by Bret Boone
Olerud batted sixth and Edgar seventh, giving the Mariners four starters in the AL lineup. The cleanup man got the longest ovation—the biggest, best, loudest, warmest ovation I ever got. That’s a sound that stays with you, a capacity crowd sending love your way from all directions. Fifteen years later, I can still hear it. A couple thousand of the 47,000 at Safeco sounded like they were booing, but this time they really were yelling Booo-ooone.
I popped up against Randy Johnson (just missed it!) and grounded out to Chipper Jones, but we won the game. Our man Garcia got the victory. Afterward, and for weeks to come, I signed hundreds of copies of that week’s Sports Illustrated. The cover showed me homering under the words SHOCK WAVE and BRET BOONE: RBI MACHINE. Inside, Richard Hoffer’s story said that a certain second baseman was “leading the Mariners to the best record in baseball. Boone’s RBI total is one of the season’s more astonishing numbers….Fans at Safeco Field are hardly lamenting the defection of Alex Rodriguez, whose 41 homers and 132 RBIs last year landed him the richest contract in baseball history.”
Hoffer said I was loving every minute of my career year, especially after a decade of answering questions about Gramps and my dad: “It’s not that I’m not proud of my family,” Boone says. “I am. But this is better.”
What was my secret? SI credited my work with Dad and my off-season workouts. Piniella said I looked “like Tarzan” when I reported to spring training. Hoffer went on to describe my “huge guns and rolling shoulders—a home run build.” He was wrong about that. What I had was an iron man build. I was built to last, to stay strong all season. But I had no gripes about how the story ended: “It couldn’t have happened at a better time, not for the Mariners, who figured to lurch through the season without Rodriguez. And certainly not for Boone, struggling against the pressure of pedigree all these years, who’s finally made a name—for himself.”
A name or two, if you count “the Boone.” Seems only fair for a guy who had more than one locker. I had three that year. I’d stroll into our clubhouse at Safeco, slap hands all around, and announce, “I’m here. We can start the game.” The Mariners were cruising and my bats, gloves, and fan mail filled three cubicles. One was labeled BOONE, one BOONE’S FRIEND, and one BOONE’S OTHER FRIEND.
Talk about a charmed season: that was also the year our radio audience helped me find my glove.
As you can imagine, I was as fussy about my gloves as about my bats. Some players break in a new glove by tying it shut with a ball stuck in the webbing. Gramps’s generation rubbed gloves with shaving cream or something called neat’s-foot oil. Many of today’s players dunk a new glove in a sink full of water, and then stick it in the microwave for twenty or thirty seconds. Softens it right up. (Torii Hunter punished a glove for making an error by microwaving it to a crisp.) I liked to keep things simple. Each season I’d use one glove in games and a new one during batting practice. Over the summer the BP glove got nice and soft. It became my “gamer” the following year.
My pregame ritual was just as consistent. After batting practice I’d have a bite to eat in the clubhouse, then take a shower, then watch video of the other team’s starting pitcher. Twenty minutes before game time, I’d gather up my gear and lug it from the clubhouse to the dugout. Well, that year the Mariners added a step to my routine. They couldn’t keep up with the autograph requests, so once every home stand I’d climb on top of the dugout after BP and sign as many as I could. We all had a fine time. Kids lined up, hooting and hollering, throwing stuff down to me. I’d sign their caps and gloves and toss them back.
One time I had my game glove in my armpit. Without thinking, I tossed it into the crowd. Pretty soon it’s twenty minutes to game time and I’m searching the clubhouse, having a panic attack. Where’s my gamer? I wore my backup glove that night, hoping they wouldn’t hit anything my way. After the game I went to the broadcast booth. “Tell ’em my glove’s gone. Boone must have tossed it to a fan, and he needs it!” The word went out, and the next day a young fan shows up with my precious gamer. I gave him some bats, an autographed jersey, and a hug. It wasn’t till later that I looked in the glove’s palm and saw a signature. David Bell. David was our third baseman, a buddy of mine. He was the grandson of Gus Bell and the son of Buddy Bell, both of them big-league stars. If not for me, David would have been the first third-generation major leaguer, but he never mentioned it. The Boones and Bells got along.
