Pinstripe Empire (71 page)

“We just can’t keep having this kind of thing happen every two months,” said Steinbrenner.

Sitting with Billy on a flight once, I asked him how many fights he thought he had been in that never made the newspapers, which had covered maybe fifteen of them. He thought for a long time before responding, and then said, “Probably about ten for every one you read about.”

Martin was hired by Finley to manage Oakland, where over the next three years he would develop “Billyball,” featuring aggressive baserunning and one last effort in the modern game to have pitchers work complete games.

The day Martin was sacked, Steinbrenner named Dick Howser manager and Gene Michael general manager, with Tallis becoming executive vice president.

Howser, forty-two, had coached third from 1969–78, and in ’79 coached at his alma mater, Florida State. Well respected in the game, he had been offered the job in ’77 during Martin’s meltdown over Jackson, but turned it down. Now the time was right. Here, Steinbrenner opted for the bright former infielder who was 43–16 with the Seminoles.

Michael swung into action at once. On November 1, he completed two big trades, sending pitchers Jim Beattie and Rick Anderson, outfielder Juan Beniquez, and catcher Jerry Narron to Seattle for outfielder Ruppert Jones and pitcher Jim Lewis, and five hours later he sent Chris Chambliss to the
Blue Jays for catcher Rick Cerone, who would effectively replace Munson. Jones would effectively replace Rivers in center.

“We felt this coming,” said Audra Chambliss, Chris’s wife. “It was sad to leave, but we knew changes were in the wind. Thurman’s death really changed everything.”

Not every former Yankee led a happy life after baseball. Anderson was the International League’s Pitcher of the Year in ’79, going 13–3 with 21 saves and a 1.63 ERA for Columbus, which had become the Yanks’ triple-A farm team that year. An eight-year veteran of the Yankee system, he pitched one game for the Yanks at the end of the season, and then five with Seattle in 1980. In 1989, he was found dead, living in a truck trailer in a boatyard in Wilmington, California, weighing over four hundred pounds. Obesity leading to heart failure was listed as the cause of death. He was holding a letter requesting an autographed baseball card when he was found.

The Yankees also signed Bob Watson to play first and brought back free agent Rudy May as Michael continued his whirlwind month.

Roy White, his contract up, went to Japan to continue his career. He spent fifteen distinguished seasons with the Yankees. The only Yankees who had appeared in more games than him were Mantle, Gehrig, Berra, and Ruth. Roy would later have three coaching stints with the Yankees, although once, when asked, he spoke favorably about playing conditions in Japan, helping pitcher Bill Gullickson decide to play there. Steinbrenner considered it an act of betrayal and never opened the doors widely for him.

A big midseason lead in 1980 was reduced to just a half game in late August, but the Yankees won when they had to, and behind John’s 22 wins, Guidry’s 17, May’s league-leading 2.47 ERA, and 33 saves from Gossage, they never lost first place and wound up winning 103 games to capture the AL East. Jackson had a big year with 41 homers to tie for the league lead, while also hitting a career-high .300 and driving in 111. Randolph hit .294 and Watson .307.

But the LCS was a different story. This time, the Royals swept the Yankees in three straight, with George Brett hitting two homers. A key play was Randolph getting thrown out trying to score from first, a move that Steinbrenner considered a bad call by third-base coach Mike Ferraro. Howser defended Ferraro against a Steinbrenner tirade to the media, saying, “I coached third base for ten years, and I would have done the same thing.” Randolph himself said he was going home no matter what.

“When Cincinnati swept us in the Series in ’76, I vowed to myself that
that would never happen again,” said Steinbrenner. “Now this. I was never so disappointed. It’s embarrassing as hell to me. It was even more embarrassing than Cincinnati.”

Howser had enjoyed the managing, but not the second-guessing from above. On more than one occasion he was seen hanging up on a Steinbrenner phone call, saying, “I’m busy,” without getting into a discussion. Despite the most wins by the team in seventeen years, Steinbrenner was going to let him go.

A group of invited media were summoned to Steinbrenner’s office for a spread of sandwiches. Howser sat in a chair well removed from the big round table that served as Steinbrenner’s desk. Also present was Gene Michael, who would be announced as the new manager. Howser was being relieved of his duties, couched as a resignation in order for him to pursue a not-to-be-missed real estate deal in Florida.

