Francona: The Red Sox Years (12 page)

“There wasn’t anything I could do about that, but to me it was important that they all know that it was a clean slate for everybody,” said Francona. “I had all the information, but I wanted them to know that everybody was starting fresh with me. It’s my job to know things, but it’s also my job not to hold something against somebody.”

By any measure, Ramirez is one of the greatest right-handed sluggers in the history of baseball. Red Sox general manager Dan Duquette told Boston fans they were getting the next Jimmie Foxx when he signed Ramirez to an eight-year, $160 million contract in December 2000, and Duquette was correct. Ramirez was a rare big-money free agent who turned out to make good on the club’s investment. Failed drug tests in 2009 and 2011 tarnished Ramirez’s significant accomplishments, but there can be no dispute about what he did with the bat during the first 19 years of his career. Before serving his second big league drug suspension in 2012, Manny had hit 555 homers with a career batting average of .312.

Numbers don’t explain Manuel Aristides Ramirez, the son of Aristides and Onelcida Ramirez. Manny was born in Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic, but grew up in Washington Heights in New York (at 168th and Amsterdam). He graduated from George Washington High School in the Bronx in 1991; in his senior season he hit .650 with 14 homers in 21 games and was the New York City Public High School Player of the Year. The Indians made him the 13th overall pick of the 1991 amateur draft. Four years later, Manny batted .308 with 31 homers and 107 RBI for the American League Champion Cleveland Indians. The ’95 Indians had one of the best lineups in baseball history, featuring Albert Belle, Eddie Murray, Jim Thome, Kenny Lofton, Carlos Baerga, Omar Vizquel, and 23-year-old Manny Ramirez. They made it to the seventh game of the World Series.

There was nothing accidental about Ramirez’s batting prowess. Anytime he was asked about his philosophy on hitting, he’d say, “See the ball and hit the ball” (similar to what Tito Francona told Terry when he went off to professional baseball from the University of Arizona), but teammates and coaches saw work and dedication behind Manny’s numbers. He worked diligently in the cage, watched a lot of video, and did extra conditioning to keep himself in shape. Still, a lot of players did those things, but no one else could hit like Manny. He had unusual balance and eyesight and tested off the charts in hand-eye coordination. He never looked off balance at home plate, and he never pressed. The science of hitting does not reward those who try harder. Thinking too much only makes things worse. One of the beautiful things about Ramirez seemed to be that he was incapable of carrying baggage to home plate. Every at-bat was a clean sheet of ice. He did not walk to the plate thinking,
I struck out last time,
or
This pitcher owns me.
It was always,
See the ball and hit the ball.
His preparation and physical gifts did the rest of the work.

“He was just better than everybody else,” said Francona. “He had some natural gifts. Our strength and conditioning coach put together this contraption; it looked like a small hula hoop with about eight Wiffle balls connected to it. Manny would stand in his batting stance, and our guy would spin this thing toward him and call out a number or a color, and Manny would reach out and grab the ball he was supposed to grab. It wasn’t easy for most people to catch the damn thing, let alone get the right-numbered ball or the right-colored ball. Manny could get it just about every time. It was incredible.”

There may be profound depth to Ramirez, but anecdotal evidence suggests otherwise. Manny was the one who thought his Cleveland Indian teammates were talking about pitcher Chad Ogea (pronounced
oh-jay
) when they were watching the O. J. Simpson white Bronco chase in 1994. He forgot to cash checks, then asked Cleveland sportswriters if he could borrow $20,000. After he broke his finger sliding headfirst into home with the Sox in 2002, he rehabbed at Pawtucket and decided he loved McCoy Stadium and wanted to play there full-time. It was on the base path at Pawtucket that Manny lost a diamond-encrusted earring while making another ill-advised headfirst slide. And video highlight of Manny leaping and cutting off a throw from center fielder Johnny Damon—Manny was standing only a few feet in front of Damon—lives forever on blooper reels.

“It was the one time he really hustled,” chuckled Francona.

There was a dark side too. Manny sometimes disrespected the game. With the Red Sox in 2002, he famously turned and walked to the dugout—never running out of the batter’s box—after hitting a ground ball back to the mound during a game against Tampa Bay. Grady Little, who kept Ramirez in the game after the disrespectful stunt, later told reporter Tony Massarotti, “If someone gives you a dog and that dog has a habit of peeing on the floor, can you change them?” Manny hit .349 in ’02, but had nothing to say to the media after winning the American League batting title. In ’03 he bailed on the All-Star Game, claiming a hamstring injury, then changed his story and said he had to go to Miami to care for his mother who had allegedly fainted while working in her garden.

