Red Sox Rule (22 page)

There are many people in Boston like McCormick. These are people who can remember exactly where they were when Carlton Fisk hit his famous home run in 1975. “I was working a detail that night at the park,” McCormick says. They can remember where they were for Bucky (bleeping) Dent. “Section 14,” McCormick says. Of course, everyone remembers October 2003, but as a planner, McCormick has an even tougher story: He had to be sure that someone was taking care of putting up protective plastic in the Boston clubhouse for the inevitable champagne celebration in Yankee Stadium. The champagne changed directions quickly with one out in the eighth inning.

On October 28 in Denver’s Coors Field, Francona was making New England history, simply by being himself. Under his guidance, the old Boston/Red Sox paradigm was being gutted and retooled. People like McCormick were about to see a second title, when 5 years earlier they had begun to fear they would never see one. It didn’t take a screaming manager to get the job done. He had a knack for being in control yet not overreacting to things his players did.

A perfect example was the All-Star break. He had warned Josh Beckett that he wouldn’t get back to Boston in time if he went to Texas after the All-Star Game. Beckett said he wouldn’t be late, but Francona was right and Beckett didn’t get back in time. The pitcher was apologetic, and he felt even worse that he had young Jon Lester with him, a pitcher who watches everything Beckett does. Francona accepted the apology and gave Beckett his punish
ment: five dozen golf balls, a dozen each for the coaching staff. You can’t treat all players like that; the trick is figuring out how each player accepts responsibility.

With Beckett, Francona quickly noticed how good he was with his teammates. In baseball, players are aware every day when they are being watched—or not—by starting pitchers. It’s a small thing, but it’s important to the players. No starting pitcher is as supportive as Beckett.

“He’s smart,” Francona says. He chuckles. “Is it a coincidence that he gets great run support? You tell me.”

The manager is neither self-promoter nor Hall of Famer. The man with the winning formula is from a town many New Englanders have never heard of; the man who oversees titles never dreamed of managing. As a boy, he would have been content to
play
for the Red Sox or anyone else. Do 9-year-old boys pretend to be managers in pickup games? Terry Francona didn’t, but on the last Sunday in October, he was a few outs away from being the most successful manager in the 21st century.

He sat on the bench in Denver, rocking, as Papelbon took the mound in the ninth. He felt sick as he saw a player named Jamey Carroll send Ellsbury to the wall for the second out of a one-run game. He quickly had managerial thoughts:
If we don’t pull this one out, we have Beckett coming back tomorrow, but we don’t have Pap and Okajima available
…

Soon he could relax. Soon he could let the players enjoy the celebration and the subsequent party at the Palm Restaurant. He had his family in town, and on the night the team won its second title in 89 years, he was going to do something wild: Yahtzee. They were all there in his room at the Westin Taber playing Yahtzee: Nick, Alyssa, Leah, Jamie, Jacque, and Terry.

Let other people talk about the importance of 2 in 4 years, and
let whomever get the credit for the success. It’s because he manages a rich team? Cool. It’s because of something else, from someone else? It’s all right.

“I’m at peace with myself,” he says. “I feel fine, physically. And I don’t go back and relive the whole thing.”

Sometimes, though, it’s hard to get the season out of your system. Three or four days after the World Series, Francona was still having trouble sleeping. When he did sleep, he would wake up in a panic, wondering who was pitching tonight and nervous that he hadn’t gotten in all his preparation. The season was over, he was supposed to be relaxed, yet he was still cranky and irritable.

He told Jacque that he needed a couple days to be calm. He packed a bag, made sure he had a Lee Child book that he had been reading, and headed south to Orlando. The general managers’ meetings were going to be there in a couple days, so he would spend a good day and a half by himself, reading and decompressing. It was exactly what he needed; by the time Epstein got to Florida, Francona felt great.

