Home Game

by Bret Boone

  © The Phillies/Paul Roedig

  Dad made the 1976 All-Star Game in Philadelphia, where I got an ovation for pregame catches like this.

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  Spring training 1974 was family time for Mom and Dad and their kids, Aaron (riding high) and me.

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  Christmas in California—no snow for the Boone boys, but there might be a fielder’s glove under the tree.

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  In ’93 Dad (left) coached in the minors, Gramps (right) scouted for the Red Sox, and I hit .332 for the Triple-A Calgary Cannons.

  Photo by Marty Orr

  Rookie infielder Aaron joined me in Cincinnati in ’97, the first of our two years as a brother act with the Reds.

  Getty Images/SI cover

  You’ve heard of the Sports Illustrated cover jinx? I got hotter after SI made me its midseason cover boy.

  AP Photo/Jim Bryant

  Ka-Boone! Here’s one of my 37 longballs in 2001, complete with the bat flip that I should have patented.

  AP Photo/Mark J.

  The Angels’ Darin Erstad tried to break up a double play in one of my four Gold Glove seasons, but he knew he had no chance.

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  Some guys who go into the family trade hand out business cards. We’ve got baseball cards. That’s Gramps in the 1950s

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  Dad in the ’70s

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  Aaron in the ’90s

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  Me in the ’90s

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  And our brother Matt, who played in the minors before hurting his back, in the early 2000s.

  AP Photo/Mark Duncan

  Aaron (left) and I made the 2003 All-Star Game, where we joined a pair of former All-Stars, Gramps and Dad—another first for the Boones.

  AP Photo/Al Behrman

  I was in the TV booth when Aaron shocked Boston with a walk-off homer that sent the Yankees to the 2003 World Series.

  Photo by Bill Mitchell

  I made my managerial debut in the low minors last year. A wise man once said that all great journeys begin with a single step—in my case, in Beloit, Wisconsin.

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  My daughter Savannah, a good athlete in her own right, might be a future sportscaster.

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  My twin sons Judah (left) and Isaiah (right) got to hoist Babe Ruth’s bats at the Hall of Fame.

  Courtesy of the Boone family

  My son Jake’s getting serious about baseball. Will he be the first fourth-generation major leaguer? Maybe. I just want him to be happy.

  Nobody who lived through 2001 would forget it.

  It started as a year of reunions. Aaron was in his fourth season as the Cincinnati Reds’ everyday third baseman, playing beside Barry Larkin for a club that had my old teammate Ken Griffey Jr. in center field and my old dad in the dugout. After three years of managing the Royals, Dad took over the 2001 Reds and wrote Aaron in at third base, batting sixth. They became the seventh father-son duo to manage and play for the same team. (The others were the Philadelphia Athletics’ Connie and Earle Mack in 1910; the Yankees’ Yogi and Dale Berra in 1985; Baltimore’s Cal Ripken Sr. and Jr., also in 1985; the Orioles’ Cal Sr. and Billy Ripken in 1987; the Royals’ Hal and Brian McRae in 1991; and the Montreal Expos’ Felipe and Moises Alou in 1992.)

  I was coming off a 19-homer year in San Diego. My 74 RBIs had been the most ever by a Padres second baseman, but my 2000 season ended on a down note. I’d hit 16 homers by the All-Star break, but then I banged up my right knee and missed the last six weeks. The injury depressed my numbers. It depressed my agent and me, too, because the Padres didn’t want me back. I felt betrayed by Kevin Towers, their general manager. Towers could have picked up my option—the club’s contractual right to keep me in 2001—for $4 million. He’d promised me he would. “Don’t worry, just get better,” he’d said. “We want you back next year. You can consider your option picked up.” So I’d shut my season down and started rehabbing my knee. Turns out I had blood and fragments of kneecap floating in there. The knee had started to atrophy. It may have been the same problem Gramps and Dad had with their knees. When your legs go, your hitting, fielding, and baserunning all suffer, but six months in the gym would get me back on my feet.

  Then, as soon as the season ended, Towers called to say they didn’t want me back. Suddenly I was radioactive. Seeing the Padres dump me, other GMs thought, His knee must be wrecked. Half a dozen clubs made modest one-year offers, including Lou’s crew in Seattle.

