Up, Up, and Away: The Kid, the Hawk, Rock, Vladi, Pedro, le Grand Orange, Youppi!, the Crazy Business of Baseball, and the Ill-fated but Unforgettable Montreal Expos (15 page)

By the time he hit the open market after his 1976 season in Baltimore (where he was traded in advance of free agency), Jackson was a bona fide superstar. He’d played on five straight AL West–winning teams in Oakland. He’d been the American League’s Most Valuable Player in 1973, and finished in the top five in MVP voting four times. He was a brash, magnetic, power-hitting machine who would put up numbers wherever he went,
but would also pull fans into the ballpark and money into the till with his star power.

The Expos became one of three leading candidates for Jackson’s services, along with the San Diego Padres (owned by McDonald’s magnate Ray Kroc) and George Steinbrenner’s New York Yankees. Jackson lived in Phoenix, Arizona, while Williams lived in southern California, close enough to warrant having the two men fly to Montreal together for the next stop on Jackson’s free-agency tour. As Williams recounted in his autobiography
No More Mr. Nice Guy
, Jackson hated playing in Baltimore. He already had a good relationship with Williams, so it would be up to the Expos’ higher-ups to convince Jackson of the city’s charms. Bronfman threw a lavish party in Jackson’s honour, and everyone in the city came over to the Bronfman house: the mayor, various dignitaries, “every hot shot I could think of,” as Bronfman put it. While the glitterati gorged on hors d’oeuvres and sipped champagne, Bronfman learned there was a problem.

“A minor partner was a guy named Sydney Maislin,” recalled Bronfman. “The Maislins were in the trucking business. His brother Sam got a call from customs, and they said, ‘There’s this guy named Reggie Jackson.’ What about Reggie Jackson? ‘Well, he just came through, and there’s a problem. He’s got some stuff in his suitcase.’ What kind of stuff? ‘Stuff.’ ”

John McHale’s son Kevin raced to the airport, and along with Sam Maislin, helped pull Jackson out of the jam. Jackson showed up late to the party, pissed off that he’d been hassled by customs and lost his stash. The next day, the elder McHale met with Jackson and his agent to hammer out a deal. Even though Jackson was unhappy with the previous night’s events, and even though the Expos were competing against the mighty Yankees for his services, the feeling among many in the baseball world was that the Expos had a legitimate shot.

“The feeling was, Bronfman could do this,” said Van Horne. “He was just that powerful, that wealthy. He can make this happen if this person wants to come north of the border to play. You just assumed, ‘Well, that will happen. We’ll get him.’ ”

McHale talked with Jackson and his agent for an hour, without anything getting signed. Jackson instead signed with the Yankees soon afterwards, inking a five-year deal worth a hair less than $3 million. That whiff weighed heavily on Bronfman.

“I remember seeing a picture of Reggie and George Steinbrenner walking down Broadway or 5th Avenue or something,” said Mitch Melnick, a broadcaster and radio personality for more than 30 years in Montreal, “and I went, ‘Aw, fuck. It’s not gonna happen.’ I really thought he was going to sign here. New stadium, new manager, new era, big splash, best hitter available, Bronfman wasn’t gonna be outbid. That was really the first taste of what made him, I think, a little bitter. He kept trying and failing [to sign big-ticket free agents]. Then he realized, ‘Okay, let’s pour it all into the farm system.’ ”

As great as Jackson had been in Oakland, he would gain his greatest measure of fame (and infamy) in New York. The Yankees had failed to make the playoffs in 11 straight years before his arrival, a painfully long run of failure for baseball’s most decorated franchise. George Steinbrenner, like Bronfman, was a relatively new owner looking to make his mark with the advent of free agency. He’d lured Jackson’s former teammate Catfish Hunter to New York with a lucrative contract two years earlier; in that race too, the Expos (and Padres) had been among the teams who tried to pull off the big signing. This time, Steinbrenner wanted to go even bigger. The ’76 Yankees had lost the World Series, and Steinbrenner saw Jackson as the slugger who would help them win the next one. When Jackson finally signed on the dotted line, Steinbrenner couldn’t resist crowing. Addressing
the media, the Yankees owner said that Bronfman might have Seagram’s, and Kroc might have McDonald’s … “But I got the Big Apple.”