“The door was open for Dick to return,” said the Boss, “but he chose to accept this business opportunity.”

“Were you fired, Dick?” asked a columnist, evoking memories of Casey Stengel.

“I’m not going to comment on that,” he said.

He did say, as advice to his successors, “Have a strong stomach and get a good contract.”

The Howser departure was viewed poorly by most after returning the team to a first-place finish the year after losing Munson. Critics of the incident were vindicated when Howser was hired by the Royals in ’81 and won the Royals’ only World Series in 1985, beating St. Louis.

Just a year later, he came down with brain cancer and died in 1987 at fifty-one.

Two weeks before Christmas of 1980, Elston Howard died of myocarditis, a heart ailment. He was also fifty-one. The beloved Yankee was mourned at Riverside Church, with Reggie Jackson and Whitey Ford as the principal eulogists. The first black Yankee and the first black coach in the American League, Ellie would have his number 32 retired and would receive a plaque in Monument Park. The 1981 team wore black armbands in his honor. Although the heart ailment had curtailed his coaching career, Steinbrenner had made sure he remained on the payroll until his death, and that Arlene, his widow, was always an invited guest on special occasions. A MAN OF GREAT GENTLENESS AND DIGNITY, read his plaque.

Also present for the Howard funeral was the newest Yankee, the most
coveted free agent in baseball, Dave Winfield. He had signed a ten-year contract with the Yankees just two days before. Winfield, a remarkably gifted athlete who had pro offers in football, basketball, and baseball, spent eight seasons with the Padres before playing out his option, never having spent a day in the minors. In ’73, as a San Diego rookie, he came to old Yankee Stadium prior to a Padres night game at Shea and I walked him around the old ballpark before it was torn down. He was clearly a man who appreciated Yankee tradition.

His contract signing would have long-term ramifications. The deal called for $1.4 million a year for ten years, plus a onetime donation of $3 million to the Dave Winfield Foundation. His would be the first $1 million salary on the Yankees. But Winfield’s agent, Al Frohman, insisted on a cost-of-living increase on an annual basis because of the length of the contract. Because of the compounded increases, the real value of the deal would be enormous by the standards of the time, with the base salary eventually nearly double the $1.4 million understanding. In fact, what seemed like a $13.4 million deal might in fact be $25 million, as Murray Chass pointed out in his
Times
column the day after the press conference.

Chass’s embarrassing column made Steinbrenner appear to have been had, and while portions of the deal were quietly renegotiated downward, and a buyout after eight years was inserted, Steinbrenner would never come to warm to his new left fielder through their long association. The marriage was off to a difficult start and would never be fully repaired.

“George Steinbrenner, it seemed, had no tolerance for all these details—the fine print, the escalators, the guarantees,” wrote Winfield in a memoir. “He wanted me at any cost, and it resulted in an incredible courtship, with George at his most charming. Flowers, Broadway shows, dinner at the 21 Club, chauffeured limousines. Even telegrams in the middle of the night … ‘We want you in New York.’ Somewhere, maybe on the way to Elaine’s restaurant from Lincoln Center, George said that he liked me a lot because I had class and he could take me places he could never take Reggie. Fantastic! Not only would I play for him, we’d pal around together.”

It would never be.

THE YANKEES WON their thirty-third pennant in 1981, a work-stoppage season that resulted in them playing only 107 games. Winfield, batting .294, delivered, while Jackson, at .237, struggled. Jerry Mumphrey played center
and hit .307. There was the now-accepted turmoil along the way, but there they were to face the Dodgers, the traditional rival, which somehow added a touch of legitimacy to an otherwise illegitimate season.

What made it illegitimate was the midseason strike that lasted from June 12 until August 10, wiping out about a third of the season. The issue was compensation for lost free agents, but the overriding passion for taking such a drastic step was, as always, the owners’ desire to weaken the union and the union’s desire to remain strong and not give back hard-won rights and benefits. The institution of a compensation system that did not automatically penalize a team signing a player was the compromise that ultimately brought the bitter strike to a close.

There remained the problem of how to proceed, and MLB decided to create a “split season,” in which standings would start anew after the strike, and then the first-place winners of each half would play each other.

