Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126) (30 page)

It was sad for me to leave Oakland, it was sad to leave Baltimore—but I wound up in New York. Gossage leaves Pittsburgh, winds up in New York. Roger Clemens leaves Toronto, he winds up in New York. LeBron leaves Cleveland, which takes a hit every way you can, but he goes to Miami and wakes up a town. Nobody ever heard much of Roger Maris before he came to New York.

Like it or not like it, free agency increased revenue. The pool of revenue gets larger, and the players’ associations in the different sports leagues argue and discuss and work out with the owners how the players can share the revenues—and everybody gets more.

I think the fan does suffer to a point because the ticket prices go up. Some fans did not like the changes going on in sports because of that, and some still don’t. They don’t like to see their favorite players move on. But if you draw two million, three million people over a baseball season, if you draw sixty thousand a game for twenty games in football, you draw fifteen thousand a game in basketball—the ticket prices are going to go up. The talent demands to be paid.

I was a free agent at the beginning of these changes. It was an exciting era, there were all kinds of great players coming into the game, and that was only the beginning.

I don’t know whether the Boss was lucky or had a vision of what would happen, but he surely added tremendous value to the Yankees brand and franchise. Probably more than any other owner, he saw the changes and the opportunities that free agency would bring. He loved the Yankees so much—and through his design, his will, and a lot of luck, he produced a new Yankees dynasty. But then, as Branch Rickey liked to say, luck is the residue of design!

It was said that George mortgaged the franchise to build a champion and didn’t pay attention to the budget. You heard stories that he’d say, “We need to sign so-and-so,” and the chief financial officer would say, “We don’t have the money.” George would say, “Find it. Or I’ll get a new one of you!”

The reality, though, was that George understood what all great owners before him understood—you have to spend money to make money. George was willing to pay to keep the Yankees a marquee team, even if that meant acquiring three top closers. He wasn’t wrong, particularly when it comes to pitching. Guys get hurt all the time. And if they didn’t, what would be the problem? Theoretically, between Sparky and Goose, we’d have the best left-hand-right-hand closer combination in baseball history.

But the reality was that signing Goose was really tough on Sparky. No matter what you want to say about left-right combinations, it’s usually one guy out of the bullpen who becomes your shutdown guy. And it was pretty clear that was now supposed to be Goose.

From Sparky’s point of view, here he was, he’d been the best pitcher in the league the year before. He’d pitched his arm off, threw 137 innings in relief—about twice what a closer throws today. Did everything Martin and the Boss asked of him. Did it all brilliantly, saved the playoffs for us against Kansas City, got a big win in the World Series. And then not only do they bring in Goose to take his job, but he’s being paid more than three times what Sparky was getting then.

Yes, Sparky had a signed contract, and yes, you need to respect and honor that. But that old evil, money, caused ill feelings. Even a year in, guys still hadn’t adapted to free agency. It was still causing problems, particularly with guys who hadn’t been able to take advantage of it and get their payday yet. It still causes an uncomfortable atmosphere now. New players come in with big new contracts, and other guys feel,
“Hey, I’m just as good. I grew up here. Part of the family. Did all I was supposed to do, won here, been loyal. Why don’t I get some of that money they’re printing?”

It creates a “me” attitude. It opens the door for an attitude of “I want mine, too. I deserve it.” It leads people from my generation to think that Generation X feels entitled—when they’re not. This is a part of the game that we all wrestle with, ownership, players, media—but especially the fans.

I put the fans in a special place, because I feel as though we constantly stretch their loyalty to the game. It’s a fragile bond, the love affair that we all, as fans, pass on to the next generation.

Playing through this time of transition as I did, I absolutely noticed a change, an increase in the number of fans thinking that players were greedy. It was most of the fans thinking the players were greedy—not the owners. Fans believe that owners are entitled to profits, most of which are never disclosed by these privately held entities.

In our world of entrepreneurship, business, and commerce, we’ve gotten comfortable with businesses taking profits. It all really gets down to your pool of selection. There aren’t many millionaire owners in the world. But there are even fewer people who can hit .300, or hit forty home runs, or win twenty games at the major-league level. There’s one LeBron, one Adrian Peterson, one Kareem. One Michael, one Mickey, one Verlander. It comes down to a basic business calculation. The skills that top professional athletes offer are very rare, and a lot of people want to see them perform. That means they will command a big salary in the marketplace. But that’s cold consolation to a fan who must pay so much to take his kids to see a game today.

George and his Yankees brought players in to help the team win. There couldn’t be as much concern about players’ feelings. It’s hard to keep our emotions out of it, but you have to make the decisions that will keep the team a winner. That was the calculation Steinbrenner made back in 1978. Goose was twenty-six going into that season, Eastwick was twenty-seven. Sparky was thirty-three. It’s that simple, and that cruel sometimes. Because time keeps moving.

It’s like that line from
The Godfather
: “It’s not personal, it’s business.”

So it was tough on Sparky, but to his credit he got along with Goose. He did everything he could to help him fit in with the team. That’s the kind of guy he could be.

It was tough for Goose, too. He got into Billy Martin’s doghouse right away. Besides the guys he made dislike him, Billy usually had two or three guys he easily got into it with, for whatever reason.

I already knew what that was like. Goose was about to find out. Here’s one of the premier relievers in the game, the Goose and his 100-mph fastball. One of the biggest free-agent pickups in the off-season. We started playing spring training games, and Goose is about to pitch to a young outfielder on the Texas Rangers named Billy Sample. From what I later learned after talking to Goose, the first thing Martin says to him is, “Hit this blankety-blank in the head.”