With Jackson gone, the Expos began making alternate plans to build up their roster and supplement their stable of kids. To fill their gaping hole at second base, they signed free agent Dave Cash away from the Phillies. They traded away two players, Woodie Fryman and Rodney Scott, who would eventually return to the team and become important contributors. They also unloaded Andre Thornton, a first baseman who couldn’t hit his weight in Montreal but would go on to become an All-Star in Cleveland. But the biggest name to pop up in an Expos transaction that winter was a seven-time All-Star with two World Series rings. Tony Perez was a pretty good consolation prize.

Perez was an integral member of Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine dynasty. By the time the Expos traded for him he was 34, but he could still hit—and the price was still reasonable: soft-tossing reliever Dale Murray and Fryman, a 36-year-old. Perez quickly earned a reputation as a leader.

“Tony was a veteran you heard so much about, being part of the Big Red Machine,” said Andre Dawson. “He filled a void at first base and provided that veteran leadership inside the clubhouse. He was a no-nonsense guy, a gamer. Wouldn’t hesitate to pull you aside, talk about pros and cons of being in the big leagues to a young player. That made the transition that much easier.”

Thus fortified, the Expos took a big step forward in 1977, their record jumping by 20 victories to 75–87. That still left them in fifth place, but the club’s best homegrown prospects were starting to blossom.

At 23, Gary Carter enjoyed a colossal breakout, posting a .356 on-base percentage, slugging .525, and launching 31 homers, all while improving his pitch-receiving and pitcher-handling skills.
Fellow 23-year-old Larry Parrish struggled with injuries and lukewarm numbers, but further ensconced himself as the everyday third baseman. Warren Cromartie, also 23, hit .282 in 155 games and lashed 41 doubles in his first full major league season.

The Expos’ two 22-year-old outfielders were the most exciting of the bunch. Andre Dawson hit .282 in his first full season, cracking 19 home runs, swiping 21 bases, and flashing impressive range and a rocket arm in centre. But Valentine was the one talent evaluators dreamed on the most. A five-tool player like Dawson, Valentine just
looked
a little better than his talented teammate, both in numbers and raw skills. He hit .293 in ’77, smoking 25 homers and one-upping Dawson’s impressive arm with an absolute cannon—so mesmerizing that many fans wouldn’t leave their seats when opposing teams batted. The combination of Valentine, Dawson, and Cromartie was the best young outfield in baseball. Though they were brash, and they swung at too many pitches out of the strike zone, none of it seemed to bother Williams.

They were “the envy of the league,” wrote Williams in
No More Mr. Nice Guy
. “I’ll always mention Dawson first, because he was everyone’s third choice. Of the three, he was always the slow learner, the one who’d need the most work and wouldn’t go nearly as far.” But he defied the odds and became the best of the three by a mile. Williams would have harsher words for Cromartie and Valentine later, after both players failed to live up to their full potential. Especially Valentine.

At the beginning, though, “he just let us go out and play,” Dawson said of his former manager. “We were this young outfield, and he would just turn us loose. Pitchers, though, some of them had a problem with Dick. His patience, if it was tested, he would react to the pitchers, not to us.”

Ah yes, the pitchers. While the lineup became flush with young stars, the Expos’ efforts to develop front-line pitching lagged
behind. Though Steve Rogers had by 1977 emerged as one of the best right-handed starters in the league, tossing a staggering 301 2/3 innings that year with an ERA 23 percent better than league average, the next three starters behind him—Jackie Brown, Wayne Twitchell, and Stan Bahnsen—stank, teaming up to post a 4.50 ERA. Yet beginning the following year, and stretching over the next three seasons, their manager would save his nastiest barbs for his ace. Of all the player-manager feuds in Expos history, none topped Steve Rogers versus Dick Williams.

The title of Williams’ autobiography captures the late manager’s personality well. Even in his best moods, Williams wasn’t likely to smother his players with warmth and kindness.

“Dick Williams used to think that in order to win, a good clubhouse fight would sort of get everybody energized,” said Bronfman. “That was Dick’s way of managing. Get everybody riled up and have a good fight.”

Most players didn’t seem to mind. Dawson and numerous other players described Williams as fair. Cromartie was one of many who later expressed regret that the Expos eventually let Williams go, lauding the skipper’s abilities (and questioning those of his eventual successor). Williams was a big believer in depth and roster balance. For the bench, he sought out capable veterans willing and able to fill the role of ace pinch-hitter, rather than something larger. He loved hoarding speed on the bench, using pinch-runners in close-and-late situations whenever possible. Williams was every bit the tactician that Mauch was, only with less bunting, and was far less averse to using young players.