They were both in Orlando, a week after the World Series, staying at the same hotel. Francona told Epstein to meet him in the hotel bar so they could have a few beers and watch the Patriots–Colts game. As Francona waited for Epstein, he sat at the bar and heard a couple of people saying how tired they were of seeing the Red Sox on TV. At first he thought someone was playing a joke on him, but these folks had no idea that they were trashing the Red Sox within earshot of the Boston manager. He laughed to himself and then met up with Epstein.

They had reached the point in their relationship where they didn’t have to have constant chatter to be comfortable. Francona liked that Epstein had lived up to his promise in his original interview. Then, he had told the manager that they should be able to
have intellectual debates—and bar debates, too—without putting a dent in their relationship. They certainly had that. Francona was confident that he could have an opinion completely different than the GM’s and Epstein would still listen carefully.

So they sat there, eating and drinking, not saying anything for 5 or 10 minutes at a time. Finally, with the edginess of the season out of his system, a thought suddenly hit Francona. He looked over at the man who hired him and said, “Theo, can you believe that we won the World Series again?” They laughed and toasted and drank to that one: the grandson of a piano player and the grandson of a screenwriter, collaborating on a brand-new Boston script.

L
ong before October 18, 2007, Terry Francona understood how thankless the job of baseball manager can be. On that night, he was in Cleveland, his team one game away from playoff elimination. He was completing his fourth season as the Red Sox’s manager, so he was familiar with the rules: If the team lost, it was his fault; if the team won, he was merely the store manager who made sure the lights were on and all employees were in attendance.

Francona’s team won that night, Game 5 of the American League championship series, and didn’t lose for the remainder of the ’07 postseason. A few hours before the start of Game 5, Francona was able to see the ultimate in managerial under-appreciation: Joe Torre, owner of four World Series titles with the Yankees and 12 playoff appearances in succession, was offered a $2 mil
lion pay cut and incentive-laden contract from his bosses. The richest team in baseball seemed to believe that it was also the most talented and motivated team in baseball, so another loss in the first round of playoffs—for the third consecutive season—was deemed to be unsatisfactory. Torre rejected the offer and eventually signed with the Los Angeles Dodgers (replacing, ironically, Grady Little).

Francona didn’t have a lot of time to think about it while his team was still playing, but when he got a moment he acknowledged the change in Red Sox–Yankees dynamics. He traded messages with Torre, telling him how much he enjoyed competing against him and wishing him well in his next job. In 2008, Francona would begin strategizing against Torre’s successor, Joe Girardi. There would no longer be the same combination of civility—“How’s your dad?”—and hyped quarreling, which all amounted to a standstill. Over 4 years, Torre and Francona met 82 times, with Torre’s team taking 42 games and Francona’s 40.

In 2007, Francona finished fourth in Manager of the Year voting, trailing three men, Torre, Mike Scioscia, and Eric Wedge, who he either finished ahead of in the division or head-to-head with in the playoffs. During his four-season, two-title run in Boston, he has yet to receive a single first-place Manager of the Year vote. The way he sees it, not receiving credit is not a bad thing; his managing style is to actually put his hands on the wheel less. He prefers humor over humiliation, stage left over the spotlight.

“We don’t try to overdo it,” he says. “We don’t want to over-manage or over-coach. We try to create an atmosphere where players want to do the right thing.”

It’s not an approach that will launch a manager into national superstardom, or even into the “Who’s the Best Manager in Baseball?” debates.

“If you think about it, the Manager of the Year awards are silly,” he says. “There are guys doing great jobs who aren’t winning a lot of games. When Gene Lamont was in Pittsburgh, I thought he was one of the best field managers out there—and his teams didn’t win a lot [they lost 93 games twice]. But I felt that his teams always played better than their talent.

“Or what if you have a young team and the players are getting better? Doesn’t that mean that someone is doing something right? It takes a strong manager to have the patience to stay with them when they’re not playing well.”

