by Felipe Alou
“Hey, hey, what are you doing!?” he yelled at me. “There’s a game going on!”
I stared at Jesús, and with my authoritative finger pointing at him, I barked, “You’re suspended!”
Then I turned to Guerrero and pointed. “You’re suspended, too!”
It was an ugly incident, caught on TV. When I went into the manager’s office after the game, the team owner was waiting for me. “What happened?” he asked.
“This guy threw a ball and glove at me, and he didn’t want to move in the outfield.”
“And you’re suspending him?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Guerrero and Jesús Alou, too.”
“If we make the playoffs, do you think we’re going to win without Pedro Guerrero?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Deep down, though, I knew we could not win the playoffs without Guerrero. But we did start winning regular-season games—ten straight.
But over those ten days, I started getting pressure. My father came by my house, begging me to let Jesús back on the team. I refused. Then the heavy artillery came—my mother. She also begged me to take Jesús back. Once again I refused.
We made the playoffs, and the owner came to my house before the first game. “Listen,” he said, “we’re not going to win the playoffs without Pedro. I don’t think we have a chance.”
I agreed that if Guerrero apologized to me and the team, he could return. The owner pulled out one of those old Cellular One phones that was about as big as a shoe. I didn’t want to talk to Pedro, and Pedro didn’t want to talk to me, so the owner mediated.
After talking to Guerrero for a couple of minutes, he cupped his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “Pedro wants to come back and help the team,” he said.
“Tell him he has to apologize to the team and me in the clubhouse,” I said.
After a few more moments on the phone, the owner covered the mouthpiece again and said, “Pedro said no. He doesn’t believe he needs to apologize.”
“Then he’s not playing,” I said.
And that was that.
The next day Pedro changed his mind and came to the clubhouse and apologized. He didn’t say much, but it was an apology. He rejoined the team, and with him we won the Winter League championship. Today, we’re great friends.
The rift between Jesús and me didn’t mend as quickly, and for that I’ll forever feel terrible, because he was right and I was wrong. Jesús is a mediator, a peacemaker, and he was only trying to defuse the situation. But in my anger I misinterpreted his intentions, and in my stubbornness I refused to admit that.
Jesús, who lives next door to me in the Dominican, is such a sweet man, very humble, generous, and well loved. If you talk to Pedro Martínez, he’ll tell you he would like to spend every day with Jesús, which is quite a compliment. Jim Bouton, the former pitcher famous for the book Ball Four, was my brother’s teammate with the Houston Astros in 1969 and 1970. In his second book, I’m Glad You Didn’t Take It Personally, Bouton described Jesús this way: “We called him J. or Jesus, never hay-soos. . . . J. is one of the most delicate, sensitive, nicest men I have ever met. He’d walk a mile out of his way to drop a coin in some beggar’s cup.” I couldn’t agree more. That’s my brother.
Not only that, but Jesús is also a very intelligent and astute baseball man. In the 2002 offseason, after the Minnesota Twins released David “Big Papi” Ortiz, Jesús begged the Red Sox to sign Papi. At the time my brother was the director of Boston’s Dominican academy. Finally, more than a month after the Twins released him, the Red Sox signed Ortiz, and I believe they are glad they did.
In addition to being an astute baseball man, especially with pitchers, Jesús is the best fisherman along the Dominican Republic’s South Coast. I don’t know about the North Coast, because I don’t know the fishermen there. But on the South Coast, Jesús is the best.
That Jesús is such a wise baseball man and fisherman is no coincidence. Again, I think the two are connected. With fishing you can prepare and put in the effort, yet whether you catch a fish is still ultimately up to the fish. It’s the same way with baseball. After you’ve done all the preparation and put in all the effort, it still comes down to the players.
Ellis Valentine comes to mind when I think of this. Ellis was basically a good guy who struggled with drugs during his career, straightened himself out, and has since worked as a drug and church counselor. Ellis had a ton of talent when he was with the Expos. He had all the tools, and he could really run. His talent was similar to an outfielder I later managed—Vladimir Guerrero. The problem with Ellis was that he was so good, he didn’t want to work hard, especially if it was extra work.
