Francona: The Red Sox Years (30 page)

The 2007 Red Sox went 33–12 after a 2–3 start. It was a 119-win pace. They swept an April series against the Yankees. By June 2, they had a nine-game lead in the division and an 11½-game lead over the Yankees.

“When people say you can’t lose the division in April, they’re guys who never won the division before,” said Pedroia. “We ran away with the division in the first two months of the season.”

Winning routines were established early. Francona, Farrell, Pedroia, and Lowell played cribbage on spring training bus trips while
Night Shift
played on the luxury coach video screen. (“It was always
Night Shift
with Tito,” said equipment czar Tommy McLaughlin. “Even though none of the players were old enough to remember the movie.”) The cribbage games could be competitive and costly. Francona and catcher George Kottaras picked up $800 from Pedroia and Farrell when the Sox bus got stuck in traffic on Tampa’s Skyway Bridge after an exhibition game.

“It was a lot of laughs and cash for him,” said Farrell. “One hand after the next. It was an ass-kicking.”

Once the season started, Pedroia and Lowell played cribbage every day after batting practice. After hitting, they would come into the clubhouse, grab a sandwich and their game board, and retreat to the upstairs players’ lounge for cribbage and early dinner. Francona eventually invited them to play in his office, and the Francona-Pedroia cribbage games remained a staple long after Lowell left the Red Sox. It made sense: Francona and Pedroia were usually the first two uniformed personnel at the ballpark.

With all the attention on Matsuzaka, Francona enjoyed the work of Okajima. The Japanese southpaw had an unusual, almost-violent north-south delivery; he was facing the ground by the time he released each pitch, but he had tremendous success in his first trip through the American League. It took a while for the Sox staff to determine how Okajima might best be used. In the third week of the season, on a night when Papelbon was unavailable after saving back-to-back games, Farrell asked Francona before the game what the Sox would do in the late innings against the Yankees.

“Who’s going to save this game?” asked Farrell.

“Okie’s going to go right through the middle of the order,” said Francona, chuckling.

Farrell gathered up his reports and said, “All right!”

Seven hours later, when the manager summoned Okajima to protect a 7–6 lead against the Bronx Bombers—Jeter, A-Rod, and Abreu due up—Lowell approached Francona and asked, “Where’s Pap?”

“Relax, big boy,” said Francona. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be all right.”

After Okajima pitched a hitless ninth, holding the lead for his first big league save, Francona looked at Farrell and said, “Well, that worked out pretty good.”

Okajima wound up representing the Red Sox at the 2007 All-Star Game in San Francisco.

Along the way, Francona learned one Japanese phrase:
Ii kanji.
It loosely translates to “way to go.”

When Matsuzaka or Okajima came to the dugout after getting out of a tough jam, the manager would say, “Ii kanji, bitch.”

After hitting .182 in April, Pedroia was over .270 by the end of May. He peaked at .331 in mid-June. He was on his way to winning the American League Rookie of the Year Award. Still, he was annoyed that his manager sometimes chose to run for him late in games. This came up more than once during the cribbage matches.

“Why do you run for me?” Pedroia would ask.

“Because you’re so fucking slow,” the manager would answer.

Most professional athletes regard their speed or lack of speed as God-given. Like a player’s height, it is not something that can be changed. Pedroia was different. He couldn’t make himself taller (he insists he’s five-nine), but he found a way to get faster. In his mind, his speed was a variable—something he could improve.

On baseball scouts’ 80-point scale, Pedroia was a 40 to 45 runner when he played in college. Working out at Athletes’ Performance Institute in Arizona, Pedroia learned to convert side-to-side motion to forward motion. He improved his fitness, strength, and technique. He made himself into a player who ran faster at the age of 28 than he did at 24. He improved to a 50 on the scouts’ 80-point scale. He became a high-percentage base-stealer.

“That’s almost impossible,” Epstein told
Sports Illustrated
in 2011. “I can’t ever remember it happening. It always goes in the other direction.”

“Somebody put their ass on the line scouting that kid, and they deserve a raise,” said Francona. “It’s hard to sit here now and say, ‘I knew it.’ I ended up sticking with him when he was struggling, but it wasn’t because I was this great baseball mind. I wish I could say that. The organization was pretty adamant that he could play, and we were playing well enough where we could handle it. I also loved the way this kid handled himself. He wasn’t throwing helmets or letting anything impact his defense.”

