CatKnight

Very nice NYY.   Good luck going forward!

Congratulations!

March 1974
Boston, Massachusetts


United Flight 169 from Cleveland dropped out of clouds at 12,000 feet into a warm (for March), brilliant morning. She was a Boeing 737-200, almost brand new with less than 1,000 hours wear, and her red, white and blue hull arced gracefully through the sky as she banked into the traffic pattern at Logan International.

She was a full flight with some 120 people on board including crew, mostly businessmen with a handful of revelers in the back rows determined to paint the city green well in advance of St. Patrick's Day. Of the former, there were two situated in first class near the cockpit. The elder was in his forties, a thick, heavy shouldered man with receding brown hair. His companion was some ten years younger, shorter and smaller: A man more used to the office than the playing field. That would be me.

"You will love Boston, I'm sure," Haywood Sullivan said. "There is no other city quite like it in the world, and no team quite like the Red Sox." He lifted his champagne glass in salute and drained it before giving it to the passing stewardess.

Perhaps that should have been my first warning - or my sixth: Boston's Director of Player Operations, for all intents and purposes their Assistant GM, practically inviting me to supersede him. When I hit my thirtieth birthday I thought myself a man of the world. It turned out I didn't have a clue. Ambition drove out all other thought: I could play second fiddle to Phil Seghi in Cleveland, a team that hadn't won the pennant since '54, or I could run the Red Sox, who needed just one tiny nudge to turn into a dynasty.

"I look forward to meeting Mr. Yawkey," I replied, which was true enough. Boston's patriarch bought the team before I was even alive. I imagined he knew more about baseball than I ever would. If they were sincere about offering me the GM position, and all signs pointed to 'yes', I looked forward to learning from the best.

"Please, call him Tom. Oh, and his wife, Jean. We are all family here."

------------

The Yawkeys' inner sanctum was a suite at the Ritz-Carlton: Bedroom (which I never saw), dining room, living room, pantry and library, all with marble floors, scones on the walls intricately detailed arches, paintings, wood furniture. The living room alone displayed more wealth than I'd seen in my lifetime.

A Ritz-Carlton employee opened the door to let us in: Pandemonium. Boxes everywhere. Another harrassed employee putting decorations on a shelf. The Yawkeys wintered in South Carolina, and coming 'home' was always an adventure. In the middle of the living room, directing traffic like a police officer, was a woman in her sixties or seventies. Haywood paced over to her and she smiled. He whispered, and sharp eyes focused on me. Then she nodded at him and pat his arm. Sullivan indicated a set of double doors and I followed him through.

"Was that Mrs. Yawkey?" I asked.

"Jean. Yes," he confirmed. "Let her get the house in order and I'll introduce you."

The library, really a small nook with two empty shelves and a desk, held two men. The younger, leaning over the desk and pointing something out on one of the papers, looked up and smiled politely. Smaller man, wide and intent eyes. "Tom, Haywood's here."

"I can see that," rasped the older man. Tom Yawkey was once a broad shouldered, strong man but I could see where age had stolen some of that strength with hollows around his throat and temples. He could still smile though, and his eyes, though perhaps a bit tired, were clear enough. Yawkey lumbered to his feet. "Mister Grey? It's a pleasure." He shook my hand. "John, perhaps you and Haywood can wait outside? This should only take a few minutes."

Once the two left, Yawkey's gaze following them, he sat back with a sigh. "How do you like Boston, Mister Grey?"

"I like it fine, sir." I sat across from him. "I...it's a beautiful city." Not that I'd seen any of it.

"I love Boston," he answered. "And I love the Red Sox. So long as you feel the same, we can do business. All this..." He indicated the papers on his desk, "...is a labor of love for me, and I want my employees to feel the same."

He hadn't asked a question, so I nodded politely.

"When Dick let me know his heart wasn't in it anymore, I brought him to South Carolina for a talk." Dick O'Connell was the former Red Sox general manager, who'd stepped aside only days before pitchers and catchers reported to Winter Haven. "I tried to reason with him, and to be honest I don't think he said whatever needed to be said. Perhaps it's my fault. It's true I didn't cordially like him, and my wife would barely speak with him, but he was good at his job. I respected his decisions."