More obtuse than outrageous, Ramirez was rarely a disruption in the clubhouse. He had hugs for everybody. But he also had an unusual scorekeeping system regarding how his teammates were treated. If another starter asked for a day off, Manny suddenly needed a day off. In August 2003, Pedro hit the shelf with a diagnosis of pharyngitis. Two weeks later, Manny missed a critical three-game series with the Yankees, claiming to be suffering from the same rare throat illness that afflicted Pedro. There was a full-blown media storm when Manny—too sick to go to the ballpark—was spotted in Boston’s Ritz Hotel lounge with Yankee infielder Enrique Wilson. Manny skipped a scheduled doctor’s appointment the next day. Things got ugly in ’03 when the Sox had to go to Philadelphia for a makeup game and Manny said he was too weak to pinch-hit. Sensing a clubhouse mutiny, Little benched Manny the next night in Chicago. A month later, all was well and Manny hit the game-winning home run in the clincher against the Oakland A’s. He didn’t speak to the media in 2003.

Naive about the true weirdness of “Manny being Manny,” Francona thought he knew what to expect. He’d coached third base in Detroit in 1996 when Manny hit .309 with 33 homers and 112 RBI for the Indians. The Sox manager had worked in the Cleveland front office with John Hart and Mark Shapiro when Manny was negotiating with the Indians and Red Sox at the 2000 baseball winter meetings in New Orleans. After Manny signed with Boston, he tried to convince the Tribe’s equipment manager, Frank Mancini, to quit his job and move to Boston to take care of Manny’s needs.

Sitting on the Oakland bench next to Ken Macha in the 2003 playoffs, Francona watched Manny hit a three-run homer that sent the A’s home for the winter.

“When you’re on the other side, he’s always friendly,” said Francona. “He’s got that smile, and he calls everybody ‘Papi.’ He was always friendly to me. That’s his nature. When you don’t have to be the guy that’s telling him about the things he’s not doing, it’s a lot easier. But it’s different when you are his manager. I didn’t know what to think when he wouldn’t shake my hand. I knew he had had it out with ownership earlier in the day, but he was walking around the clubhouse laughing, saying, ‘The Red Sox put me on eBay.’”

On the day the Sox held their first full-squad workout in 2004, Manny saw on the chair in front of his stall what every other player saw on his chair: a sheet of white paper headlined “The Boston Red Sox 2004 Team Rules”:

• The Red Sox travel as a team—you must receive permission from the manager to make your own arrangements.
  
• Beer and wine will be served on flights—please do not abuse this privilege.
  
• Headphones must be used at all times while traveling. (If music becomes an issue in the clubhouse, it will be dealt with by the manager.)
  
• Wives and children are permitted on any return flight to Boston. Please notify Jack McCormick respectfully in advance. (
  Note:
  in September, because of expanded rosters, there will be no room for excess traveling party.)
  
• Dress codes for road trips are posted in the clubhouse two days before trips begin.
  
• Dress presentably at all times on the road (no shorts or flip-flops; jeans are acceptable)—days off on the road are exceptions.
  
• Curfew:
  Night games—2:00
  AM
  Day games—1:00
  AM
  
• Beer will be available in both home and visiting clubhouses after the game only. No beer is to leave the clubhouse (this will be strictly enforced).
  
• No player is permitted to leave the clubhouse until the game has been completed and the manager has returned to the clubhouse.
  
• Players needing treatment for injuries must set up reporting times with trainers and not be late.
  
• Players who become ill must contact trainer prior to reporting time so appropriate measures can be taken.
  
• All medical appointments with physicians must be kept and on time.
  
• Everyone will be on the top step for the national anthem and will stay in the dugout during all games with the exception of commonsense situations.
  
• Miss a game or practice—loss of day’s pay and subject to suspension and/or fine.
  
• Any fines will be at the manager’s discretion.
  
• Players must adhere to club and MLB policy regarding clubhouse security and visitors. Please exercise discretion when bringing family into the clubhouse. It is not a play room for your children, and clubhouse personnel are not hired to police the activities of your children. If at any time children become a problem or a distraction, it will be dealt with appropriately.
  

