“That was really helpful,” said the manager. “I had info on all the players and the people evaluating them.”
The Red Sox equipment truck pulled out of Van Ness Street, adjacent to Fenway, on Monday, February 16, two days after the bombshell trade that sent Alex Rodriguez to the Yankees for Alfonso Soriano. The A-Rod trade perfectly bookended Boston baseball’s nuclear winter, which had started with the Grady Little Game, and also played to the fears of Red Sox fans convinced that the Yankees would always get the better of the Sox. In the aftermath of the trades and broken deals, Henry and Steinbrenner traded barbs—Henry claiming, “Baseball doesn’t have an answer for the Yankees,” while George responded with, “He chose not to go the extra distance for his fans.” Selig ordered both franchises to cease and desist.
Driving south from Yardley, Pennsylvania, Francona heard the noise, but couldn’t focus too much on Manny, Nomar, Pedro, A-Rod, George, or the low-talking owner of the Red Sox. He had to get ready for baseball.
“The drive south is one of my favorite things every year,” he said. “It signifies getting warm and a new chance to start over. You start out wearing a jacket and you shed that, and you eat a bunch of tacos and you see all those signs for South of the Border, and then you take off your sweatshirt, and by the time you get to Florida you’re in a T-shirt and it’s sunny. I always go down at least a week early.”
He exited Route 75 South at Daniels Boulevard, drove another five minutes, then wheeled his blue Mercedes SUV into the Homewood Suites adjacent to the Bell Tower shops and restaurants in cluttered Fort Myers. Homewood was nowhere near Fort Myers Beach, and it also wasn’t especially close to City of Palms Park or the Red Sox sprawling minor league complex at the dead end of godforsaken Edison Road. Most big league ballplayers and managers rent condos near golf courses or beaches during spring training. That was too swanky and isolated for Francona. He liked the convenience and the company at Homewood. The Hilton property was always filled with polite, elderly snowbird Sox fans and pasty college teams making their spring baseball/softball trips. Homewood served breakfast in the common area every day, and there was a wine-and-cheese hour on weekday afternoons. Red Sox relic Johnny Pesky always seemed to be holding court with elderly Sox fans, talking about a train ride when Jimmie Foxx boosted him into the upper bunk. Luis Tiant was another Sox legend housed at Homewood, and spring residents grew familiar with the cigar smoke wafting from Tiant’s SUV, which was always parked in front of the hotel.
Nobody bothered Francona when he smoked a cigar on the patio outside his first-floor, poolside room.
“That place was perfect for me,” he said. “They make your bed, and they have the best coffee in the league in the lobby, and I’m never there. I never liked coming home to a condo by myself. The Sox got me a place at one of those golf courses one year, but I gave it to the clubhouse guys and went back to Homewood. It was just comfortable. My dad loved coming down and staying there. I’d try to take him to dinner, but he loved those Swedish meatballs they put out at five in the afternoon.”
Armed with a cup of hotel coffee and a banana from the not-yet-set-up breakfast spread, the new manager of the Red Sox was up and out of Homewood every morning by 5:30 AM.
“I was anxious, nervous, all of those things,” said Francona. “I was really ready to get started. I couldn’t wait.”
He set up shop in the manager’s office at the Sox minor league clubhouse and greeted pitchers, catchers, and anxious veterans who arrived before the required reporting day. He got to know Jonny Miller, the longtime radio reporter from WBZ in Boston. Miller was a press box–clubhouse legend around the Red Sox. He was born with cerebral palsy, grew up in well-to-do Newton, graduated from Boston University, and built a successful career gathering sound from professional sports locker rooms. Miller covered all of Boston’s professional sports teams at one time or another and was a favorite of Larry Bird and Pedro Martinez. By the time Terry Francona arrived in Fort Myers in 2004, Miller was exclusively a baseball reporter, one who worked longer hours than anyone else on the beat. In his midfifties, Miller suffered from back issues that made it difficult for him to stand for long periods. Polite players sometimes offered him their seat, but Miller usually refused. He was a workaholic and asked brutally tough questions (“Grady, can it get any worse than this?”). He got to the ballpark long before any other reporter, sometimes even before the early-bird manager.