  I was on the fence about the Mariners. Safeco Field, where they play their home games, is a tough yard for hitters. In those days, before they brought the fences closer to the plate in 2013, it was a longish 405 feet to dead center field and a damn-longish 390 to the power alley in left-center. Even though I made a lot of my money to right and right-center, there was no doubt I’d lose homers in Seattle, and not just homers. How many doubles would the park turn into long outs? As my pal John Olerud used to say about Safeco, “When in doubt, you’re out.”

  It wasn’t just the dimensions, either. At some parks, summer heat and wind currents make the ball jump; 390 feet plays like 350. Safeco was the opposite—mostly due to the air. Fans know the thin air at Colorado’s mile-high Coors Field helps balls go far—and makes breaking pitches break a little less than at lower altitudes—but they forget that Arizona’s Chase Field (1,082 feet above sea level) and Atlanta’s Turner Field (1,050 feet) aid hitters, too. Meanwhile, thicker air in coastal cities like Seattle (elevation: 10 feet) slows the ball down and adds bite to breaking balls. Sliders slide more, sinkers sink more, and would-be dingers die on the warning track. Hitting in Seattle felt like swinging a slightly heavier, softer bat.

  Then there’s the fact that it’s one of the majors’ smaller media markets, a West Coast town where the home games end after midnight eastern time. Those late games limit your SportsCenter appearances. How many of my Web Gems might go unnoticed in Seattle? If that sounds like my ego talking, remember that highlights can turn into endorsements, Gold Gloves, and millions of dollars. The Gold Glove Awards are voted on by managers and coaches, who watch SportsCenter just like fans do. Players’ contracts feature bonuses for Gold Gloves and other awards. The more famous you get, the more you’ll be worth the next time your contract comes up.

  So why even think about Seattle’s offer?

  For one thing, I had friends there—guys like Jay Buhner and Norm Charlton. The city’s gorgeous, too, and Seattle fans really love their M’s when their M’s win.

  For another thing, I was still kind of sweet on Lou.

  Back in 1993, when the Mariners traded me to Cincinnati, Seattle reporters wrote that Piniella wanted me gone. As usual, the press got the story wrong. Maybe Lou and I were too alike to get along at first, but that changed before the trade. We feuded until the day he told me I’d proved myself to him: “You’re going to be my second baseman for the next fifteen years.” Then Woodward, the general manager, sent me to the Reds for Dan Wilson. I wasn’t mad—Wilson was the catcher they were dying to get. Still, that deal left me feeling I might have some unfinished business in Seattle.

  Now it was seven years later. I’d led National League second basemen in fielding three years in a row, including my record-setting .997 fielding percentage in 1997. I’d averaged 21 homers and 77 RBIs from 1998 to 2000, but everybody was bitching and moaning about my knee.

  “Nobody wants to go three years,” Tom Reich said. As my agent, Reich laid out my options: I could settle for a two-year deal for $4.5 million to $5 million or a risky one-year contract for a lot less, with performance bonuses I might not reach.

  “Screw it,” I said. “I’ll sign for a year and play like hell.”

  Pat Gillick, Woodward’s successor as the Ma
riners’ GM, came up with 3,250,001 reasons for me to choose Seattle: $3.25 million and another chance to play for Piniella. Gillick threw in another $1 million in incentive bonuses he doubted I’d cash in.

  “Bret’s a nice fit for our ball club, a proven run producer who will add a little pop to our lineup,” he announced

  I couldn’t help thinking, Whaddya mean, “a little”?

  It turned out he was wrong about the incentives, but right about the pop.

  In the modern game, three factors are crucial to a manager. He needs to deal effectively with the front office—the owner, GM, and other higher-ups. He needs to deal effectively with the media. And he needs to treat players as individuals. The old “my way or the highway” hard-ass days ended when players started making two or three or ten times as much as the manager. Today the game’s superstars are closer in status to the owners. The manager’s more like a corporate middle manager, trying to churn out the product while juggling demands from above and below. He keeps the troops producing, while taking orders from the general manager and the IT (analytics) department, until profits (wins) decline and he gets fired.

