Pinstripe Empire

by Marty Appel

  On a spring training boating trip that very year, he had told Bob Fishel, in front of his own owner, Brad Corbett, “I’d give anything to manage the Yankees.”

  Paul dispatched his longtime employee and now Yankee scout Birdie Tebbetts to find Martin, who was on a hunting trip in Colorado.

  On Friday night, August 1, the night before Old-Timers’ Day, the Yanks won their third straight to go to 53–51. But Virdon’s fate was sealed. He was summoned across the street to Paul’s office and told he was being replaced.

  And so on Old-Timers’ Day, Billy Martin returned to the Yankees after his exile, introduced to the cheering crowd of forty-four thousand in what was one of the happiest days of his life.

  DiMaggio shook his head as I walked him to the clubhouse at Shea and told him the news, as though knowing what was to follow in coming years. He didn’t look any happier when Martin was introduced after him, violating the “always last” agreement that had been struck years before.

  IN AN EFFORT to breathe life back into the ’75 Yanks, Billy arrived with a plan to evaluate what he had and make the best of what remained in the season. Martin was always a manager who quickly decided whether a player was his kind or not. He was especially loyal to veterans who had gone to “the wars” with him, to coaches who had long-term relationships with him (and weren’t after his job), and to young players he thought could be molded.

  For the injured Maddox, the hiring of Martin was not good news. He was a player Billy had not liked when he managed him in Detroit and Texas, and he had ordered him thrown at during spring training in ’75, which led to a brawl.

  Martin was only 30–26 in finishing out the ’75 campaign, but he kept telling people, “Wait until I get a full season, with my own spring training.”

  ON SEPTEMBER 29, the day after the season ended, Casey Stengel died in Glendale, California, at eighty-five. Martin, whose relationship with “the old man” was strained after his trade, was emotional over the loss. He flew to California as the representative of the Yankees at Casey’s funeral and slept in his bed that night. In 1976, he alone would wear a black armband on his uniform to honor Casey. The two men had reconciled without ever discussing the trade.

  The Yankees’ two seasons at Shea quietly came to a close, a piece of their history largely forgotten. One manager, Virdon, and one star, Bonds, would be on a short list of post-1923 Yankees who never appeared at Yankee Stadium as a member of the home team. When Shea Stadium came down after the 2008 season, retrospectives showed two concerts by the Beatles, but nary a mention of the 159 Yankee home games, nor the destruction of the outfield fence on Salute to the Army Day.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ON NOVEMBER 21, 1975, AN ARBITRATION hearing that would shake the foundation of Major League Baseball took place at New York’s Barbizon Plaza Hotel. Peter Seitz, who had decided Catfish Hunter’s fate, would decide whether Andy Messersmith and Dave McNally were free agents, too, having gone through the season without signing a contract. (Sparky Lyle had almost been “the one,” having gone until the final days of the ’74 season with an unsigned contract before finally agreeing.) The Players Association argued that that constituted their option year, and that the Reserve Clause should not bind them permanently to their team. Major League Baseball felt cautiously optimistic that Seitz would decide that court rulings, which included Curt Flood’s Supreme Court defeat, would prevail.23

  MEANWHILE, THE WINTER MEETINGS were held at the Diplomat Hotel in Hollywood, Florida. The week was passing with few announcements, and the media was hungry for news.

  Finally, on Thursday, the Yankees broke the silence with not one, but two major trade announcements.

  First was the announcement that Bonds, after just one season as a Yankee, was going to the California Angels for center fielder Mickey Rivers, who had led the league with 70 stolen bases, and 16-game winner Ed Figueroa, who had previously spent eight seasons in the minors.

  Then came the trade of Doc Medich to Pittsburgh for starting pitchers Dock Ellis and Ken Brett and a rookie second baseman, Willie Randolph, who’d batted .339 in triple-A.

  Because Randolph was fairly unknown, having played just 30 games for Pittsburgh, his name was overlooked by even some of the more astute media. “Medich for Ellis and Brett,” was one report heard on New York television. Others said, “Medich for Ellis, Brett, and a minor league prospect.” Gabe knew better.