Francona: “The day of our first pitchers and catchers’ workout, I got there at about 5:45 in the morning, and it was pitch-black, and the front door to the complex was locked. Millsie had the key, and I’d beaten him there, so I walked around to the side and fucking Jonny Miller scared the shit out of me. He came around the corner, and he was carrying a bunch of books in his hands, and we bumped into each other, and I was like, ‘What the fuck?’ His answer was, ‘I had to get some coffee.’ I said, ‘That’s not what I meant. What the hell are you doing here?’
“I learned pretty quickly that Jonny always got to ask the first question,” said Francona. “He asked things that other people wouldn’t ask. I got to know him pretty quick. I think the writers sometimes get a kick out of him, and sometimes get irritated, but they know that he can ask stuff that maybe they want the answer, but they don’t feel like getting yelled at. There was something with Jonny almost daily. I do think he was a big Red Sox fan. You could tell if somebody asked a question he didn’t like. He’d be shaking his head, getting mad, thinking, That dumb-ass. He’d always be first in the room after games, and you had to let him get all of his stuff in order. He’d shuffle in and lean his cane against my desk, and his tape recorder would usually make a buzzing sound at the beginning. Most of my press conferences started with me saying, ‘You all set, Jonny?’”
Francona loved the early days of spring. He’d make the rounds in the clubhouse every morning, finding a new player who’d arrived or introducing himself to a minor leaguer who was in his first big league camp. He told the pitchers and catchers to do their work and not worry about any formal meetings until the full squad arrived. At the end of each workout, the manager sat on a picnic table and met with reporters outside the Sox clubhouse. In the spring of 2004, Francona noticed a lot of reporters from New York. The Sox were a hot topic in Gotham, and at least five representatives from New York outlets stalked the Sox daily. New York Newsday included a daily Boston item on its spring training pages, entitled “The Misery Index.”
Nomar and Pedro made it to camp a day before they were required to report. Nomar made little attempt to hide his contempt for the organization—even when he smiled.
“That smile is more of a sneer,” observed Red Sox chairman Tom Werner. “. . . I’m sure he didn’t like to read in the papers over the off-season that he was part of the Rodriguez trade, but this is a business that these people are playing.”
Meanwhile, Pedro seemed to be in a good mood. Veteran Sox watchers considered it a blessing that the talented righty arrived before March 1. Through his Boston years, Martinez had made it a habit to arrive late, or just barely before he was contractually obligated to join the team. Hard-core Sox fans knew that Pedro’s father’s birthday was in February, and more than once the Cy Young winner was late getting to Fort Myers because he had to stick around the Dominican Republic for his dad’s birthday celebration.
It was big news back in Boston on February 26 when Manny wheeled into camp, wearing a New York Giants number 80 Jeremy Shockey jersey. Manny entered the complex through the front door with his agent, Gene Mato, and the two were quickly whisked into a meeting with Henry, Lucchino, and Werner. Ramirez submitted to the routine club physical and took swings in the indoor batting cages adjacent to the media trailers, but did not speak to the media.
He didn’t have much to say to his new manager either.
“I went up to him and introduced myself, and it wasn’t good,” said Francona. “He wouldn’t talk to me, and he wouldn’t shake my hand. I tried to talk to him, and he said, ‘You j
ust want me to like you.’ I said, ‘No shit. You’re right.’ It’s not what I expected.
“There wasn’t anything I could do about that, but to me it was important that they all know that it was a clean slate for everybody,” said Francona. “I had all the information, but I wanted them to know that everybody was starting fresh with me. It’s my job to know things, but it’s also my job not to hold something against somebody.”
By any measure, Ramirez is one of the greatest right-handed sluggers in the history of baseball. Red Sox general manager Dan Duquette told Boston fans they were getting the next Jimmie Foxx when he signed Ramirez to an eight-year, $160 million contract in December 2000, and Duquette was correct. Ramirez was a rare big-money free agent who turned out to make good on the club’s investment. Failed drug tests in 2009 and 2011 tarnished Ramirez’s significant accomplishments, but there can be no dispute about what he did with the bat during the first 19 years of his career. Before serving his second big league drug suspension in 2012, Manny had hit 555 homers with a career batting average of .312.