My first year coaching in the big leagues, in 1979, I was the Expos’ third base and outfield coach. Our manager, Dick Williams, already frustrated with Ellis, wanted me to make him my special spring training project. I took it not only as an edict, but also as a challenge.
My first day working with the outfielders, I was hitting them fungoes, and Ellis begged off, complaining of a sore calf. I told Williams, who went to the head trainer, who told Williams he was unaware of any calf issues with Ellis. The next day I was hitting lazy fly balls to the outfielders, and Ellis took a few before stopping, complaining about his lower back. The next day we were working on throwing to bases, and Ellis, who had a gun for an arm, opted out, citing a sore shoulder. On and on it went until, by the end of the week, he had run through every body part. That was Ellis.
Soon Williams was in my ear again about Ellis, and he wasn’t happy. Ellis was a gifted runner, fast, and he had the green light to steal. But that was the problem. If it was up to him, Ellis wasn’t going to put in any extra effort. Williams instructed me as the third base coach to give Ellis the steal sign and make him run. But every time I gave him the steal sign, Ellis wouldn’t run, claiming he couldn’t understand the sign.
“Have a special sign just for him,” Williams barked, “and make it simple.”
We had a team meeting to go over the signs. When I was done I turned to Ellis and told him we had a special sign just for him. I grabbed my crotch. “When I grab my balls, you’re running,” I said. The guys started laughing. But I wasn’t laughing. And neither was Williams.
The first time he got on base Williams gave me a sign from the dugout for Ellis to steal. Right away I looked at Ellis and grabbed my crotch. I could see players in the dugout covering their faces, laughing. But I was serious. I waited for him to steal second, already anticipating Williams’s smile of approval, but Ellis stayed put at first. Williams was fuming. When the inning ended I hustled to our dugout, and before Ellis could jog to right field I confronted him.
“How come you didn’t run?” I demanded. “I grabbed my balls!”
Ellis looked at me and said, “Felipe, I thought the sign was when you had both hands on your balls.”
I couldn’t believe it. When I told Williams what Ellis said, everybody in the dugout started laughing again. Everybody except Williams and me. It taught me a lesson. When you’re managing players, you can prepare and put in all the effort, but in the end sometimes you’re just a guy standing there holding his crotch.
29
You Can Go Home Again
When Dave Dombrowski phoned me during the 2002 offseason, I wasn’t prepared for what he would tell me. “The Giants called,” he said. “They’ve asked permission to talk to you about being their next manager. If you’re interested, they’d like you to fly out for an interview.”
I was interested. The San Francisco Giants were not only the organization I started my career with, but also a team that had just gone to the World Series, losing in the seventh game to the Anaheim Angels. So, yes, I was definitely interested. But I wasn’t interested in a six-and-a-half-hour flight from my home in South Florida. Not to interview. I believed that at this stage of my life and career, I had earned the courtesy of not having to do that.
“Tell them I’m interested,” I told Dombrows
ki, “but I’m not interested in flying out there to interview.”
I had a fishing trip planned the next day, and when I returned home my wife, Lucie, greeted me at the door. “The Giants are here,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve been calling. They’re at the Ritz Carlton in Lantana. They want you to come and talk to them.”
The only other time I was offered a Major League managing job, with the Montreal Expos, I had also been fishing that day, and I went straight from the lake to the general manager’s office without cleaning up. This time I decided to shower and dress nicely.
Brian Sabean, the Giants’ general manager, had flown from San Francisco the night before, and he was at the Ritz Carlton with Ron Perranoski, who lived up the coast in Vero Beach and worked in player development for the organization. I got to Sabean’s hotel suite, and we chatted for a while, small talk. I really didn’t know Sabean, but I knew Perranoski, who was a contemporary as a player and a coach.
“How do you feel about managing the Giants?” Sabean suddenly asked.
“I’d love to manage the Giants,” I replied.