"Yes, sir."

"Tom," he corrected. "This left an opening, and your name came up. I'd like to know, in general, what you'd do with my team if I offered you the position."

"Well, sir...Tom, your team is in a strong position to win the division or pennant already. I'd perhaps seek out a reliever or two to bolster the bullpen, and I'm worried about your depth and staying power. The team's young and lacks coherent leadership from the..."

He leaned forward. "You don't think Yastrzemski will do?"

"He might." 1B/OF Carl Yastrzemski had been with the team since 1961. 10 time All Star, 6 Gold Gloves, one MVP and a fan favorite in the bargain. If he could keep healthy for another five years or so it was hard to imagine him not getting into Cooperstown. "I've never met him."

Yawkey nodded. "That's fair enough. Anyway that's more Darrell's territory." Darrell was the team's new manager. "I agree with your assessment, but would add the need for a stronger second baseman. Catcher and center field are set, and if (Rick) Burleson does what I expect than shortstop should be fine as well. You'd agree that a solid center core is vital to success?"

"Of course." Personally I leaned towards pitching: Visions of Bob Gibson and Denny McLain absolutely dominating 1968 flashed through my mind, but perhaps this was my first lesson at Yawkey's knee.

"Good." Yawkey inhaled and suddenly looked tired. As if on cue, his wife strode in with pills and a glass of water. Tom took both and waved at her. "My wife..."

"Jean? It's a pleasure to meet you." I stood up and offered my hand, mine turned so as to take hers.

The beginning of a polite smile died when I said her name, and her brow arched. "Mister Grey," she replied distantly. She clasped my fingertips for a fraction of a second before turning back. "Dear, if you're finished with the gentlemanyou should come rest. I've already sent Haywood and John away."

Yawkey nodded agreement and rose. "Mister Grey, I've arranged rooms for you here over night. I need to make a few calls...talk to a few people, but you will have my answer in the morning.

1894 Hall of Fame Ballot
 

 
If I was going to describe the 1894 Hall of Fame Ballot I'd call it uninspiring.  I shouldn't let me feelings cloud the ballot, but 3B Ezra Sutton returns after receiving 61.6% of the vote.  A career .260 hitter Sutton drove in 642 runs in his career and scored 821. 
 
SS Tom Barlow, SP Joe Borden, SP George Bradley, C John Clapp, SS Davy Force, and 3B Andy Leonard appear on the ballot for the first time. 
 
JAWS Score
Tom Barlow: 15.1
John Bass: 11.8
Joe Borden: 13.2
George Bradley: 32.6
John Clapp: 8.5
Davy Force: 13.6
Chick Fulmer: 18.9
Dick Higham: 5.5
Andy Leonard: 8.6
Mike McGeary: 7.8
Lip Pike: 15.7
Ezra Sutton: 25.1
Fred Treacey: 3.8
George Wright: 14.7
Tom York: 12.1
 

March 1974
Boston, Massachusetts


United Flight 169 from Cleveland dropped out of clouds at 12,000 feet into a warm (for March), brilliant morning. She was a Boeing 737-200, almost brand new with less than 1,000 hours wear, and her red, white and blue hull arced gracefully through the sky as she banked into the traffic pattern at Logan International.

She was a full flight with some 120 people on board including crew, mostly businessmen with a handful of revelers in the back rows determined to paint the city green well in advance of St. Patrick's Day. Of the former, there were two situated in first class near the cockpit. The elder was in his forties, a thick, heavy shouldered man with receding brown hair. His companion was some ten years younger, shorter and smaller: A man more used to the office than the playing field. That would be me.

"You will love Boston, I'm sure," Haywood Sullivan said. "There is no other city quite like it in the world, and no team quite like the Red Sox." He lifted his champagne glass in salute and drained it before giving it to the passing stewardess.