Epstein approached Francona in midseason and asked if he wanted to talk about a contract extension. The manager was in the second year of a three-year contract that was paying him $1.5 million per season. Francona said he was agreeable to discussing an extension, but Epstein did not follow up. Later in the summer, with the Sox rolling toward the division title, Francona reluctantly reintroduced the topic.

“Theo, I hate to bring this up, but you sort of broached this and then it went away,” said the manager. “Are we still going to talk about a contract extension?”

“Ownership wasn’t into it,” said Epstein. “It’s a company rule that we don’t really do things early. Let’s wait until we get to the end of the year.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” said Francona. “And just so me and you are on the same page, if we win, all bets are off.”

“Okay,” said Epstein.

“It wasn’t something I was thinking about every day,” Francona said later. “It never really bothered me much, but I was glad we had an understanding about how it was going to go later, especially if we won.”

In late July, with the trading deadline nearing, Epstein explored the possibility of acquiring Texas closer Eric Gagne.

When Epstein told Francona he was close to completing the deal, Francona said, “Theo, I’m worried about this. We need to talk to Pap.”

“Okay, then,” said Epstein. “Let’s go see him.”

Three hours before the trading deadline, accompanied by Farrell, bullpen coach Gary Tuck, and Epstein, Francona drove his Cadillac Escalade to Papelbon’s apartment in the Back Bay to talk to the closer about yielding his role to Gagne. They parked in a tow zone in front of Abe & Louie’s restaurant on Boylston Street. Dressed in his full Sox uniform, Francona went inside the restaurant, grabbed a menu, and took it outside to put under his windshield wiper.

“Tito, are you fuckin’ kidding me?” asked Farrell. “You’re walking around downtown Boston, on game day, in your uniform, and you’re worried about a parking ticket?”

The four men walked to Papelbon’s brownstone, buzzed his apartment, and met with him in the boiler room of his building. Papelbon had memorabilia all around him—stuff he’d agreed to sign for a fee. When Epstein went into his pitch about acquiring Gagne and perhaps moving Papelbon into a setup role, the Sox closer stopped signing and frowned.

“I don’t like it,” said Papelbon. “I’m the closer.”

“Okay,” said Epstein. “I understand. Let me go to work on it.”

“Part of me was happy Pap said what he said,” Francona said later. “But I also knew it made Theo’s job harder.”

Folks on Boylston Street couldn’t believe it when they saw Francona, wearing his game white pants and ubiquitous red fleece, walking back to his car alongside Tuck and Epstein. Boston’s meter maids had no regard for the trading deadline and were not faked out by the restaurant menu. There was a $40 parking ticket under the windshield wiper.

Despite Papelbon’s objections, Epstein made the trade, acquiring Gagne for outfielder David Murphy, lefty pitcher Kason Gabbard, and outfielder Engel Beltre. The deal proved to be a bust. Gagne went 2–2 with a 6.75 ERA and zero saves, then earned multiple mentions in the exhaustive report on performance-enhancing drugs in Major League Baseball released after the 2007 season by former senator George Mitchell, the chief investigator.

The Mitchell Report was of no concern to Francona in August of 2007. Nor was the parking ticket. He was dealing with MLB’s uniform police. Baseball wanted him to wear his standard-issue uniform top when he worked in the Red Sox dugout.

Francona was assigned number 16 when he first got the Boston job in December 2004, but number 16 had been worn by Joe Kerrigan during the train-wreck season of 2001, and clubhouse attendant Tommy McLaughlin suggested that Francona switch to number 47. Numbers meant absolutely nothing to the Red Sox manager. He’d worn number 11 in high school and 32 (now retired) at Arizona. He wore number 16 as a player with the Expos, and also wore 10, 24, and 30 in the big leagues. Terry’s dad wore ten different numbers in his big league career, none of them 16 or 47. The best number 47 in recent Sox history had been lefty pitcher Bruce Hurst, who came within one strike of being MVP of the 1986 World Series.

Red Sox fans never knew Francona’s number because he always wore a red or blue fleece top, or a Sox jacket over his uniform jersey.

