by David Ortiz
I remember one time he called me into his office early in 2003, when I wasn’t a starter, and briefly explained what it was like for him to manage the Red Sox. “You do understand that you’d be playing every day if it were up to me, right?” he told me. “I don’t make out the lineup. I wish I did. It comes from upstairs. But I want you to keep working because I feel that your chance is coming. I’m fighting for you.”
If I needed reminders of the differences between big- and small-market teams, Grady’s exit was one of them. It was hard for me to grasp. I felt the anger toward him in Boston as soon as we returned from New York. You couldn’t turn on the radio—sports radio or news radio—without hearing someone vent about Grady and how he’d ruined the season. Clearly, most Red Sox fans put the Game 7 loss on him. But I saw a manager who always believed in me, who guided a team to the playoffs for the first time in four seasons, and who encouraged bringing fun and unity to a clubhouse that had become joyless and divided over the years. And I kept coming back to this: who fires a manager who’s one game away from the World Series? If I’m a managerial candidate and I see that a guy gets fired after being one game away from the Series, my first thought should be, Fuck, no thank you. Seriously. You’re telling me that if I don’t make the playoffs I’m out? Even if I’m managing in the American League East, one of the toughest and richest divisions in baseball? In big markets, patience is for someone else. Get the job done quickly and consistently, or else you’re expendable. That goes for managers and players both.
Manny Ramírez, who I thought of as an idol, found that out a few days after Grady left. I had a hard time taking the news seriously, but it was true: the Red Sox had placed Manny on waivers. That meant that any team in baseball could claim Manny as their own, as long as it was willing to pay the remainder of his contract, which was about $95 million.
Manny had his quirks, and anyone who spent any time in our clubhouse knew about them. He was my boy, and yet he still did things to me that most people would have called rude. But it was Manny. You always forgave him. For example, I can’t tell you how many times he would say to me, “Papi, let’s meet for lunch.” It would be his idea, and he’d even suggest the time and place. I’d arrive and wait for 20 minutes, 40 minutes, sometimes even an hour. No Manny. I’d call him and he’d say, “Hey, Papi! I’m at the park.” As if we never had plans. That was Manny, though, talented, lovable, and unpredictable.
He wasn’t just a special hitter who was fun to watch. There was also something about his aura that caused fans to fall in love with him from afar. I can’t think of any other player who could get away with some of the adventures he had in the outfield; instead of booing, people would clap and laugh. But the Red Sox were tired of the unpredictable side of him, and after they got word that Manny said he wanted to play for the Yankees, they put him on waivers, knowing that neither the Yankees nor anyone else would take on his big contract.
All of us in the Red Sox organization were similarly obsessed with the Yankees. We all had different ways of dealing with it. It was hard to avoid thinking or talking about them, and not only because of the last game of our 2003 season. This was a team that played in our division, had appeared in six of the previous eight World Series, and had won four of them. I respected them, and I loved playing against them. They brought out a side of me that I didn’t know I had until I got to Boston. I’ve always been someone who loves winning and expects to win, but I became a bull when I got to the Red Sox. It was this animal instinct, this daily background mentality, that I wanted to beat teams’ asses. All the energy I had was devoted to becoming a champion.
Management was committed to tinkering with the team, reshaping it, and spending what seemed like endless streams of cash. Shortly after Manny went unclaimed, there were rumors that the Red Sox still wanted to move on from him and were trying to trade him. And not just him, but Nomar Garciaparra, who was one of the most popular players in New England. They had already signed Oakland closer Keith Foulke and traded for Arizona starter Curt Schilling. They had also hired a new manager, Terry Francona, whom I’d never met. He had a reputation for being friendly and smart, someone who could nicely blend the statistical interests of the front office and the day-to-day rhythm of the clubhouse. His father had played in the big leagues for 14 years, so Tito had been around the game since he was a little boy. His father had played with Joe Torre, and a preteen Tito had been in the clubhouse with both of them. Now, nearly 40 years later, Tito would be part of the biggest rivalry in baseball and managing against New York and Torre.