He had young players who got better playing for him, and he had veterans who produced after he stayed with them longer than fans wanted. The big reward was winning the World Series, but nothing tangible beyond that. After the season, the Red Sox made a couple of contract commitments. They re-signed Series MVP Mike Lowell and pitcher Curt Schilling. When the Pirates were looking for a manager and inquired about pitching coach John Farrell, the Red Sox responded by giving Farrell a new contract. A contract extension was discussed with Francona during the first half of the ’07 season, but those talks never got serious enough for a new deal to be put in place.

If any of his Red Sox bosses are waiting to hear him say how great he is at managing, that wait just might rival the historic one New England had between 1918 and 2004. It’s not Francona’s style. Torre has a better contract than he does, which makes sense, but the Reds topped $3 million for the season for Dusty Baker and the White Sox extended a contract averaging $2.5 million per season to Ozzie Guillen. Francona’s not close to either number.

So the 2008 season could be the manager’s last in Boston. Even with that knowledge, Francona went into the off-season campaigning for someone else.

“With all his experience, I don’t understand why Millsie can’t get an interview with somebody,” he said of Brad Mills, his bench coach and friend of 30 years.

He knows that he’ll be in a good situation with some team, whether it’s in Boston or elsewhere. With Boston’s resources, he’ll always have a chance to do what he was doing on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, October 30, in Boston. That day he was part of a Red Sox caravan that rolled through the streets of Boston, from the Prudential Center to Boston Common to City Hall, waving to thousands of celebrating fans. The first time he saw a Boston World Series parade in 2004, Francona looked into eyes, weepy and red, ecstatic over the first Boston title in 86 years. In 2007, the eyes were wide and bright, happy and expectant. Francona rode along with his coaches and smiled at all the scenes, including closer Jonathan Papelbon in a kilt, singing and dancing along with a Boston group called the Dropkick Murphys.

He smiled for the region, for the city, and for the players he had grown so close to. He even took a moment, ever so brief, to smile for himself. Winning was great, for sure, but so was having a life in baseball, which is all he had ever wanted.

B
efore I thank all the smart and generous people who obviously made this book possible, I want the first words to go to a special man, Larry Whiteside, who is with us now only in spirit. I had the pleasure of working with Larry at the
Boston Globe
for 10 years, and in that decade it was clear that Larry was not like the rest of us.

He was as graceful as he was stylish, and his generosity was as large as his hometown of Chicago. He was not in journalism to see how quickly he could get himself onto a star track. He was an assist man, getting more satisfaction from furthering the careers of others rather than his own. Larry made it his mission to get more African Americans involved in journalism, and as scant as their overall numbers are today, they would be infinitely smaller without the persistence of Larry. His constant willingness to advise younger journalists is worthy of a position in the Hall of Fame, but that’s not why he’ll be honored in Cooperstown, New York, in the summer of 2008. He loved baseball, he covered it well, and he agonized over many of the teams, specifically the ones in 1978 and 1986, which are referenced in this book.

I’d like to thank Larry for setting high professional standards, both in his reporting and in his counseling. Elaine, you had a wonderful husband, and Tony, you had a great dad. He deserves all the applause—and more—that he will receive in Cooperstown.

There are dozens and dozens of folks who nurtured this project from idea to book, so I’ll separate them into readable categories so they won’t be lost in the roll call.

William Morrow:
I knew Mauro DiPreta was a great editor because I had worked with him before. I didn’t know that he had so much patience. He clearly saw through my requests, very early in the process, for just a little more time. He knew that meant I was going to be late with the manuscript and ruin all his major holidays. He showed great restraint in his e-mails, never resorting to the dreaded and angry ALL CAPS messages. Mauro and Jen Schulkind embraced the story from the beginning and helped me refine it.

The Story:
Any glaring omission from this book can be attributed to my limitations as a writer. Terry Francona was remarkably open about some personal moments in his life, with an openness that’s a lot more difficult than when talking about the games. But Francona talked about the games, too, and was gracious when I asked, repeatedly, for him to go over topics that had already been discussed three or four times. I was a daily presence in his life for a year, and he never stopped to say, “Wait a minute: where in the hell is this thing going?” If I asked, he usually answered.

