming up to us on the street … yeah, it was exciting. It was exciting for sure. Yes, it certainly influenced me.

  In the end, George just outhustled everybody else for me. I felt he dealt with me as a young man and a person, and I respected that. I also recognized something of myself in him. I knew even then he was a little crazy and a hustler to get it done. And the city acted as an assistant agent for him. It was easy to see he wanted to win, and win in New York for the fans!

  He knew how to close the deal, too.

  The day before Thanksgiving, Gary and the other people I had advising me in my free-agent negotiations went and camped out at the Hyatt near the Chicago airport. We told anyone who was still interested, come and make your final offer.

  I just wanted this done. I wanted to know where I was going to play in 1977 and who I was
going to play for.

  George was out in Culver, Indiana, visiting his son Hank at the military academy he went to there. He made us promise he’d be the last person we talked to, no matter what.

  Then, early that morning, he chartered a small plane and flew into Chicago to make his offer to us. He flew back to Indiana to spend the rest of the day with his family, then came back out again that night to nail down the deal.

  I have to admit I felt a little nostalgic, thinking of the way that Charlie Finley had my dad and me out to his office in Chicago, then flew us to his farm in Indiana, a little over ten years before. I have no idea if George Steinbrenner knew anything about that. Probably not. But here he was, just as ready and willing to close the deal.

  He paid attention. You grow up black in this country, in the time I did, people did not pay attention to you unless you did something they didn’t approve of. They didn’t want to see you. Except if you were doing something they found abhorrent, like dating their daughter or riding their son’s bike. You want someone to pay attention, to want you. To take you for the content of your character, not the color of your skin, as Dr. King said. It makes a nice change.

  We reached agreement on most of the deal that night. George stayed over in town, and we had breakfast on Thanksgiving morning and agreed to the rest of it. I told Mr. Steinbrenner I would be a Yankee, and we wrote out the deal on a table napkin.

  Right after that, I heard back from the Dodgers. They offered $3 million, just for openers. The Yankees’ final offer was $2.96 million, with a portion of it deferred or in bonuses. George told me they could only pay me $200,000 a year in up-front salary, because he’d told Thurman Munson, the captain, that nobody on the team would be paid more than he was—and he’d have to give him a raise as it was. The rest of my money would be deferred, or bonus money for signing.

  That was fine with me. I was fine with getting that money later. But then here were the Dodgers, offering me $3 million to start, to play in the park and the city where I really wanted to be. There had already been an offer from Montreal for $5 million, and then the San Diego Padres came in with a late offer that was for $3.4 million. These were all starting offers.