  “We know he can field,” he said, “and anyone who comes up in the Pirates organization can hit.”

  Randolph, although born in South Carolina, had gone to Tilden High in Brooklyn. He brought New York street smarts with him. When he was assigned number 23 in spring training, he asked for 30, which he had worn for the Pirates.

  “We’re keeping that out of circulation in honor of Mel Stottlemyre,” said Pete Sheehy. Randolph, all of twenty-one, looked at the legendary Yankee equipment manager and said, “I don’t care about Mel Stottlemyre, I want thirty.” He got it. When Stottlemyre and Randolph were both coaches on the Yankees in the nineties, it was Randolph who wore 30.

  Ellis, thirty-one, had been a fixture with Pittsburgh since 1968. Sometimes controversial and always outspoken (he later claimed to have pitched a no-hitter while high on LSD), Dock would be a key contributor. Figueroa spoke little English and never quite got comfortable in New York, but Munson took a leadership role in making him feel part of the team. He would one day write a book called Yankee Stranger.

  In one day, Paul added four key players to the roster. Both Bonds and Medich would go on to play for six more teams, never quite reaching their earlier promise.

  The Yankees also traded Pat Dobson to Cleveland for outfielder Oscar Gamble, who brought a perfect Yankee Stadium swing with him. Gamble also brought the biggest afro hairdo in the game, and as soon as he arrived in spring training, Gabe Paul knew it had to go. He assigned me the task of getting it trimmed—immediately—on a Sunday afternoon.

  “If he reports to camp looking like that, we won’t let him work out,” said Gabe. “He’ll file a grievance with the union, and he’ll win. That will be the end of the haircut policy and all discipline on this team. So it will be a PR problem, and that’s why you better get it done.”

  Somehow, I found a barber and a very cooperative Oscar Gamble. With Ellie Howard along for moral support, we got it accomplished. Before-and-after photos ran all over the country.

  During the Winter Meetings, Martin and Paul battled over a pitching-coach selection. Billy wanted his drinking buddy Art Fowler—Paul adamantly refused. So it went to the affable Bob Lemon, in the year he was elected to the Hall of Fame.

  Additionally, the Yankees brought Yogi Berra back as first-base coach. Yogi had been fired as Mets manager the previous summer, and to have Yogi back “where he belonged,” twelve years after he’d been fired as Yankee manager, was a feel-good announcement in New York. There were certainly some who thought the return of Yogi could mark the lifting of a “curse” placed on the Yankees after his dismissal. “Back to one toll,” noted Yogi, who no longer had to cross two bridges to get to work from his New Jersey home. He began calling me daily for the latest gossip.

  ON DECEMBER 23, Seitz declared Messersmith and McNally free agents. The monumental announcement changed the face of baseball. After more than a century of players belonging to teams “forever,” with annual renewals, they were now, technically, all free.

  Marvin Miller, fresh from his greatest union triumph, knew that a system was needed, something other than setting every player free every year. That would be a glut on the market and would not work in the players’ best interests. Baseball faced an urgent need to come up with a mutually agreeable plan, and the owners decided to lock out the players from spring training until such a plan was found.

  ON MARCH 1, Kuhn lifted Steinbrenner’s suspension. He said that the Yankees’ financial woes after two years at Shea (no parking or concessions money) would be “significantly alleviated by his reinstatement and attendant benefi
ts to the team and Yankee fans.”

  “It’s something I have to live with,” Steinbrenner told author Nathan Salant in a 1978 interview. “I’ve regretted it time and again, but what’s done is done. Hopefully, there are other ways I can make up for it.”

  Steinbrenner had been lobbying hard for this, and he saw it coming. With so many critical matters on his plate—including the new stadium—Kuhn had given him permission to conduct staff meetings at the Carlyle Hotel in January.