Tito was going to have a good team to manage. We all knew that. What we didn’t know was who his shortstop and left fielder would be. For a month and a half, the Red Sox tried to trade for Alex Rodriguez, who was a great shortstop with the Rangers. Honestly, it blew my mind. Things were happening so fast that I couldn’t keep up with what the Red Sox were thinking. First, I thought the whole A-Rod-to-Boston idea was unrealistic. When I found out it was real, I convinced myself that we were just going to add him to the lineup we already had and maybe put him at third. Finally, I had to accept the reality of what they wanted to do: A-Rod and Magglio Ordóñez coming in and Nomar, Manny, and pitching prospect Jon Lester going out.
I didn’t like any of that.
To understand why, ownership and the front office needed to be on the field to see the looks when pitchers knew they had to get through Manny and me in the lineup. They knew we were a dangerous duo, the heart of an already great lineup. There was no way around it: most pitchers were afraid of us. What bothered me was the idea that you could just swap out successful players in Boston and still expect to be close to winning the World Series. It doesn’t work that way. Why would you willingly take away the heart of a lineup?
Frankly, Boston can be a negative atmosphere at times, and you’ve got to be mentally strong enough to handle it. I’ve seen players, really good players, come through Boston and it changed them. Some of them were scared of the intensity and high expectations. Some of them were too sensitive. Some of them wanted out.
Would A-Rod have been different? Maybe. I’m glad I didn’t have to find out. The negotiations to bring A-Rod to Boston broke down, so Manny, Nomar, and Lester stayed in place and A-Rod went to . . . the Yankees. The rivalry didn’t need anything else added to it, and now it had an easy reality TV story line of a great player flirting with one team and eventually landing with its number-one enemy.
We didn’t worry about any of that as we prepared for the 2004 season. We loved our team. I mean that in the truest sense of the word. I think one of the things that transformed our clubhouse was the deep love and respect we had for one another.
One of the small but important changes we brought to the team was going out of our way to celebrate one another. I’d heard many stories about how some Red Sox teams had been a collection of good guys who were more comfortable being individuals than giving themselves to the team. We weren’t going to let that happen to us. It started in 2003, and it was going to continue in 2004. When Manny hit a home run, we weren’t just going to high-five him; we were going to hug him. We hugged when Pedro finished a strong outing. We hugged after a great defensive play by Johnny Damon. Really, hugging is my nature. I’d noticed that in America, for some people, hugging was common only when something bad happened. That didn’t make sense to me. With all the time players spend at the ballpark, we are each other’s second family. Let’s have fun, win, not be so dry about our celebrations, and show how much we care about one another. I know that as a fan, when I see guys expressing themselves like that in the dugout, it makes me happy.
We also knew that this was going to be the last year with this group in place. Our team was filled with players in the final year of their contract, and we knew not everyone was going to sign with the Red Sox. Pedro, Nomar, Derek Lowe, and Jason Varitek were among the players in the final season of their contract.
I wasn’t in that category because in May 2004 I signed a two-year deal with
a team option for a third. Tiffany and I took a while to process what the contract meant. It wasn’t just the money, which was a blessing. It was getting a real commitment from a franchise, which we had gotten used to not having our first seven years in the big leagues. Even after my breakout 2003 season, we didn’t feel like we were settled. But when the contract came, we started thinking for the first time about really settling in. We had moved from Garrison Square in 2003 to the Charles River Apartments in 2004, and Tiffany was excited to purchase what she called our “we made it” items, like a mattress (we had rented one in 2003) and some pots and pans. We could finally think about our first New England home too. We’d bought a house in Wisconsin, near Tiffany’s parents, thinking that we’d make that our base. Now it was time to think about buying something closer to the job.