Of course I gave him hell about the glove. “You knew my gamer was missing and you scrawled all over it!”
“Somebody handed it to me, I signed it,” he said.
These days David’s the bench coach for Mike Matheny’s St. Louis Cardinals. We don’t see each other much, but when we cross paths I resume giving him shit. I played the rest of my best season with a David Bell autograph glove.
In August we smoked the Tigers 16–1 to run our record to 91-36. For you history buffs, that’s a slightly better winning percentage than the 1927 Yankees. I hit my 28th home run that day. Olerud smacked his 16th and 17th while lifting his average to .304. Edgar drove in 5 runs to bring his RBI count to 96. We were 18 games ahead of Oakland with a shot at the major-league record of 116 wins in a season.
Announcers like to talk about “team chemistry.” I think that’s shorthand for “I have no idea why they’re winning or losing.” I’ve always thought that chemistry has nothing much to do with leadership, character, or any other cliché. It has to do with talent. The Braves team I played on won because it was good. As Bobby Cox told me the day I joined them, “We roll over people here.” Nobody had more character than Tony Gwynn, but the Padres finished last.
In my experience, chemistry is a by-product of winning, not a cause. When you win, you have a “harmonious” clubhouse. Players hug. They smile. Everybody’s happy. Reporters pick up on the vibe. They say the vibe made the wins happen, when it’s really the other way around.
Except in 2001. After thumping Detroit we won three in a row to go to 94-36, the best record in fifty years—from a club that was supposed to be reeling after losing A-Rod, Griffey, and Randy Johnson. How do you explain that? Maybe it was chemistry. There were no jerks in the home clubhouse at Safeco. Edgar was our elder sage, Olerud the quiet line-drive machine. Cameron and I kept things loose. Piniella was mellowing—at the age of fifty-eight he could cuss an ump without pulling first base from the ground and throwing it. Lou told me, “Son, I don’t know how you’re doing what you’re doing, but don’t stop doing it.” We all busted our butts for him, finding ways to score one more run or prevent one. No team ever got more out of the talent on its roster.
McLemore, for instance, had to check the lineup every night to see where, or if, he’d be playing. And he couldn’t care less. All he cared about was finding a way to get us an edge or a sliver of an edge on every play. For one thing, he was an expert at stealing signs. Mike Cameron and utility man Stan Javier were good at it, too, but Mack might have been the best. If he was on second base he’d study the catcher and crack the other team’s signals at a glance. Catchers use one set of signs with nobody on base and another, trickier set with a runner on second, but he was too smart for them. Early that season he came to me and said, “The Boone, my man, do you want to know? If I’m on second, do you want a sign?”
Some hitters don’t want the distraction. I said, “Hell yes.” So we worked out our own signs. Nothing as obvious as pulling your ear or scratching your nose. Our signs were subtle—if Mack turned his head to the right while he was leading off second, that could mean fastball inside. Turning his head to the left might mean fastball away. He might clench one hand for a slider, adjust his belt or his package for a changeup.
With his help I sat on some pitches I would have taken or missed. Not many, maybe 15 or 20 all season. But those swings meant a lot. A homer or two, a double instead of a strikeout, a base hit here and there—it adds up.
Were we cheating?
No. Here’s where the code comes in again—the game inside the game
. There’s an unwritten rule about stealing signs. If the other team realizes you’re doing it, they’ll retaliate. Their pitcher will throw at you. That’s the acceptable risk of trying to gain an advantage. If McLemore and I are working our game and the other team catches on, I might wear the next fastball—take it in the neck. Ow. Fine, no problem. I’d bounce up and give the pitcher a nod. We’re even.
The code works both ways. In the field, I’d keep a sharp eye on any veteran runner who reached second base. The stakes rise when there’s a man in scoring position—both teams kick their focus into a higher gear. You can’t always be sure if a runner’s stealing signs, but if you suspect he is, you start by warning him between pitches. “Keep it up if you want to get drilled.” He might be a friend. He might even be my brother, but my job is to protect my team’s interests.