“That started in Philadelphia,” he said. “I wore my fleece all the time, and it pissed people off. There was a tunnel behind the dugout where it got cold, and I’d wear my fleece. When I found out people didn’t like it, I got stubborn, so even when it got hot I’d keep the fleece on. I would sit in the dugout, sweating my ass off, saying, ‘Fuck those people.’ I wore number 7 with the Phillies, but nobody ever knew it.”

During his years at Fenway, the red top was as much a part of Francona’s identity as his bald pate. There are very few photographs of Francona wearing his standard uniform jersey top. Unless it was opening day, he was always wearing a red or blue fleece.

“When he walks to the mound in that thing, he looks like he’s coming out to change the oil in your car,” wrote a
Globe
columnist.

The Valvoline top became an issue in New York in the summer of 2007.

“It was a little bit of a running feud with the league,” Francona said. “I started getting fined, and they were sending me letters all the time. Bob Watson was in charge of that for Major League Baseball. I told him to come watch me get dressed. I put my socks on. I put on those two leg sleeves. There’s a reason they help your circulation—they’re tight and they’re hot. Over the top of those I would wear a pair of runner’s tights. Then I would put a pair of socks over those, up to my knees, and then I’d put my pants on. I was triple-layered. There were some days in the dugout, I was like, ‘Fuck, you’ve got to be kidding me. They want me to tuck my shirt in?’ By the time I put my whole uniform on, I was a little bit claustrophobic. I can’t tuck in one more fucking thing. That’s why when I’d get on our charter, I’d always take my shoes off and untuck my shirt. It all goes back to my circulation issues. Bob asked me if I could cut off my jersey at the waist so I could wear it and they’d be able to see it under my top. I did that, but I still didn’t always wear the uniform top underneath. Anyway, he came to our game in New York one night, and we were laughing about it in the dugout, and I pulled my top up and had the uniform top underneath. Then the game started and it wasn’t so funny.”

It was a marquee pitching matchup: Beckett versus Roger Clemens. In the second inning, with the Sox on the field and Jeter taking a lead off second, Francona heard a New York City police lieutenant (approved by Major League Baseball), Eddie Maldonado, calling his name from the dugout tunnel behind his back. His first thought was,
This must be bad news.
He was worried about his family. He went back to see what the man had to say.

“I need to check to see if you are wearing your uniform top,” said Maldonado.

Francona was wearing his game jersey under the fleece. He was also livid. Jeter was still taking his lead off second, but the manager didn’t care anymore. He followed the lieutenant up the tunnel.

“You !@#$%^&*(,” said Francona, chasing the lieutenant.

It was loud and ugly. The
New York Post
reported the incident, erroneously stating that Francona had yelled at Watson. The incorrect account enabled Francona to address the issue at his daily presser before the next day’s game.

“Terry was within his rights to be upset,” admitted Major League Baseball executive Jimmie Lee Solomon.

“It was silly,” said Francona. “‘Nobody wears that thing. Ozzie Guillen wears a hood. When Joe Torre took over Watson’s old job years later, I knew I wasn’t going to hear from him about it.”

With Francona dutifully wearing his number 47 game top under the fleece, the Red Sox were swept in the series. Francona was ejected in the seventh inning of the finale. Yankee rookie Joba Chamberlain got everyone’s attention by throwing a couple of pitches at Youkilis’s head, earning an ejection in the eighth inning.

On Saturday night, September 1, rookie Clay Buchholz made his second big league start, against the Orioles. Buchholz has spectacular stuff. Watching closely from his seat behind home plate, Jeremy Kapstein called his friend Bill Wanless, Pawtucket’s public relations vice president.

“This kid is going to throw a no-hitter right now,” said Kapstein.

Buchholz no-hit the Orioles that night, but there would be no room for the young righty on Boston’s postseason roster. After 148 major league and minor league innings that season, Buchholz was losing strength in his throwing shoulder, and Boston’s baseball operations people were maniacal about not overextending young arms. Francona agreed with that policy.

The Yankees made a run at the Red Sox in 2007, but the Sox held their ground, finishing ahead of New York for the first time since 1995. Drew salvaged a subpar season by hitting .342 with 18 RBI in September.

When the Red Sox clinched the American League East on September 28, the highlight of the postgame celebration was the sight of Papelbon dancing a jig on the infield while wearing a Miller Lite 12-pack box on his head. It would not be Papelbon’s final Yawkey Way Riverdance of 2007.