“Great,” Sabean replied. “Let me take you guys out to dinner.”
Over dinner Sabean matter-of-factly told me I was the manager, and the next day we agreed on a two-year contract with an option for a third year. Before I knew it I was happily on a six-and-a-half-hour flight to San Francisco for an introductory news conference. Afterward, I went into my new office, and on the desk was a handwritten letter from Dusty Baker, the manager who preceded me. Dusty told me what a classy organization the Giants were, how there were good people running it, and that he was happy it was me who got the job, and he wished me success. That’s Dusty. A real gentleman and a solid baseball man.
A letter also arrived via fax:
Dear Felipe,
As an old time player for us I remember you fondly. I always appreciated what a great job you did.
You’re a fine leader and you’re great for baseball.
Congratulations!
Best Regards,
George M. Steinbrenner
It felt good. Good to be back to the beginning. Good to be back in the city where I got my first base hit, my first home run, where I learned to drive, where I first met Roberto Clemente, where I was a teammate with players like Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, Juan Marichal, and Orlando Cepeda. It felt comfortable, like slipping your hand back into your favorite well-worn baseball glove.
I was sixty-seven, the oldest man hired to manage a team since 1962, when Casey Stengel came out of retirement at seventy-one to manage the expansion New York Mets. I’ve always had energy, but I felt especially energized, ready to go. I knew this was going to be my last stop, and Sabean already had plans for me to be his special assistant after I was done managing.
Peter Magowan, the Giants’ managing general partner, had two early requests for me:
Call Jeff Kent, who had become a free agent, and try to convince him to re-sign with the organization.
Talk to Barry Bonds and try to get him to play in the annual spring training exhibition game against the Giants’ Minor League team in Fresno, California, which Barry always begged out of.
Kent, an outstanding second baseman who I think should be in the Hall of Fame, had been with the Giants since 1997 and won the National League MVP two seasons earlier. It was no secret that he and Bonds did not get along, especially since they had gotten into a well-publicized dugout skirmish during the 2002 season. Kent was polite when we talked, and thankful that I called, but he wasn’t interested in returning. Instead, he signed with the Houston Astros.
That spring training Bonds was on a tear. I recall he had ten home runs, and one day we were talking and he said, “They keep accusing me of steroids, so I’m not going to hit any more home runs this spring.” And he didn’t. Instead, he rocketed line drives all over the place. Incredible.
I talked to Barry about playing in the annual game against the organization’s Class Triple-A affiliate in Fresno. “Old man, I’ll do it for you,” he said, smiling. Because of knowing his father, Bobby, I had known Barry since he was a baby. He always calls me either boss or old man, and in both cases he does so with respect. Leading up to the game, which was at the end of spring training, Bonds assured me he would be there, which made ownership happy because it meant a good gate and goodwill with the Minor League team, which was promoting the heck out of Barry Bonds being there.
But the day before the game Barry flew to San Francisco, saying he had family matters to attend to and that he wouldn’t be able to go to Fresno. That’s Barry. That’s what you learn to deal with, and even accept, when you have a superstar player. It wasn’t that big of a deal, and it certainly was not the worst time I had been stiffed by a superstar. That came six years later, when I managed the Dominican Republic team in the World Baseball Classic.
After playing for the United States in the 2006 World Baseball Classic, Alex Rodriguez said he wanted to return to his roots and play third base for the Dominican Republic team in 2009. Needless to say I was thrilled to have him. The other Dominican third basemen—guys like Adrián Beltré, Aramis Ramírez, Edwin Encarnación, and Ronnie Belliard—acquiesced, opting not to play in order to pave the way for A-Rod.
We played three tune-up games during spring training, and the night before we were to leave for Puerto Rico to start the Classic, A-Rod rented a house in Palm Beach and threw a party for the team. It was first-class, with top-notch food, drink, wine, champagne—the works. It was A-Rod at his best.
The next morning Lucie awakened me. “Did you hear?” she asked. “Alex Rodriguez is flying to Colorado to have surgery.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
I called our team’s media relations man. “Have you heard anything about Alex Rodriguez flying to Colorado today for surgery?” I asked.