Sometimes retaliation gets out of hand, but in most cases it’s a simple matter of enforcing the code. Steal signs, get drilled. Peek at the catcher’s setup while the pitcher’s in his windup, get drilled. Wear wraparound shades to the plate, get drilled—because wraparound shades keep the catcher from telling if you’re peeking. Throw at our best hitter and we’ll throw at yours. Throw at our pitcher when he’s at the plate and we’ll throw at yours. (Want a reason to hate the DH? American League headhunters like Pedro and Clemens could hunt heads without getting hit when they bat.)
Of course all these purpose pitches call for a little mind-reading. How do I know someone’s stealing signs or intentionally throwing at my head?
Answer: circumstantial evidence.
A veteran learns to read the game. He knows that no pitcher wants to drill anybody in a close game, especially late in the game. The pitcher wants a W for his team and himself. If somebody deserves a drilling, whether it’s for stealing signs, peeking at the catcher, showboating after a home run, or bunting to break up a no-hitter, payback can wait. But we’re taking notes. We might postpone payback, but it’s coming eventually. We might retaliate the next time your team comes to town, or six months from now, or maybe even next year. Meanwhile, Job No. 1 is always to win the game. That’s a simple fact that fans, writers, announcers, and even some players often miss.
When I was with the Reds, San Diego’s Sterling Hitchcock threw one under our leadoff man’s chin. I knew instantly that Hitchcock didn’t mean it. How did I know? It was a tie game, nobody out. The last thing he wants to do is put a runner on base—especially a guy who specialized in stealing bases.
Maybe I should mention that our leadoff man didn’t lack confidence. But then it wasn’t his ego that bothered me. I’ve got one of those, too. My problem with the guy was that he didn’t understand baseball’s code.
He jumped up, shaking his fist at Hitchcock. He wanted us to run out on the field and fight the Padres.
“Easy,” I said. “He didn’t mean it. Think about it—he doesn’t want to hit the fastest guy in the game. You’ll just steal second.”
He didn’t believe me. He was sure the Padres were throwing at him because he was a superstar.
The next inning, Mike Morgan took the mound for the Reds. Morgan was a great teammate, always willing to protect one of his own, even if the guy was kind of an ass and it would hurt Morgan’s shot at a win.
Mike and I stood behind the mound, listening to our leadoff man yell from center field: “Somebody’s got to go down!”
I told Morgan, “Forget it. If he really thinks they’re after him, we can deal with it down the line. You’ve got a tie game to win.”
Another shout from center: “Down! They’re going down!”
Morgan said, “Well, he’s on our side.” He felt he had to do the honorable thing. So he plunked the next batter. The run scored and we lost.
I was seething after the game. But our leadoff man still didn’t get it. “Boone don’t want to protect me!” he said.
I had two aching shoulders wrapped in icepacks. I was tired and sore and pissed-off. I said, “You’re a clown. You haven’t done shit for our team, and you’ve got a lot to learn. You were wrong, so shut up.” I turned away. That’s when he slugged me as hard as he could, right in the back of the neck. I saw stars for a couple of seconds, then I went after him, fists first. It took three other Reds to break up the fight.
By 2001 I was doing my part for Seattle with a .331 average, Gold Glove–caliber defense, and the sort of know-how a veteran can contribute. Like handing your pitcher a ball he’ll really like.
Down through the years, some pitchers have scratched baseballs with thumbtacks or bits of sandpaper hidden in their gloves or caps. If they gripped and released the ball just right, the rough spot made it dive or veer sideways. There’s less of that now—today’s TV cameras can zoom in on the smallest detail, making it tough for a pitcher to customize the ball. But a veteran infielder can help. After the last warm-up pitch our catcher would fire the ball to me at second, purposely short-hopping the throw. That way I could flip our pitcher a baseball with a nice scuff on it.
On September 10 we beat the Angels to run our record to 104-40. Seven and a half hours later, in New York, Islamic terrorists flew an American Airlines jumbo jet into the North Tower at the World Trade Center. That day’s events put baseball in perspective. Two thousand nine hundred and seventy-seven innocent people lost their lives on September 11, 2001. Selig suspended the season—correctly, I think—with eighteen games left on the schedule.