  Piniella was a throwback. As he saw it, managers have expiration dates. He was sure to get canned eventually, so he might as well be his own ornery self until his number came up.

  In 2001 it looked like that day might be soon, because Seattle was going to hell. In 1998, Woodward had traded Randy Johnson, the towering, intimidating six-foot-eleven Big Unit—the best pitcher they ever had—and they finished the year 76-85. After another losing season in 1999, they traded Griffey, the second-best player in franchise history, to Cincinnati. In 2000 they let the best player in franchise history, Alex Rodriguez, go to Texas as a free agent. According to one account, “The Mariners will try to stay afloat with Boone instead of A-Rod.”

  No pressure there.

  Piniella hoped I could help lead the ball club on the field and in the clubhouse. At the age of thirty-two I was up for the challenge, ready to make my second go-round in Seattle better than my first. I was smarter and more experienced. Also fitter than ever. During the off-season and through spring training in Peoria, Arizona, I took my weight training and nutrition to new levels. I could now match eight-pack abs with my new buddy Mike Cameron.

  Cam was naturally lean like a leather belt. We competed to see who could stay strongest with the least body fat. My method was to pump iron for an hour, do half an hour of cardio, eat two dinners, and work out again. He’d do a few bench presses, test at 8 percent body fat, and laugh at me for killing myself. Finally I edged him by testing at 7.7 percent. That’s about half the body fat of a runway model. For comparison’s sake, the average American man’s body is about 22 percent fat. That means he’s carrying about 40 pounds of pure fat; I was carrying about 13 pounds. Scarlett Johansson’s body fat is about 20 percent, which is low for a woman. Channing Tatum’s listed at 10 percent to my 7.7. Just sayin’.

  Entering my tenth big-league season, I was leaner and hungrier than ever. Stronger in the middle, too—in the core muscles that power the swing. I felt supercharged, and in April 2001 the Mariners and I took off like a couple of rockets. The team won 20 games and lost only 5 all month, while the Boone batted .344.

  The Boone?

  Blame Mark McLemore for the nickname. Mack was our supersub. He played six positions that year, seven if you count DH, hitting .286 and stealing 39 bases at the age of thirty-six. The funny thing is, he’d broken in as a twenty-one-year-old rookie with the 1986 Angels, a club that had Reggie Jackson at DH and my dad behind the plate. To McLemore and the other Angels, Dad was “Boonie.” Mack wasn’t sure what to call me till I started blistering the ball in 2001.

  One day he was doing an interview in the clubhouse when I walked by. “There’s the man,” he said, explaining that Dad was “Boonie” so I needed a different nickname. “He’s rolling, he’s the man. He’s the Boone!”

  I waved and kept going. Later that day, a fan ran up with a cap for me to sign, saying, “My girlfriend’s crazy about you.” There was a catchphrase in the air at the time—“Chicks dig the long ball”—from a Nike commercial with Greg Maddux and Tom Glavine. Thinking back to McLemore’s line, I told the fan, “I guess chicks dig the Boone.” He called a Seattle radio station, and the next thing you know there were banners at Safeco: CHICKS DIG THE BOONE.

  My wife didn’t dig the banners, but that’s a story for another time.

  I’ll admit I liked the attention. I had worked my ass off, even changed my swing, to prepare for this. Why not get a kick out of it? The experts said it couldn’t last—the Mariners weren’t as good as we looked, they said, and neither was I. How far could a team go with me batting third or fourth instead of A-Rod?

  To the top, that’s how far. But we were still adjusting to our front-runner status.

  Early in the season, with runners at first and second in a tie game, Piniella had third-base coach Dave Myers give me the bunt sign. There I was, batting fifth, striding to the plate to my hard-rockin’ walk-up music, Crazy Town’s “Butterfly,” and he wanted me to bunt! In the words of Crazy Town, Time is passing, I’m asking, Could this be real?

  Now, you don’t have to like bunting to know how: square up with your chest to the pitcher and the bat flat; don’t jab, just let the pitch kiss the bat, pulling back slightly at impact to deaden the ball. I laid down a beauty and we won the game with a sacrifice fly.