In some ways, I was settling in more than I knew. And it started with my terrible memory for first names. I saw last names on uniforms all the time, so I could remember all of them easily. But first names? It was crazy. My teammates used to playfully quiz me so they could laugh about what I didn’t know. “Tell me my first name right now,” they would say. Everyone would laugh when I’d shrug and say I didn’t know. To compensate for not knowing names, I’d call everyone “papi.” Hey, papi. How ya doing? That word, “papi,” took over our clubhouse, and it became associated with me.
Thus the birth of Big Papi.
At work, I was starting to understand the personality of the new manager. I was in a bit of a rut at the plate, so one day I took early batting practice. After I took a few swings, I looked behind the cage and saw Tito watching me intently. I took another swing and turned again. He was still locked in, not saying anything, not talking to anyone. After I’d finished, I asked him if he had some advice for me. He was so attentive, he must have seen something.
His response surprised me.
“Who me? Give you advice?” he said. “Did you ever see my numbers in the big leagues? I was terrible! What the hell am I going to tell you? You’re one of the greatest, man. Just go out there and keep swinging and have fun.”
Then he walked away.
He had no idea how much confidence he gave me with that exchange. His message to me was that he knew I was going to figure it out and that he was going to stay out of the way. He was more interested in making fun of himself than overcomplicating things. I appreciated what he did for me that day. I took off after that, and so did our team.
On July 10, I already had 77 runs batted in, which was tied for the American League lead. Our record was 48–37, and we trailed the Yankees by six games. I was a few days away from playing in my first All-Star Game. More important, on that day, a Saturday, I was in Boston at Beth Israel Hospital for another first: the birth of my third child and only son, D’Angelo. He was a healthy boy, weighing seven pounds and one ounce. In baseball, you never know where you’re going to be when that call comes, so I’m grateful that the team was in town so I could be there for such a beautiful moment. When Tiffany said that he was a smaller version of me, she was talking about resemblance. But also like me, it seemed that young D’Angelo never slept, and maybe that was his way of telling us that there were many late nights ahead as we charged toward the playoffs.
One of the events along the way was a mild surprise. As I said, we were playing good baseball, but something was apparently missing from our team. Theo Epstein decided that our overall defense wasn’t good enough, so after an off-season of hearing that Nomar might be traded, we finally learned at the end of July that he was being moved. He was off to the Cubs, and his departure signaled just how temporary the label “franchise player” could be. Think about it. Nomar had been in Boston before most people in our organization. He preceded ownership, our general manager, Pedro, Manny, and me. He was beloved by the fans, always hustling and playing hard. He had a loving relationship with Ted Williams, and it was easy to see one of the things they had in common. Man, could Nomar hit. He was a batting champion and perennial MVP candidate. One moment he was going to get a long-term contract from the Red Sox, then you started hearing about trade rumors, and then he was gone.
It was stunning if you looked at it that way, and that’s why it can be so hard to relax in professional sports. You never see the changes coming. I knew there wouldn’t be any other moves in 2004, but I was close enough to Pedro and Manny to understand that one or both of them could be gone in 2005. I was determined to enjoy the present and help the Red Sox finally win a championship. After the Nomar trade and a series of deals, my new teammates were Orlando Cabrera, Dave Roberts, and Doug Mientkiewicz. Cabrera fit right into our culture with his fun-loving nature and exuberance. He was also one of the best I’d ever seen at hitting behind a runner and moving him over a base. Roberts brought elite base-running ability off the bench. He’d been having a great season with the Dodgers, stealing 33 bases and being caught just once. And Mientkiewicz was part of my family from our days in Minnesota. We practically grew up together with the Twins, and our wives remained close friends even after we left the Twin Cities. I’ll admit that I let myself dream some about how meaningful it would be to win a title in Boston with Doug.