Rogers, too, lauded Williams’ managing skill, despite their differences.

“Dick Williams was probably as good a manager as I ever played against, or with,” said Rogers. “He ran the game extremely well. When he got there, that’s when I started coming into my own. On
managing the game, on never being taken by surprise in a game, he was always prepared, much like Gene Mauch. Very much so.”

Rogers, though, saw another side to Williams: “He was one of the worst human beings I’ve ever been around.”

The Williams-Rogers rift took root on August 28, 1978. The Expos had climbed into third place three weeks earlier and caught at least a whiff of contention, sitting 7½ games out with 48 games left to play. But the offence went ice cold over those next three weeks. In the middle of a 13-game road trip, Rogers took the mound at Dodger Stadium, and in typical fashion during that excellent season pitched well, tossing seven innings while giving up just two runs.

There were two problems with his performance, though. First, the offence again let him down, offering no run support in a 4–0 loss. Second, Rogers was in pain. Excruciating pain. From the early innings, his elbow was throbbing, to the point where he’d shake it vigorously every time he sat on the bench. Pitching coach Jim Brewer came over and told Rogers to stop messing with his arm. “Brew,” said Rogers, “you cannot believe how bad it hurts.” The next morning, he got up, took a shower, then raised his right arm to comb his hair. “CH-KK” came the horrifying sound from his elbow, which had locked into place. Rogers tried moving his arm, pressing on it to try and regain some motion, but nothing happened—other than more shooting pain every time he touched it. Already in L.A., Rogers went to see Los Angeles–based surgeon Dr. Frank Jobe, inventor of the Tommy John ligament replacement surgery. Jobe diagnosed a painful bone spur sitting right underneath Rogers’ triceps tendon, and requiring surgery.

Even with the arrival of Tommy John surgery and other medical advances, 1978 was still a relatively primitive time for understanding and coping with injuries. But even by those standards, Rogers’ manager was harsh. When Rogers missed the final month of the
1978 season, Williams fumed, then held it as a black mark against his number-one starter from there.

Williams wasn’t the ace’s only issue. After the surgery, Rogers was told to squeeze a ball to build the strength in his arm, then get a more detailed rehab regimen from Yvon Belanger, the team’s trainer. Rogers explained the situation to Belanger, who said he’d call back shortly with a routine to follow. Only he never called, leaving Rogers to figure out his own rehab methods, with a little help from Brewer—but none from doctors or trainers. Having never suffered an injury like this before, Rogers didn’t realize he’d also need to strengthen his shoulder during rehab, or else risk having his elbow heal while his shoulder weakened and became its own problem. In February of 1979, Rogers drove down to spring training, then headed to the airport to pick up his wife and sons, who were flying in to meet him. Arriving at the same time were Williams and the coaching staff. One of those coaches, Norm Sherry, asked Rogers how he was doing, if he was feeling better after going through all that pain, followed by surgery, followed by a long, arduous rehab.

“My elbow feels great, but my shoulder is killing me,” Rogers told Sherry.

To which Williams replied: “Well, if you can’t fuckin’ pitch, then we’ll get some-fuckin’-body else.”

Rogers was ready to punch his manager, but was urged by Sherry to forget about it (especially since Williams had been drinking on the flight over). But the open sparring between the two men kept intensifying. Before one crucial game in 1979 that Rogers was due to pitch, Williams told beat writer Ted Blackman that he wished he could start one of his “good” pitchers instead. The disparaging comments would continue over the following two seasons.

Williams wasn’t the only one with a reputation for being ornery: Rogers never hid his feelings on the field, and would sometimes
let those behind him hear about it if they botched a play. He could also be smart to the point of arrogance, and was no master of diplomacy when he wasn’t happy.

“It’s all right to be smarter than somebody else,” said long-time Montreal broadcaster Elliott Price. “But you don’t have to let everybody know, all the time, that you’re the smartest guy in the room.”

Williams would later take much bigger swings at Rogers in
No More Mr. Nice Guy
. “I’m here to say Montreal’s pitching emperor had no clothes. Steve Rogers was a fraud.”

The manager described going out to the mound to talk to Rogers in big games only to find a pitcher who looked rattled, even had trouble breathing. “He didn’t like the big situations. That would have been fine, except that in those situations an entire team and city and even nation were counting on him.”