Daily Archives: February 26, 2003

STILL REGGIE, AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

Rob Neyer mentioned the other day just how much ink has been spilled on the Bronx Zoo Yankees, and it’s true. It’s funny that nobody has made a Movie-of-the-week about that team (I’m thinking about the 1977-78 version, featuring George, Billy, Reggie and Thurman). Maybe it won’t happen until the principal players are dead. Still, when I was recently reading Ed Linn’s “Steinbrenner’s Yankees,” I wondered: who would serve as a good narrator? Who could play the Cameron Crowe roll in “Almost Famous?”

Who would work? Chambliss, Willie Randolph? Maybe Fran Healy, the seldom-used back up catcher, and one of Jackson’s few allies on the team, would make a good fit. The narrator would have to be a minor character, someone on the fringes.

How about Ray Negron?

Who?

Let’s turn to June 18, 1977, one of the most controversial days in Yankee history. The Yankees were playing the Game of the Week in Boston and getting creamed, when Billy Martin replaced Reggie Jackson in the middle of an inning with Paul Blair. Martin thought Jackson had loafed after a ball. When Reggie returned to the dugout, all hell broke loose.

According to Linn:

The TV Camera in center field had caught it all, and a mobile camera at the end of the dugout had come wheeling in to catch a close-up of the wrestling match. Before the camera could be activated, Ray Negron, who runs the Betamax (closed-circuit camera) for the Yankees, had thrown himself in front of it and was screaming at the cameraman. Negron is a former Yankee bat boy and Pittsburgh Pirate farmhand. He had been hired by Billy Martin at the beginning of spring training, but he had also become so friendly with Reggie Jackson-they shared the same locker area, and they both spoke Spanish—that Reggie had asked him to move into his apartment and become his general factotum. Negron was the one man on the club who had reason to like and be grateful to both Billy and Reggie, and what was happening was so painful to him that he found himself throwing a towel over the mobile camera and threatening to break the radar gun over the cameraman’s head. The mobile cameraman recalled afterwards that it was Martin who had shouted to Negron to cover the camera. It was exactly the opposite. The first thing Martin did when Yogi let him up was to pull the still-hysterical Negron away from the cameraman and shove him down on the bench.

It’s a thought, no?

Negron went on to work as an advisor and substance-abuse counselor for the Rangers and Indians. Interestingly, he was hired by Robbie Alomar a few days ago to work as the second baseman’s personal assistant, a job he previously held when Alomar was with Cleveland.

Back to Reggie. After disaster was averted in the dugout that day in Boston, 1977, Martin almost lost his job. Gabe Paul, who was not a Martin fan, prevented George from canning Billy the Kid, cause it would look like Jackson was running the team if the manager was fired right then and there. Negron made sure Reggie left the locker room before Martin arrived.

Later that night, two reporters came up to Reggie’s room to talk—Paul Montgomery of the New York Times, and Phil Pepe of the Daily News.

Here is Linn’s account of Reggie in rare form:

As the interview began, Reggie was sitting on the floor, bare-chested except for a gold cross and two gold medallions. A blonde was in the shower, a local girlfriend. Mike Torrez was sitting in a chair alongside Reggie with a bottle of white wine “If I go too far,” he hold Torrez before he began, “stop me.”

His memory during the interview was that he hadn’t said anything when he came back to the dugout, but had merely held his arms open in that “What did I do wrong?” gesture. “The man took a position today to show me up on national television. Everyone could see that.”

At one point he became so upset that he retreated to the edge of the bed and began to read the Bible. He was a born-again Christian, he told them, and quite often went to the Bible for solace.

Once he had himself back under control, he resumed his position on the floor and went right back to the company line. “I don’t know anything about managing, but I’ll take the heat for whatever the manger says.”

And then he began to come apart. “If the press keeps messing with me,” he sobbed, “I’ll hit thirty homers and maybe ninety ribbys and hit .270. If they leave me alone, I’ll have forty homers, one hundred and twenty ribbys, and I’ll be hitting .300.”

For the record, the press didn’t leave Reggie alone—he didn’t give them a chance to—and he ended up hitting .286, with 32 homers and 110 RBI.

His eyes filled up, and began speaking with rising emotion about the way he was being treated on the ballclub. “I’m just a black man to them who doesn’t know how to be subservient. I’m a black buck with an IQ of 160, and making $700,00 a year. They’ve never had anyone like me on their team before.” Except for Steinbrenner. “I love that man, he treats me like I’m somebody.”