“I haven’t heard anything,” he said. “Let me see what’s going on, and I’ll call you right back.”
Five minutes later he called. “Yeah, it’s true,” he said.
Now we were flying to Puerto Rico to start the World Baseball Classic without our best player and third baseman, who obviously knew he had hip surgery scheduled and didn’t say anything. Boarding the flight that day were a lot of ticked-off players. At the Classic we didn’t make it out of the first round, losing two of the three games we played.
Seven years later, at the Latino Hall of Fame induction ceremonies at the Altos de Chavón in La Romana, Dominican Republic, A-Rod received an award for hitting his 600th home run. He was there with his girlfriend at the time, actress Cameron Diaz. Since I’m on the Hall of Fame committee, I was also there. As Alex accepted his award he made a little speech where he said, “I feel so honored that I got to play for Felipe Alou.” It was an unbelievable statement to make, given that he really didn’t play for me. As he said it I heard faint rumbling sounds of oohs from the audience that almost sounded like boos. But that was Alex.
Though I never really managed Alex Rodriguez, I did manage Barry Bonds for four seasons, and he was something to behold. Managing Barry Bonds was one of the highlights of my career. I used to fear Barry as an opposing manager—not as a hitter, but as a baseball player. He could beat you with his bat, his glove, his arm, his legs—he was a complete player in every respect. Barry had one of the best swings I ever saw and maybe the best eye for the strike zone of anyone since Ted Williams. I’m not an expert on drugs, but I do believe I know baseball, and I can’t imagine there is any drug that can help you see the ball the way Barry saw it, or have the swing he had, or give you instincts on the base paths, or the incredible intellect he brought to the plate, or help you win eight Gold Glove Awards.
To me it’s sad that the focus is on steroids and the home runs because Barry was a rare athlete. And it’s even sadder to me that an athlete like that could lose his place in history. He was one of the best to ever play the game.
The first two years
I had Barry, he hit 45 homers each season and won his third- and fourth-consecutive National League MVP Awards. We won one hundred and then ninety-one games those two seasons, which was the most wins a Giants manager ever recorded in his first two seasons managing the team, even going back to the New York years. The last two years, with Barry hobbled by injuries and with considerably less talent around him, we only won seventy-five and seventy-six games.
By then Barry was calling his own shots. He was always one of the first two guys in the clubhouse, and if I didn’t hear from him, I knew he was good to go and he was in the lineup. But sometimes he would stop by my office and make a slashing motion at his throat, saying, “Hey, boss, I can’t help you today.” A lot of times on those days, he would sleep in the clubhouse. Late in the game I would have somebody wake him to pinch-hit. More often than not Barry would come to the plate and hit a home run or draw a walk, and I would pinch-run for him. He was incredible that way.
People ask me about steroids and the Hall of Fame and what should happen. All I know is that people are in limbo right now. There needs to be a decision, an edict. Fair or not, guilty or innocent, players are being punished by being put in limbo. Those in power need to make a statement. Either put them in or publicly say they’ll never go in. One way or another, there should be a decision.
As sad as I am about the Steroid Era in baseball, I feel even sadder at how it infected my country, given the staggering amount of players from the Dominican who have tested positive for steroids. But before people judge, I would invite them to come to the Dominican Republic with me. I’ll show them poverty, desperation, despair. I’ll show them children with little or no food to eat. Baseball is where the money is, and where there is money there is temptation, there is corruption. Understand, too, that in the Dominican Republic you can buy drugs over the counter that you need a prescription for in the United States. It is a recipe for abuse.
Baseball is the golden ticket, and everybody in the Dominican Republic knows that. I have parents come to me and tell me their son is going to be a great baseball player, that he has great talent, destined for superstardom. I ask them how old the boy is, and they’ll say, “Eight.” Eight? Eight years old, and they know for sure he is going to be a superstar Major Leaguer! I try not to shake my head in front of them.