During a week of national mourning, we held team meetings. “Are we gonna play? Should we play?” I thought we should. We’d endured an attack on our country, an event that dwarfed sports. Americans were in disarray. We were looking for something to unify us, even if it was only a distraction like the kids’ game we loved.
After seven days the Show went on. The Mariners picked up where we’d left off, stretching our latest winning streak to seven. We won ten of twelve to finish with a record of 116-46, tying a 105-year-old record for the most wins in major-league history, but the cheers weren’t as loud now.
I hit a couple of homers in the American League Championship Series, but the Yankees beat us on the way to their fourth straight World Series. It mattered but it didn’t. Here we were, the team with the most wins ever, falling short in the playoffs. That hurt. But when we visited Ground Zero that month, with the smoke still rising out of the rubble, the ALCS seemed a lot less important.
I was clearing out my locker at Safeco when John McLaren, Piniella’s bench coach, stopped by. “What a year you had,” he said.
I said thanks.
“You’re the MVP,” he said.
I wasn’t so sure. It was hard to focus on awards after all we’d been through. I couldn’t care less about the American League’s Most Valuable Player award.
And that, of course, is a lie. The truth is, I didn’t care any more than actors care about Oscars or singers care about Grammys. Not just for me, either. How much would my wife and kids love it if I was the league’s MVP? How much would it mean to Mom and Dad, Gramps, Aaron, and everybody else I loved? That shit lasts forever. If I won the award I could sign baseballs Bret Boone MVP 2001 for the rest of my life. And plenty of stat geeks had me winning. Ichiro, the rookie sensation, had batted .350 with 8 home runs and 69 RBIs to my .331 with 37 homers and a league-leading 141 RBIs. Ichiro had 56 steals to my 5, but my WAR (wins above replacement, a stat measuring how many extra victories you’re worth) was 9.2 to his 7.
In the end, the Baseball Writers of America preferred Ichiro. He was the American League’s MVP for 2001. I finished third in the voting.
But that long, strange, historic season closed on a note that still chokes me up.
After Ichiro won the AL MVP, I got a little glass trophy in the mail. The Mariners had taken a vote and named me the team’s most valuable player.
I went on to a strong 2002 season—racking up 24 homers and 107 RBIs, slashing .278/.339/.462, and earning my second Gold Glove, while the Mariners won 93 games. Now I was in the money at last. My bet on myself paid off with a th
ree-year, $25 million deal to re-up with the M’s. That’s nothing like today’s money, but thinking back on how hard Dad and Gramps had worked to make a good living at the game, I knew how fortunate my generation was. I remember when Willie Bloomquist got the locker next to me in 2003. He was a rookie infielder making $300,000, the minimum salary, and asked to see my pay stub one day. Major leaguers get paid every two weeks during the season, and my biweekly pay, before taxes, was $641,025.62. His eyes bugged out. I gave Willy my best advice: “You want a check like this one? Play better!” He laughed and said he’d try that.
Every season’s a roller coaster. For me, 2003 was like a rocket to the moon, with a minor fender bender in the middle. The Mariners were one of baseball’s best teams. Again. Two years after our record-setting 116-win season of 2001, we figured we were the class of the division. Okay, we were a little older. Our DH was forty, and so was our number one starter. But they weren’t ordinary graybeards. Everyone knew that Edgar Martinez, a consummate pro, was going to hit around .300. Talk about a thinking man’s hitter—there were pitchers who’d tell you Edgar was reading their minds. And if Jamie Moyer didn’t have much of a fastball at forty, so what? He didn’t have one at thirty, either. Or twenty-five. In fact, our ace had the slowest fastball in the big leagues. His heater topped out at 82. That’s ten miles an hour slower than Aroldis Chapman’s slider. It’s slower than some guys’ changeups. Moyer got hitters out with more savvy than any pitcher this side of Greg Maddux. Every fifth day he put on a clinic, and I had a great view. He pitched backward, throwing off-speed pitches when he was behind in the count, fastballs on 0-2. He’d tantalize a cleanup hitter with a meatball outside, then slip a sneaky fastball under his hands for strike three.