  It was at these meetings that Steinbrenner looked at Martin and said, “Now this is your call, Billy, and I’m not saying this is necessarily a good idea or a bad idea, but sometimes it’s good to appoint a team captain. It’s not always the star, not always the obvious guy, but it’s something you might want to consider.”

  As the PR director, I spoke up and said that it had been Joe McCarthy’s wish to have the captain position retired with Lou Gehrig—that no one would have it again.

  Steinbrenner listened, collected his thoughts, and said, “Well, if Joe McCarthy knew Thurman Munson, he’d know this was the right time, and this is the right guy.”

  So Munson, when informed, shrugged his shoulders, basically said, “Oh, okay,” and became captain in 1976.

  KUHN ORDERED THE spring camps opened for an abbreviated training period, and the Yankees quickly made a move to sign Messersmith. It failed, as Messersmith seemed to have a change of heart after an apparent agreement. Steinbrenner quickly issued a statement saying, “For the Yankees to pursue [Messersmith] at this time, in view of Andy’s stated feelings about not wanting to play for the Yankees, would be totally inconsistent with what I am striving for—it would not be fair to the other men on the Yankee team—past and present.”

  He let him go, but he also sent a strong signal that he would be active in the free-agent market. He had bought into a system where no such market existed, but now that it was there, he was going to lead the way with it. Ultimately, he would be the last owner standing who predated free agency.

  The Yankees’ plunge into free-agent baseball would be one of the major developments of the game’s history. Steinbrenner viewed the new ruling as a way to improve his roster annually as new stars became available, and as a better alternative to nurturing drafted amateur players. If he could get someone on the free-agent market, or trade minor league prospects for a player approaching free agency, or lock up a pending free agent by offering a big contract, he was game. He saw quickly that with a high-revenue-producing team, he could establish the market value on almost every player.

  The Yankees’ ability to land just about anyone they wanted was remarkable. No matter what players said, they usually went for the highest offer, and if the Yanks were determined to sign someone, they would spend the money. Messersmith turned down the Yankees to join the Braves in 1976, Greg Maddux turned down the Yankees to join the Braves in 1993, and then Cliff Lee did the same in joining the Phillies for 2011. If such events could be spread out once every eighteen years or so, the Yankees were operating on a very high success level.

  The Yankees weren’t alone as a big-market team, of course. The Mets could have been in the same position, and they were arguably richer when the system began, outdrawing the Yankees and more closely removed from World Series play. And the Los Angeles and Chicago teams had a lot of revenue sources to tap into. But the Boss seemed to take control of his position with zest.

  Others, especially Kuhn, saw him as artificially sending salaries higher than they needed to be. If another team seemed to overpay for a player, it was seen as “the Yankee factor”: If they didn’t, the Yankees would. And every agent wanted his player to be coveted by the Yankees, driving up the value.

  Kuhn was no fan. “I would certainly rank George ahead of Miller in terms of their respective contributions to player prosperity,” he wrote in his memoir. “Finley set the stage with his guerrilla tactics. Miller opened the coffers with a lucky assist from Seitz. Steinbrenner then took charge by inaugurating the reign of fiscal insanity that ensued, impoverishing club operations—including his own—pushing up ticket prices and enriching the players beyond their imaginations.”

  Steinbrenner always ranked among both the most liked and most disliked people in baseball. Players and agents loved him for paying big salaries. Yankee fans loved him for providing teams with big stars (even if sometimes they were offended by his public criticisms of them). The media, with a few exceptions, loved him because he was always good copy, sold a lot of newspapers, and created excitement (even if they sometimes had to work their tails off running down his stories). Other teams begrudgingly accepted him because he filled their ballparks when the Yankees were in town. His own players loved him because he generally surrounded them with top players.

  The Commissioner’s Office did not like that the Yankees sometimes operated like a rogue nation, casting dissenting votes on matters that didn’t favor them. But they had to acknowledge that the Yankees were creating big revenue for the industry through their aggressive enhancement of the Yankee brand with all of its international implications, and that the game was moving into an era of previously unimagined revenues.