Despite a month-long injury to Cerone (who cursed in Steinbrenner’s face after taking criticism from the Boss in a clubhouse meeting) and ever-increasing jabs at Michael from Steinbrenner, the team found itself in first place when the strike shut down the industry.

Once play resumed and the playoff rules were set, the second “half” of the season—fifty-three games, actually—mattered little to a first-half winner, other than an extra home game in the postseason.

The Yanks finished sixth out of seven in the meaningless second half, but Michael wasn’t there to lead the team in October. After demanding that he be left alone or be fired, Steinbrenner dismissed him on September 6, and called on the retired Lemon to come back and lead the team. Lem went 11–14 and now had charge of the postseason bunch, despite Michael having won the half that got them there.

Gossage was exceptional in relief in the best-of-five Division Series against second-half winner Milwaukee, saving all three wins, while Rookie of the Year Dave Righetti won twice and Tommy John once.

The Yanks faced Billy Martin’s Oakland A’s in the ALCS and swept them in three straight, a big blow being a surprise homer from Willie Randolph (two homers all season), which proved to be the winning run in the deciding game. Winfield hit just .154 in the series. At the victory party afterward, the always sarcastic Nettles got under the skin of the always sensitive Jackson, resulting in a skirmish between the two. The traditions of the Bronx Zoo lived on and sold a lot of newspapers.

The World Series would be the only one in which Jackson and Winfield
were teammates. The Yanks won the first two games in Yankee Stadium, despite not having Mr. October in the lineup—he missed the first three games with a calf injury. Game three pitted Righetti against Fernando Valenzuela, and Fernando went the distance for a 5–4 win. It was the first of three losses for Yankee reliever George Frazier in the Series.

After losing the next two, Steinbrenner arrived for game six with his thumb in a cast. Claiming to have taken on two drunk Dodger fans in the team’s hotel elevator (“One of them slugged me with a beer bottle; I hit him back and knocked out a couple of teeth,” he told his PR man David Szen), the thumb was broken.

What really happened in the Hyatt Wilshire Hotel was never known, other than confirmation of the broken thumb. The two protagonists never emerged. Had the Boss punched a wall in frustration over three straight losses?

It was back to Yankee Stadium now, but it was not a pretty story. Winfield had one single and one RBI to show for the first five games, and when he went hitless in game six, it made him 1-for-22, .045, an embarrassing showing. In 1985, Steinbrenner would refer to Winfield, sarcastically, as “Mr. May.”

While the Yankees were going down for the fourth straight time, while Tommy John was screaming at Lemon in sight of everyone for pulling him in the fifth inning for Frazier (John had allowed only one run), Steinbrenner was in his office penning an apology to the fans.

I want to sincerely apologize to the people of New York and to the fans of the New York Yankees everywhere for the performance of the Yankee team in the World Series. I also want to assure you that we will be at work immediately to prepare for 1982. I want also to extend my congratulations to Peter O’Malley and the Dodger organization—and to my friend, Tom Lasorda, who managed a superb season, playoffs and a brilliant World Series.

Sincerely, George M. Steinbrenner.

Few were impressed by the obvious knock on Lemon’s managing, or by the apology. It didn’t go over well at all. Jackson said, “You play hard and you lose sometimes. I’m not apologizing to anyone. I’ve given my best since I’ve been here. Why not just be a pro and say the Dodgers beat us? Why
make excuses? Be a man: Stand up and say, ‘Hey, I did my best, but someone else was better.”

The first order of business after the Series would be deciding whether to keep Jackson, whose five-year contract was now up. Reggie didn’t expect to be re-signed.

And nobody imagined how long it would take for the next pennant.

WITH THE CLOSE OF THE 1981 World Series, the Yankees entered a bleak period of their history, one that would keep them out of postseason baseball for fourteen years. Not since their very beginnings—their first eighteen seasons—had they hit such a dry spell.

In the eighties the Yankees would produce more regular-season victories than any other team in baseball, yet they couldn’t find their way into the play-offs. Steinbrenner was fond of speaking of his “baseball men,” the front-office band of qualified minds who seemed to be overwhelmed by the one vote that really counted, that of the Boss.