ALWAYS BE ON TIME!
ALWAYS GIVE EVERYTHING YOU HAVE ON THE FIELD!
BE PROFESSIONAL ON AND OFF THE FIELD!
Theo Epstein (general manager)
Terry Francona (manager)

“I put those out there each year to protect myself,” said Francona. “Every year, the sheet was a little shorter. I wasn’t going to check curfew. No manager does. But if somebody did something stupid at night, I could say, ‘This is the rule.’ It was all just basic commonsense stuff. It got a little shorter each year I was there. Those things at the end—be on time, be respectful, play your ass off—that’s what all those other things meant.”

On the first full-squad day, just before 9:00
AM
, Francona got ready for his first annual “big” meeting in the lunchroom at the front of the minor league complex. The late February meeting was the only meeting of the year that featured remarks from ownership, the general manager, the manager, the traveling secretary, the public relations director, the equipment manager, and even a representative of the club’s charity wing (the Red Sox Foundation). It was a chance to get everything out in the open at once. Henry usually said he wasn’t going to speak, then would change his mind at the last moment. For Henry and Epstein, it was a chance to remind the players that the new manager had the backing of the front office. McCormick would talk about players’ tickets and travel specifics. Veteran clubhouse manager Joe Cochran would put out his cigarette and tell the fellows not to leave too much laundry on the floor. Meg Vaillancourt, the director of the foundation, would take too much time talking about community responsibilities that nobody wanted to hear about in February. (“She’d ask for 20 minutes, and Jack would tell her, ‘Meg, you got three minutes,’” remembered Francona.)

The meeting was supposed to start at 9:00
AM
. As the wall clock reached the top of the hour, Francona nervously noticed that Manny wasn’t there. This had the potential to be a big, bad story—something that could have blown up Francona’s first day in the same way Roger Clemens sabotaged Butch Hobson back in the 1990s. Anxious about Manny’s absence, Francona went over to David Ortiz, whom he did not know particularly well.

“David, Manny’s not here,” said Francona. “Can you go get him? I don’t care if he listens, just get him in here.”

Ortiz nodded. He appreciated that the new manager did not want to make a scene. He thought it was a smart move to get a player to bring another player. He went outside and came back into the lunchroom with Manny. It was “game on” for the meeting.

“It’s always the longest one of the year,” said Francona. “You try to satisfy everybody, which is not easy. I ended up speaking less than anybody. It wasn’t a Knute Rockne ‘Let’s run through the wall’ speech.”

When Francona made no reference to the way things had ended in October, Tim Wakefield and a raft of other survivors of the Grady Little Game were no doubt relieved. In 1987 beleaguered Sox skipper John McNamara, still bleeding from the Bill Buckner Game 6, told his team in Winter Haven that no one was to speak of the heartbreak of October ’86. McNamara is believed to be the first manager in history to start spring training by urging his team to erase the fact that they’d just made it to the seventh game of the World Series.

Manny said nothing during the lengthy session. When it was over, he hit in the batting cage, ignored a few media requests, then went home.

It was different the next day. With various workouts taking place on multiple fields—and Sox fans scattered throughout the complex—Francona was overseeing a baserunning drill involving several of the Sox veteran stars when Ramirez walked over to the new manager, draped his arm around the skipper, and said, “Papi, I’ll hit third, I’ll hit fourth, I don’t care. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I was glad, but it was an early glimpse,” Francona said later. “With Manny, you just never knew when the button would go off. You could see it coming most of the time, but by the time it got to that point, it was too late. You weren’t going to get him back for a while.”

The slow, early days of spring training allowed Francona an inside look at the new generation of baseball executives who were running the Red Sox. Francona grew up in a hardball world in which most ballplayers, coaches, managers, and executives shared space in coffee shops, at poolside, and in smoky lounges at a “team hotel” in Florida or Arizona. The spring scene in sprawling Fort Myers in 2004 was something else altogether. Twenty-nine-year-old Epstein saved the ball club $30,000 in spring hotel expenses by renting an eight-bedroom house on a canal in Cape Coral. Boston’s hardball fraternity was stocked with potato chips, bottled water, and beer. (“It was usually Bud Light or Miller Lite,” said Epstein. “But sometimes one guy would bring some more sophisticated beer and get mocked for it.”) They ordered a lot of Chinese takeout, and if you stood on top of the empty pizza boxes at the end of a weekend, you could almost see the Sunshine Skyway Bridge spanning Tampa Bay. Assistant general manager Ben Cherington was the only one of the group who was married, and his wife, television reporter Wendi Nix, was on assignment back in Boston for most of the spring. The young Turks invited Francona to come over at night and play a little Texas Hold ’Em.