Numbers don’t explain Manuel Aristides Ramirez, the son of Aristides and Onelcida Ramirez. Manny was born in Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic, but grew up in Washington Heights in New York (at 168th and Amsterdam). He graduated from George Washington High School in the Bronx in 1991; in his senior season he hit .650 with 14 homers in 21 games and was the New York City Public High School Player of the Year. The Indians made him the 13th overall pick of the 1991 amateur draft. Four years later, Manny batted .308 with 31 homers and 107 RBI for the American League Champion Cleveland Indians. The ’95 Indians had one of the best lineups in baseball history, featuring Albert Belle, Eddie Murray, Jim Thome, Kenny Lofton, Carlos Baerga, Omar Vizquel, and 23-year-old Manny Ramirez. They made it to the seventh game of the World Series.
There was nothing accidental about Ramirez’s batting prowess. Anytime he was asked about his philosophy on hitting, he’d say, “See the ball and hit the ball” (similar to what Tito Francona told Terry when he went off to professional baseball from the University of Arizona), but teammates and coaches saw work and dedication behind Manny’s numbers. He worked diligently in the cage, watched a lot of video, and did extra conditioning to keep himself in shape. Still, a lot of players did those things, but no one else could hit like Manny. He had unusual balance and eyesight and tested off the charts in hand-eye coordination. He never looked off balance at home plate, and he never pressed. The science of hitting does not reward those who try harder. Thinking too much only makes things worse. One of the beautiful things about Ramirez seemed to be that he was incapable of carrying baggage to home plate. Every at-bat was a clean sheet of ice. He did not walk to the plate thinking, I struck out last time, or This pitcher owns me. It was always, See the ball and hit the ball. His preparation and physical gifts did the rest of the work.
“He was just better than everybody else,” said Francona. “He had some natural gifts. Our strength and conditioning coach put together this contraption; it looked like a small hula hoop with about eight Wiffle balls connected to it. Manny would stand in his batting stance, and our guy would spin this thing toward him and call out a number or a color, and Manny would reach out and grab the ball he was supposed to grab. It wasn’t easy for most people to catch the damn thing, let alone get the right-numbered ball or the right-colored ball. Manny could get it just about every time. It was incredible.”
There may be profound depth to Ramirez, but anecdotal evidence suggests otherwise. Manny was the one who thought his Cleveland Indian teammates were talking about pitcher Chad Ogea (pronounced oh-jay) when they were watching the O. J. Simpson white Bronco chase in 1994. He forgot to cash checks, then asked Cleveland sportswriters if he could borrow $20,000. After he broke his finger sliding headfirst into home with the Sox in 2002, he rehabbed at Pawtucket and decided he loved McCoy Stadium and wanted to play there full-time. It was on the base path at Pawtucket that Manny lost a diamond-encrusted earring while making another ill-advised headfirst slide. And video highlight of Manny leaping and cutting off a throw from center fielder Johnny Damon—Manny was standing only a few feet in front of Damon—lives forever on blooper reels.
“It was the one time he really hustled,” chuckled Francona.
There was a dark side too. Manny sometimes disrespected the game. With the Red Sox in 2002, he famously turned and walked to the dugout—never running out of the batter’s box—after hitting a ground ball back to the mound during a game against Tampa Bay. Grady Little, who kept Ramirez in the game after the disrespectful stunt, later told reporter Tony Massarotti, “If someone gives you a dog and that dog has a habit of peeing on the floor, can you change them?” Manny hit .349 in ’02, but had nothing to say to the media after winning the American League batting title. In ’03 he bailed on the All-Star Game, claiming a hamstring injury, then changed his story and said he had to go to Miami to care for his mother who had allegedly fainted while working in her garden.