His voice broke, and he came rising up on his haunches. “The rest of them treat me like I’m dirt.” There were tears running down his cheeks now. “I’m a Christian,” he screamed, “and they’re fucking with me because I’m a nigger, and they don’t like niggers on this team. The Yankee pinstripes are Ruth and Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mantle. I’ve got an IQ of 160, they can’t mess with me…” He was a man so clearly out of control, a man in such terrible torment, that Mike Torrez stood up and told the writers, “I think you’d better leave.”

Jackson’s rocky relationship with Steinbrenner and the Yankees was only getting started in June of 1977, but all these years later, Reggie is still around, and just like George, he needs to sound off every once in awhile just to show us that he can. Reggie still needs to know that he matters, that he is important. He found a sympathetic ear in Jack Curry of the New York Times:

“I think, first of all, I’d like to have a meaningful title that would be of value to me and the minority community and separate me in the organization instead of just being a springtime coach,” Jackson said. “I want something of value, whether it’s baseball ops or something where I work for Brian Cashman or Mark Newman, or I’m a special envoy. Anything.”

“Not for me, but for my community and family because I’m more than an adviser to the managing general partner,” Jackson said. “If I was the only one, I’d feel as though I’d have more credibility.”

Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Don Mattingly and Clyde King are also special advisers to Steinbrenner.

Jackson added that he wanted credibility as a “baseball-content person,” and “not as a trophy; not as just fluff.”

…”I don’t really call myself a coach,” Jackson said. “I’m a teacher, a mentor, I’m anything. I’m a big brother, at times, a father, at times, and a messenger, at times. There’s no job too menial and, hopefully, they think I’m capable of handling the big jobs.”

…”If I remain as I am now for the rest of my days, I’ll be grateful,” Jackson said. “I got a place to hang my hat. I got a locker that says `Reggie’ or `Mr. October.’ I appreciate that. I got a plaque in center field. I know who puts the plaques in center field. So I’m on the team. I’m part of his family. For me, I need family, I need friends. I need loved ones. I need to be cared about, which probably makes me pretty damn human.”

This is a man who just wants a little love. Is that so wrong?

THE ENVELOPE PLEASE

The Veteran’s Committee will announce their selections for the Hall of Fame later this afternoon. Who is going to make it? The one name I keep reading about is a logical one: Marvin Miller. Alan Schwarz has an excellent two-part interview with the former head of the Player’s Union this morning at ESPN.com.

Schwarz asked Miller about Curt Flood, who is also up for selection:

Miller: I’d vote for him. He is the ideal one for this. The statistics stand up, I think. I haven’t examined them closely. But for a number of years he was the outstanding center fielder in baseball. It was a period when Willie Mays was admittedly entering his last days as a player. But Curt Flood was clearly the best center fielder in baseball.

And his off-the-field thing … let me tell you a story when he was deciding about the lawsuit. He’s all gung-ho. I felt it was my responsibility to play devil’s advocate. It was easy to do because I really felt pessimistic about the whole thing. The court was never going to reverse itself. So I ply him with all the reasons that any sane person would decide not to do this: “I don’t think you can play and do this lawsuit. You’re 32 years old and I don’t think you can take a year off. Furthermore, I don’t think (the owners) would let you come back. They have long memories. And it’s million-to-one shot — the Supreme Court almost never reverses itself. Finally, I threw him the final punch — even if you prevail against the odds and they rule for you, you will not benefit. They won’t assess damages retroactively. Curt, as far as they’re concerned, you’re dead. You’re not gonna be a player, you’re not gonna be a coach, you’re not gonna be a scout.”

“I won’t get any benefit?”

“No.”

And he said, “But it would benefit all the other players and the others to come, wouldn’t it?”

“Most certainly.”

And he said, “That’s good enough for me.”

That’s why I think Curt Flood belongs in the Hall of Fame.

Rob Neyer, makes his case for Ron Santo, Wes Ferrell, Carl Mays and Minnie Minoso.

Here is the case for Minnie:

Minoso isn’t going to get elected, because not enough voters saw him play. But Minoso almost certainly does belong in the Hall of Fame. It’s hard to say exactly when he’d have first played regularly in the major leagues if not for the color line, but it stands to reason that it would have happened before he was 28.