With the way we were playing at the end of the season, I didn’t think anyone would be able to keep us from a championship. We won 37 of our final 51 games, and I was even better than I had been in 2003. I was at the point where I was visualizing where the ball was going to go before I went to the plate. I didn’t just tell myself that I was going to hit the ball to the opposite field. I’d think things like, I’m going to hit it to the opposite field, and it’s going over the fence. I finished with 41 home runs, 47 doubles, and 139 RBIs. Manny had 43 homers, 44 doubles, and 130 RBIs. Neither A-Rod nor Magglio Ordóñez came close to that kind of production in 2004.
Manny could be a goofball at times, but at least he was on our side. He and Pedro were so talented and thoughtful at their crafts. They had taught me so much about studying pitchers, detecting pitch sequences, and setting a pitcher up in the first at-bat for something you want to do in the third at-bat.
I could feel it as we began our playoff run in Los Angeles against the Angels. We had finished the regular season with 98 wins, three behind the Yankees. But I still thought we were the best team in baseball. We just had to prove it. I trusted all of my teammates, so I knew the postseason stage wasn’t too big for any of us. I knew that. What I didn’t know was how we were going to perform on that stage, and I didn’t even come close to predicting that it would be a performance no one had ever seen before.
7
The October of Ortiz
The first playoff games of October hadn’t even been played yet, but everyone, except for the Anaheim Angels and Minnesota Twins, could see where things were headed. It was inevitable. It was going to be the Red Sox and Yankees, again, in the league championship series. The two of us had the most expensive rosters in the game, totaling over $300 million in payroll. We were easily the two highest run producers in baseball. We’d tried to sign and trade for the same players. And we had more ownership and front-office pressure to win than any other two organizations in sports. It made sense that our seasons would be measured by what we’d be able to do against each other.
For us, the Angels were in the way. For the Yankees, it was my old team, the Twins. It’s not unusual for a surprise team, an underdog, to get hot in the fall and win the postseason. But 2004 wasn’t the year for that. The assembled talent on the Red Sox and Yankees was greater than anything I’d ever seen in baseball. You should never say “no way” in sports, but . . . there was no way either team was going to lose in the division series.
Although the Angels technically had home-field advantage, with the first two games at their place, think about who they were facing. In Game 1, our starter was Curt Schilling, whose postseason earned run average going into that game was 1.66. Filthy. In Game 2, we had Pedro. A normal Pedro, the best thinker with the best stuff in baseball, is tough enough. But this was Pedro possibly pitc
hing his last season with the Red Sox. He was in the final year of his contract, and it didn’t look like the Red Sox were going to come close to meeting the terms he wanted on a new deal. I had spent so much time with him over Sunday evening dinners with our families and on the road with our teammates, so I knew just how driven he was to walk away from Boston being called a winner. We still were going to have our fun, on the field and in the clubhouse. But we also expected to win the World Series.
The first two games went almost perfectly. Schilling gave up just two earned runs in his start, and we backed him up by scoring seven runs in the top of the fourth inning. Pedro gave us seven innings and three runs in his start, and we put the game away with a four-run ninth. We left Anaheim worry-free. We won those games by a combined score of 17–6. When Schilling appeared to tweak his right ankle as he fielded a ground ball, it never occurred to us that the injury would lead to one of the most dramatic stories in the history of the postseason.
Back in Boston, we had the same expectation as the fans. Short series. As usual, Fenway was loud and packed. For the past year and a half, the park had been sold out for each game. I loved playing there, especially when we were in close games late and I had a chance to win it. The park is built in such a way that you feel like you can have conversations with individual fans. Well, there was a guy who always sat behind the plate at Fenway. Always. Every time I walked up for a big at-bat, I’d search for him because I could count on him to say the same thing with intensity. “Come on, Papi! Let’s go!” I don’t know why, but the hunger of his words set a good tone for me. I was so curious about who the fan was that I asked the Red Sox to find out his name. I learned that he was Dennis Drinkwater, a Boston businessman in the glass-replacement industry. I knew if Game 3 came down to a key at-bat, I was going to be looking for Dennis before digging in at the plate.