One thing should be clear in the book, and if it’s not let me try again: Francona is an extremely bright manager who is uncomfortable talking about how smart he is. In New England, the only
time his intelligence is mentioned is when fans claim that he hasn’t any. But he has expanded the local championship template, proving that his subtle style can work in his sport, just as the opposite works for Bill Belichick in his.

There are two stories that perfectly illustrate Francona’s trusting and understated nature. The first one is really a recurring one: Everyone in the Red Sox clubhouse understands that Francona’s wallet is a community wallet. Players and clubbies short on cash have been known to peel away a couple twenties from the manager’s wallet, knowing that they have to replace the cash “at some point.” Sometimes they tell him days and weeks later, “Hey, I took fifty bucks out of your wallet; I’ll be getting that back to you.” So Francona has no problem leaving his wallet in view, never fearing that it will be stolen.

The other typical Francona story took place in late January, when he sent a text message that read, “Had dinner with the President last night. Pretty cool.” No bragging, no exclamation points, no breathless reports.
Pretty cool.
With some prodding, he revealed what he had for dinner (steak) and that the president wanted to talk baseball and specifically wanted details on what it’s like to manage Manny Ramirez.

All of the Franconas were helpful during this project. Tito, Jacque, Nick, Alyssa, Leah, and Jamie: thanks for the interviews, time, and brownies ( Jamie). Several of Francona’s friends and colleagues helped me fill in several blanks with their interviews and stories: Theo Epstein, Mark Shapiro, Ben Cherington, Scott Pioli (thanks for the Earth, Wind & Fire CDs), Bill Giles, Frank Coppenbarger, Greg Fazio, Drew Szabo, Jayson Stark, Joe Castiglione, Jerry Remy, Dick Williams, Gabe Kapler, Jack McCormick, John Blake, and Michael Jordan.

Sources:
I relied on several books for information and context, especially for the chapter titled “New School.”
The Bill James Guide to Baseball Managers
is a terrific book that traces the evolution in managing from 1870 to the mid-1990s. Long before Bill Plaschke became a full-time—and exceptional—
Los Angeles Times
columnist, he collaborated with Dick Williams on the shockingly candid memoir
No More Mr. Nice Guy
. Williams opened up to Plaschke and left no doubt why he was a feared manager in two countries and three decades. Other key books were
Weaver on Strategy
(Earl Weaver and Terry Pluto),
Chasing the Dream
(Joe Torre and Tom Verducci),
Moneyball
by Michael Lewis, and
The Man in the Dugout
by Donald Honig.

I don’t know what I would have done without baseball-reference.com; if you can dream up the baseball scenario, you can find it on that Web site.

Finally, New England has a highly skilled stable of baseball writers, from Providence to Boston to Portland, Maine. I’m amazed by the high volume and high quality of work the men and women on the baseball beat are able to produce daily.

Friends, Family, and Colleagues:
My family, immediate and extended, which has always been loving and supportive: Mom, the Soberanises, the Shakurs, the Johnsons of West Akron, the Robinsons, the Prestons, the Alleynes, the Smiths, the Owens, the Godwins, and the Sales. Ray and Gloria Hammond, and the entire family at Bethel AME Church, have been kind, brilliant, and welcoming; I thank God for leading me to your ministry. My brothers in Geekdom at WEEI: Dale Arnold, Jon Wallach, Rene “Cape and a Cane” Marchando, James Stewart—I love all of you; you all helped the previous three years go by quickly by making work so much fun.

There are many others to thank as well: Basil Kane, an expert
on cigars, soccer, and literary deals; Holly Driscoll (one of Manny’s Pilates instructors), Jen Flynn, Kim Flynn, Corey Bowdre, Jordan the Boxer, “Larry David” Carona, Uncle William Alston, Jeff Robinson, Geespin, and Point Park University (crazy underrated journalism program).

Rest in Peace:
Samuel Jackson Cravanas, Boopie Sales, Alice Roper, Larry Whiteside.