But instead, it did happen when he was 28. Minoso spent a couple of seasons in the Negro National League, then graduated to so-called “Organized Baseball” with a couple of fine seasons in the Pacific Coast League. And then in 1951, he finally got his shot, with the White Sox. When he was 28.

Minoso’s career “rate stats” are outstanding: .389 OBP, .459 slugging percentage. He was exceedingly durable, especially for a player who led his league in HBP no fewer than 10 times. But he finished his career with “only” 1,963 hits, which of course isn’t a lot for a Hall of Fame outfielder who wasn’t a big power hitter.

It’s fairly safe to assume, though, that if Minoso had grown up in Georgia with pale skin rather than in Cuba with dark skin, he’d have reached the major leagues three or four years before he did. Let’s be conservative, and give Minoso four more seasons. He was good for approximately 175 hits per season, and 175 times four is 700 hits. Add 700 to 1,963, and you get 2,663 hits.

There are, to be sure, players with more than 2,663 hits who aren’t in the Hall of Fame. But I think you’d be hard-pressed to find anybody with 2,663 hits and Minoso’s broad base of skills who hasn’t been elected or won’t be. Bill James rates Minoso as the 10th-greatest left fielder ever, and I think that’s just about right

I’m rooting for Minnie, and Flood, even though I’m not convinced Flood should make it, regardless of the stand he took against the Reserve Clause. I’d put my money on Miller though. Who else? Hodges, Torre, Oliva, Dick Allen? We shall soon find out.

THE NEW POPEYE

Joel Sherman doesn’t trust the Love-In that is taking place in Mets camp this spring. After taking his shots at the Bronx Zoo for the past few weeks, Sherman takes aim at “Art Howe’s House of Boredom:”

Maybe Howe really is the second coming of Joe Torre. Maybe those Mets who embarrassed themselves last year really are on a mission this season. Maybe the introduction of champions Tom Glavine and Mike Stanton really will bring a missing seriousness to the proceedings.

It’s just, this is the time of year for delusions, for best-case scenarios. And I have been in Mets camp before and bought the hype, heard this same – is it propaganda or promotion?

This time I am going to have to see it from April on to believe any of it.

To counter Sherman’s skepticism, here is a bright and cheery article by John Harper on Al Leiter, the Mouth of the Mets.

If the Howe-Torre comparison makes sense, does that make Don Baylor the new Don Zimmer? They both have dubious mangerial track records, and they are both chubby baseball “lifers.” Zim has a steel plate in his head; Baylor holds the all-time record for being hit by a pitch. Last summer Rob Neyer made a convincing arguement that Baylor was a poor manager, and surmised:

Don Baylor is a fine “baseball man,” but time has passed him by, leaving too many things that don’t work in the 21st century. Let’s not feel too sorry for him, though. He’s made a good living in the game for three decades, and he’ll have a job in baseball for as long as he wants one. “Manager” just shouldn’t be that job any more.

Mets GM Steve Phillips, is happy to have Baylor as Art Howe’s right-hand man:

“Obviously, having managed a lot of games, when it comes to being Art’s righthand man with the game decisions, he’s been through just about everything before,” Phillips said. “Having been in the National League, and having a knowledge of the players and personnel in the league, will help with Art’s learning curve on the bench.

“He also brings just instant credibility with players. One of the things we thought was the connection with Mo (Vaughn) … and that Don could be an asset trying to help us get the most out of Mo this year – communication, knowing his approach at the plate – obviously working everything through (hitting coach) Denny (Walling). They’re similar, big guys. They were similar types of threats at the plate.”

Said Howe: “I want to be surrounded by the best people I can be surrounded by. He’s certainly one of the best in the game.”

Baylor’s sagacity can be traced back to his days as a player. In the spring of 1985, he told David Falkner:

You have to learn to forget the bad in this game. The sonner you do, the sooner you’ll be able to continue playing. In ’73, I made the last out in the playoffs. I saw Billy North jumping straight up in the air. They were going to the World Series, and I was going home to watch. We lost that game in our park, it was a day game in Baltimore. I thought that was the end of the world. I had made the last out and let Oakland go to the World Series. I stayed up most of the night with that, and then the next day, the sun was out and everything was going on a usual; I was still alive and I had my heatlh and I could let myself think for the first time that it was a game and not life and death that I had just been through.