Perhaps that should have been my first warning - or my sixth: Boston's Director of Player Operations, for all intents and purposes their Assistant GM, practically inviting me to supersede him. When I hit my thirtieth birthday I thought myself a man of the world. It turned out I didn't have a clue. Ambition drove out all other thought: I could play second fiddle to Phil Seghi in Cleveland, a team that hadn't won the pennant since '54, or I could run the Red Sox, who needed just one tiny nudge to turn into a dynasty.

"I look forward to meeting Mr. Yawkey," I replied, which was true enough. Boston's patriarch bought the team before I was even alive. I imagined he knew more about baseball than I ever would. If they were sincere about offering me the GM position, and all signs pointed to 'yes', I looked forward to learning from the best.

"Please, call him Tom. Oh, and his wife, Jean. We are all family here."

------------

The Yawkeys' inner sanctum was a suite at the Ritz-Carlton: Bedroom (which I never saw), dining room, living room, pantry and library, all with marble floors, scones on the walls intricately detailed arches, paintings, wood furniture. The living room alone displayed more wealth than I'd seen in my lifetime.

A Ritz-Carlton employee opened the door to let us in: Pandemonium. Boxes everywhere. Another harrassed employee putting decorations on a shelf. The Yawkeys wintered in South Carolina, and coming 'home' was always an adventure. In the middle of the living room, directing traffic like a police officer, was a woman in her sixties or seventies. Haywood paced over to her and she smiled. He whispered, and sharp eyes focused on me. Then she nodded at him and pat his arm. Sullivan indicated a set of double doors and I followed him through.

"Was that Mrs. Yawkey?" I asked.

"Jean. Yes," he confirmed. "Let her get the house in order and I'll introduce you."

The library, really a small nook with two empty shelves and a desk, held two men. The younger, leaning over the desk and pointing something out on one of the papers, looked up and smiled politely. Smaller man, wide and intent eyes. "Tom, Haywood's here."

"I can see that," rasped the older man. Tom Yawkey was once a broad shouldered, strong man but I could see where age had stolen some of that strength with hollows around his throat and temples. He could still smile though, and his eyes, though perhaps a bit tired, were clear enough. Yawkey lumbered to his feet. "Mister Grey? It's a pleasure." He shook my hand. "John, perhaps you and Haywood can wait outside? This should only take a few minutes."

Once the two left, Yawkey's gaze following them, he sat back with a sigh. "How do you like Boston, Mister Grey?"

"I like it fine, sir." I sat across from him. "I...it's a beautiful city." Not that I'd seen any of it.

"I love Boston," he answered. "And I love the Red Sox. So long as you feel the same, we can do business. All this..." He indicated the papers on his desk, "...is a labor of love for me, and I want my employees to feel the same."

He hadn't asked a question, so I nodded politely.

"When Dick let me know his heart wasn't in it anymore, I brought him to South Carolina for a talk." Dick O'Connell was the former Red Sox general manager, who'd stepped aside only days before pitchers and catchers reported to Winter Haven. "I tried to reason with him, and to be honest I don't think he said whatever needed to be said. Perhaps it's my fault. It's true I didn't cordially like him, and my wife would barely speak with him, but he was good at his job. I respected his decisions."

"Yes, sir."

"Tom," he corrected. "This left an opening, and your name came up. I'd like to know, in general, what you'd do with my team if I offered you the position."

"Well, sir...Tom, your team is in a strong position to win the division or pennant already. I'd perhaps seek out a reliever or two to bolster the bullpen, and I'm worried about your depth and staying power. The team's young and lacks coherent leadership from the..."

He leaned forward. "You don't think Yastrzemski will do?"

"He might." 1B/OF Carl Yastrzemski had been with the team since 1961. 10 time All Star, 6 Gold Gloves, one MVP and a fan favorite in the bargain. If he could keep healthy for another five years or so it was hard to imagine him not getting into Cooperstown. "I've never met him."

Yawkey nodded. "That's fair enough. Anyway that's more Darrell's territory." Darrell was the team's new manager. "I agree with your assessment, but would add the need for a stronger second baseman. Catcher and center field are set, and if (Rick) Burleson does what I expect than shortstop should be fine as well. You'd agree that a solid center core is vital to success?"