I don’t know why Billy had such a grudge against Sample, who was a rookie that year. I don’t know if Sample ever knew why.

Goose said he wasn’t going to do it. He didn’t have anything against Sample. He wasn’t just going to hit him in the head to settle some score for Billy. He told him, “Sample never did anything to me. I’m not gonna fight your fights. Whatever this is, I’m not gonna get involved.”

Goose would take care of business if he had to hit somebody for the team, if we’d had a guy beaned or something like that. He wouldn’t hit Sample for nothing—and Billy never forgave him for that. He told Billy, “I hit Sample in the head, I could kill him”—which was true, as hard as Goose threw. Billy told him, “I don’t give a s—t if you do kill him!” He called Gossage every name in the book. A really vile tirade. But Goose just wasn’t for it.

Gossage always said he thought it was a test of loyalty on Billy’s part. I don’t know. I never knew another manager who needed a test of loyalty. But then, I never knew another manager like Billy Martin.

I’d say events proved Goose right. Martin never got over him refusing to hit Sample during a spring training game. It’s hard to believe. From then on, Goose and Billy had no relationship. Goose used to say, “I can’t stand the blankety-blank.” I understand that.

I think all of the nonsense in spring training and the pressure he was under already as the big, new free-agent signing got to Goose a little early on. I knew what he was going through.

We opened up on the road, in Texas. Guidry pitches a great game, gives up one run in seven innings, but we wasted all kinds of base runners. Goose comes in, gets the side out in the eighth; Richie Zisk hits a homer off him leading off the ninth. Ball game.

We went to Milwaukee next, and Billy brings Goose into a game we’re leading, 3–1, in the sixth. Gives Kenny Holtzman the quick hook. First batter, Goose gives up a two-run homer to Larry Hisle. Tie game. Next inning, Nettles of all people boots a ball. Goose gives up a single to Lenn Sakata and a double to Don Money. We lose, 5–3.

A few days later, against Baltimore, Martin brings him in to relieve Catfish in the fifth inning, in a game we’re already losing, 4–1. Goose gave up a two-run homer to Doug DeCinces, takes us completely out of the game. Two days after
that
, we’re up in Toronto. It’s April, and it’s cold. Kenny’s pitching again, and Billy gives him an even quicker hook this time. He pulls him for Goose in the bottom of the fifth—bottom of the fifth!—with us down one run.

It was kind of nuts, even for those days. Bringing your top reliever in that early in the game, that early in the season, even with Sparky in the pen … But we battled back, Cliff Johnson hit a home run, and it was tied, 3–3, going into the bottom of the ninth.

Goose gives up a single to John Mayberry. Then Rick Cerone, who was the Blue Jays’ catcher at the time, tries to bunt Mayberry over. Goose picks up the ball and throws it way wide to second, trying to get the lead runner. Almost threw the ball away. Two on now, nobody out.

Next batter lays down a bunt, too. Goose picks it up, looks to first base—and this time he throws the ball to me. I’m in right field, backing up first base. He must have tossed the ball six feet over Chris Chambliss’s glove. It went all the way out to me, where I was running over to back up the play. The runner trotted home from second, and we lose the game.

That put us at 5–6 on the year. Goose had four appearances, no saves, no wins, and three of our losses.

That Toronto game broke his heart. He came into the clubhouse, and he fell into the chair in front of his locker so hard it broke. He was
really sad, holding back the tears. Sitting there still in uniform—he must’ve sat there for an hour. Then I went over with Thurman and Lou Piniella and Nettles and Catfish. We just told him, “Look, you’re coming to dinner with us.”

That helped. He was all right after that. It was just bad luck, a bad start. Goose was enough of a veteran to shake it off after that.

But once again, it was the question of what was going on with the manager. Where was Billy Martin when one of our key players was struggling? Oh, was he still punishing him for not hitting Billy Sample in spring training? Some wonder, too, if that’s why Martin was putting Goose out there so early, so many times—to pitch so many innings when it was still cold weather.

It didn’t matter. We veterans took care of it. Thurman was great with him. Goose would come into a game, and Munson would go out to the mound and ask him with a straight face, “So how you planning to lose this one?” Pretty soon it got to be a ritual. Gossage would say, “I dunno, but get your puny ass back there and let me find out.” Mickey Rivers, out in center field—when Goose came in, he would turn his back on the plate and get into a sprinter’s stance, as if he was already set to race after the ball. Other times, he would stand in front of the golf cart they used to drive Goose in and say, “No, no, don’t let him in! We want to win!”

Stuff like that is what you need to do to stay loose over the long season. We knew enough to do it—especially after everything that had happened the year before. We were, in many ways, a team that could run itself. We didn’t have any choice sometimes.

Despite the slow start, none of the players were worried. Our worrier-in-chief was the Boss—he needed to win all 162. We’d started even slower the year before and ended up winning it all.

We were an outstanding team, and we’d made some improvements. Besides Goose and Eastwick, we picked up Jim Spencer, who was a Gold Glove and left-handed power hitter, to platoon a little with Chambliss at first, DH, and pinch-hit. We’d lost Mike Torrez to the
Red Sox as a free agent, but we added Andy Messersmith and a rookie, Jim Beattie, to the rotation. We had a lot of depth everywhere; we were strong through and through.