More obtuse than outrageous, Ramirez was rarely a disruption in the clubhouse. He had hugs for everybody. But he also had an unusual scorekeeping system regarding how his teammates were treated. If another starter asked for a day off, Manny suddenly needed a day off. In August 2003, Pedro hit the shelf with a diagnosis of pharyngitis. Two weeks later, Manny missed a critical three-game series with the Yankees, claiming to be suffering from the same rare throat illness that afflicted Pedro. There was a full-blown media storm when Manny—too sick to go to the ballpark—was spotted in Boston’s Ritz Hotel lounge with Yankee infielder Enrique Wilson. Manny skipped a scheduled doctor’s appointment the next day. Things got ugly in ’03 when the Sox had to go to Philadelphia for a makeup game and Manny said he was too weak to pinch-hit. Sensing a clubhouse mutiny, Little benched Manny the next night in Chicago. A month later, all was well and Manny hit the game-winning home run in the clincher against the Oakland A’s. He didn’t speak to the media in 2003.
Naive about the true weirdness of “Manny being Manny,” Francona thought he knew what to expect. He’d coached third base in Detroit in 1996 when Manny hit .309 with 33 homers and 112 RBI for the Indians. The Sox manager had worked in the Cleveland front office with John Hart and Mark Shapiro when Manny was negotiating with the Indians and Red Sox at the 2000 baseball winter meetings in New Orleans. After Manny signed with Boston, he tried to convince the Tribe’s equipment manager, Frank Mancini, to quit his job and move to Boston to take care of Manny’s needs.
Sitting on the Oakland bench next to Ken Macha in the 2003 playoffs, Francona watched Manny hit a three-run homer that sent the A’s home for the winter.
“When you’re on the other side, he’s always friendly,” said Francona. “He’s got that smile, and he calls everybody ‘Papi.’ He was always friendly to me. That’s his nature. When you don’t have to be the guy that’s telling him about the things he’s not doing, it’s a lot easier. But it’s different when you are his manager. I didn’t know what to think when he wouldn’t shake my hand. I knew he had had it out with ownership earlier in the day, but he was walking around the clubhouse laughing, saying, ‘The Red Sox put me on eBay.’”
On the day the Sox held their first full-squad workout in 2004, Manny saw on the chair in front of his stall what every other player saw on his chair: a sheet of white paper headlined “The Boston Red Sox 2004 Team Rules”:
The Red Sox travel as a team—you must receive permission from the manager to make your own arrangements.
Beer and wine will be served on flights—please do not abuse this privilege.
Headphones must be used at all times while traveling. (If music becomes an issue in the clubhouse, it will be dealt with by the manager.)
Wives and children are permitted on any return flight to Boston. Please notify Jack McCormick respectfully in advance. (Note: in September, because of expanded rosters, there will be no room for excess traveling party.)
Dress codes for road trips are posted in the clubhouse
two days before trips begin.
Dress presentably at all times on the road (no shorts or flip-flops; jeans are acceptable)—days off on the road are exceptions.
Curfew:
Night games—2:00 AM
Day games—1:00 AM
Beer will be available in both home and visiting clubhouses after the game only. No beer is to leave the clubhouse (this will be strictly enforced).
No player is permitted to leave the clubhouse until the game has been completed and the manager has returned to the clubhouse.
Players needing treatment for injuries must set up reporting times with trainers and not be late.
Players who become ill must contact trainer prior to reporting time so appropriate measures can be taken.
All medical appointments with physicians must be kept and on time.
Everyone will be on the top step for the national anthem and will stay in the dugout during all games with the exception of commonsense situations.
Miss a game or practice—loss of day’s pay and subject to suspension and/or fine.
Any fines will be at the manager’s discretion.
Players must adhere to club and MLB policy regarding clubhouse security and visitors. Please exercise discretion when bringing family into the clubhouse. It is not a play room for your children, and clubhouse personnel are not hired to police the activities of your children. If at any time children become a problem or a distraction, it will be dealt with appropriately.
ALWAYS BE ON TIME!
ALWAYS GIVE EVERYTHING YOU HAVE ON THE FIELD!
BE PROFESSIONAL ON AND OFF THE FIELD!
Theo Epstein (general manager)
Terry Francona (manager)
“I put those out there each year to protect myself,” said Francona. “Every year, the sheet was a little shorter. I wasn’t going to check curfew. No manager does. But if somebody did something stupid at night, I could say, ‘This is the rule.’ It was all just basic commonsense stuff. It got a little shorter each year I was there. Those things at the end—be on time, be respectful, play your ass off—that’s what all those other things meant.”
Francona: The Red Sox Years Page 9