"Of course." Personally I leaned towards pitching: Visions of Bob Gibson and Denny McLain absolutely dominating 1968 flashed through my mind, but perhaps this was my first lesson at Yawkey's knee.

"Good." Yawkey inhaled and suddenly looked tired. As if on cue, his wife strode in with pills and a glass of water. Tom took both and waved at her. "My wife..."

"Jean? It's a pleasure to meet you." I stood up and offered my hand, mine turned so as to take hers.

The beginning of a polite smile died when I said her name, and her brow arched. "Mister Grey," she replied distantly. She clasped my fingertips for a fraction of a second before turning back. "Dear, if you're finished with the gentlemanyou should come rest. I've already sent Haywood and John away."

Yawkey nodded agreement and rose. "Mister Grey, I've arranged rooms for you here over night. I need to make a few calls...talk to a few people, but you will have my answer in the morning.

March 1974
Winter Haven, Florida


Roger Moret stood on the mound. He was a tall man, lean with dark skin and brown eyes. A Latino hailing from Puerto Rico, according to my scouting report, he would never be on the level of say Tom Seaver or Steve Carlton, but we expected solid contributions from him. He was 13-2 last year with 3 saves, but Darrell wanted to convert him to a full time starter. The fact he asked my opinion was flattering, but I had no real insight. If he could keep his fastball in the 90s through nine innings, then why not.

Moret's opponent was another black man, this one a little stouter and more muscular. Younger also. Moret pitched. The ball hissed at them, then at the last second abruptly veered outside. The batter swung viciously and nearly tied himself in a knot.

"Patience!" Johnson yelled from my side. "You don't have to swing at everything!" He shook his head as Bob Montgomery, our probable backup catcher, tossed the ball back to Moret. "I was never that young," he joked.

I smiled. "Who is he?" I nodded at the plate.

"Jim?" He grinned in return. "Jim Rice. Give me a few years to teach him DISCIPLINE," he yelled the last, "and he'll give you 30 or 40 taters a year. He has real power if he can connect. Strong as an ox and knows what he's doing."

"Will he make the team this year?" I asked.

He shrugged. "That's up to you, Jeff, but if it were me we have enough outfielders to let him get good and ready. He's only twenty. Give him a year in Pawtucket, then ask me again."

I nodded. So far I found Johnson..pliable. Perhaps too much so. His players liked him well enough for his easy-going manner, but whether that served a young team trying to come into its own remained to be seen. He went along with all my suggestions regarding strategy, including the unconventional ones.



Of his junior staff, the bench coach had Minor League experience but no success. The trainer, Buddy LeRoux, had experience but no chance to really prove his skills. He seemed more interested in building a private financial empire than serving the team. The hitting coach was brand new, while the pitching coach got an earful from reliever Bill "Spaceman" Lee and tendered his resignation.

"We have our minor league coaches helping out, but that's not going to do us any good when the season starts," he told me.

"I know. Haywood's interviewing candidates for me. We should find you someone good soon."

Johnson nodded. "I hope so."

We watched Rice whiff through a 78 mph changeup. "How do you like our chances this year?"

He glanced at me. "That depends. I know Tom gave you instructions. What did he say?"

"Why does it matter what Tom said?"

Darrell frowned at me. "I'm curious what he thinks, that's all."



"He told us not to completely suck."

Johnson laughed. "I think I can guarantee that!"

"And a pennant?" I pressed. 

He hesitated. "I...don't know Jeff. We have a good team, we really do, but Baltimore's always dangerous and I hear that new owner in New York is insane."

"Who?"

"Some shipping mogul, name of Steinbrenner. I hear he's giving his team a blank check."

"Don't worry, Darrell. Money doesn't win championships. People do, and we have the talent." It sounded false even to me, but with the reserve clause in place the only place Steinbrenner's money would do any good is in trades. We could hold our own.

Moret pitched. Rice swung and hit with a loud crack, not unlike a gun shot. The ball soared, soared into the brilliant Florida sunlight. I lost it there. For all I know, it's still going.