  A night later, the same situation came up. This was getting old. I called time to discuss my views with Myers. I said, “Are you rumdums sure you want the best second baseman in the league to bunt?”

  He shrugged. “Lou looks pretty sure.”

  Two foul balls later, I struck out. Piniella looked miffed. I know I was. Passing him on my way into the dugout, I said in a loud voice, “The Boone don’t get paid to bunt.” Lou didn’t answer except to spit, but that was the last time he gave me the bunt sign.

  Lou and I always had our differences, but we liked and respected each other. “A couple of hardheaded individuals, that’s us,” he said. Beyond bunting, we disagreed about off days. I hated ’em, especially when I was hitting. Why screw with a hot streak? Lou, for his part, liked to rest his regulars from time to time to keep us “fresh.”

  “I’m gonna give you a day,” he’d say.

  “Forget it. I don’t like to sit.” I played through injuries and slumps, always sure I was going to get three hits and help us win, until one night, when I popped up and hit a dribbler and struck out twice.

  “Boone hasn’t got it,” Piniella announced to the team. “He needs a day off.”

  “Okay, fine!” I said. So after eighty-some games in a row, I sat one night in Cleveland. Lou told me there was absolutely, positively no chance I’d get into the game, not even to pinch-hit. That became a sure thing when we took a 14–2 lead into the seventh inning. By then I was about as relaxed as I’ve ever been during a game. In fact I was sipping a beer in the dugout. That’s something I would never do if there was a chance I’d play, but this was a night off. I moseyed into the clubhouse, poured a cold beer into a Pepsi can, and went back to my spot on the bench. I was on my second or third beer when the Indians cut our lead to 14–9. No worries, we were still up by five runs with two out in the ninth.

  Einar Diaz singled in two runs. Piniella brought in our closer, Kazuhiro “Kaz” Sasaki, to get the final out.

  Buhner, sitting next to me, said, “You may have to go in.”

  “No way. Lou promised.”

  Kenny Lofton singled. Omar Vizquel cleared the bases with a triple and the game was tied. In the bottom of the ninth, Lou started looking my way. I tried to hide behind Buhner, but Lou found me. I cussed him all the way to the plate, where I stepped in against my old teammate, John Rocker, and fanned on three fastballs. We lost 15–14 in the biggest comeback (or worst blown lead) ever seen on ESPN’s Sunday Night Baseball.

  We were still 80-31 that August, leading the AL West by 19 games. Soft-tossing Jamie
Moyer was already a 16-game winner. Sinker-slider specialist Freddy Garcia was 13-3. Edgar Martinez and first baseman John Olerud were hitting over .300. Our new right fielder, Ichiro Suzuki, was batting .332, proving a Japanese import could rake in the majors, while I was at .329. Ichiro made our club an international sensation, too. When the Mariners played, thousands of fans gathered around Jumbotrons in Tokyo to yell for Japan’s hero and the player they sometimes called B-Boom.

  Ichiro was a terrific contact hitter and a pretty interesting character. He knew more English than he let on. Griffey and some of the others had entertained him on a visit to Seattle a couple of years before, giving him some helpful tips, like telling reporters how to pronounce his name: “Itch-y-balls.” He thought that was funny. Ichiro loved trying out phrases he heard other players use. We were jogging out to our positions one night when he recognized Ed Montague, the umpire. Ichiro pointed at Montague and asked, “What’s up, homeslice?”

  What a year. That season was magic by definition—the only year I ever went without a slump.

  I’d barreled into the break with a .324 average, 22 homers, 84 RBIs, and my first Sports Illustrated cover.

  The 2001 All-Star Game at Safeco was a home game. Ichiro batted leadoff for Joe Torre’s American League All-Stars. I was honored and humbled—yes, it’s possible—to find out that I was batting fourth, between Manny Ramirez and Juan Gonzalez. I went straight to Torre. “Joe,” I said, “I just saw the lineup. I don’t know what to say except…it means a lot.” Torre shrugged. He gave me that fatherly grin of his and said, “The year you’re having? Who else? You earned it.”