  Steinbrenner’s own employees had it harder. He was a very demanding boss, and compliments weren’t his strong suit. Job security was tenuous. Still, he created more jobs than any other team in baseball and brought a lot of good young people into the game. Many with Yankee pedigrees went on to high-level positions at other teams, at MLB, or in other sports. It was a line on the résumé that got favorable attention.

  Some members of the press never warmed up to him. He found few allies at the powerful New York Times. Red Smith seldom had a good word for him. Murray Chass disliked his treatment of players, although as a strong union supporter, he recognized the benefits he was providing to the work-force.

  The Daily News’s Dick Young and ABC’s Howard Cosell hated each other but generally liked Steinbrenner, and he recognized their power and could be very charming with both of them. Bill Gallo’s cartoons in the Daily News could skewer “Von Steingrabber’s” ways, but ultimately showed admiration.

  THE EBB AND FLOW of labor issues always turned eyes to the Yankees. In 1972, salary arbitration was introduced to baseball. It seemed of little consequence at first, but it was the genie emerging from the bottle. When salaries later soared, the clubs were still stuck with it, and even young players were able to garner the equivalent of free-agent-like salaries through the process. Even without having the case heard by an arbitrator, settlements were often extraordinary. Steinbrenner did not like to lose at arbitration, and would often turn on a player who had beaten him in the process.

  In 1976, the free-agent draft was instituted, setting in place the system that Steinbrenner dominated. Not every signing worked out, but by and large this proved a very successful system for the Yankees.

  Major League Baseball was found guilty of collusion after free-agent offerings decreased between 1985 and 1987, and the resulting penalties made the owners extremely cautious about ever repeating such an event. This produced a new explosion of salaries, a graph that seemed to rise continuously, always seemingly driven by the Yankees’ desire to spend on stars.

  The bitter baseball strike of 1994–95, resulted in the creation of a revenue-sharing plan, under which a team’s local revenue (ticket sales, local broadcast money, signage, and concessions), minus its debt obligations and operating expenses for its ballpark, would be shared with the low-revenue teams. The Yankees were overwhelming contributors in this process.

  In 1996, MLB created a central marketing department to greatly increase the industry’s revenue, with the money divided evenly across the teams. As with the original licensing plan in the sixties, the Yankees suffered by getting a much smaller portion of revenue than sales of Yankee merchandise produced, but at the same time, the total sales were greatly increased through the performance of this very strong wing of MLB.

  Over 1996–97, a luxury tax was added to the baseball landscape,
based on payroll. In this case, teams exceeding a certain threshold had to pay a “tax” to MLB, who divided it among teams that stayed under the payroll threshold. The Yankees always had to pay this tax and had to budget for it when they determined their player payroll for the year. Occasionally, another team or two had to contribute, but generally speaking, the luxury-tax rule was directed at the Yankees. Through 2011, they had paid over $200 million in luxury taxes, with the Red Sox next at approximately $18 million.

  Yet it seemed to do little to hold back spending.

  IN THE SECOND game of 1976, in Milwaukee, rookie Dave Pagan gave up a ninth-inning homer to the Brewers’ Don Money. Poor Pagan, who was a frail-looking kid from tiny Nipawin, Saskatchewan, where his home phone number was 8. Billy Martin came storming out of the dugout to argue that time had been called. (He won the argument.) Pagan, however, thought Martin was coming at him after yielding the homer, and started to run away from the mound.

  THE “NEW” YANKEE STADIUM opened on Thursday afternoon, April 15, 1976, an unusually hot April day. Toby Wright, the Yankee organist from 1965–66 and 1971–77, entertained the fans as they settled into comfortable new “Yankee blue” plastic seating. There were community activists outside the park demonstrating against what had soared into more than a $100 million renovation. (The Yankees responded by sending Jimmy Esposito and his ground crew to renovate some surrounding baseball diamonds and basketball courts, posting signs saying WE CARE.)

  There was a ticket-takers labor action that forced the gates to be closed until well beyond the stated opening hour, but Gabe Paul resolved it with the union.