Lou

by Lou Piniella

  So for the second time in a year, Pat Gillick was faced with the task of replacing a superstar and keeping intact as best as possible a championship-contending team. We had already decided that Carlos Guillen, one of the key players we got in the Randy Johnson deal from Houston, would replace Alex at shortstop. The original plan, before Alex’s signing with Texas, was to have Guillen take over at second base and David Bell, who’d done a nice job at second for us the previous two seasons, move over to third. With second base now a need, Pat signed Bret Boone, who’d broken into the majors with the Mariners in ’92 and whom we’d very reluctantly traded to the Reds two years later for Dan Wilson. Ironically, both Boone and Bell were third-generation major leaguers in that their fathers and grandfathers had also played in the majors. In the history of baseball, there have been only four three-generation families to all play in the majors, and we had two of them on the same team. Not surprisingly, Boone and Bell were two of the smartest baseball players I ever managed, as well as being class acts.

  About the only good thing in not being able to re-sign Alex was that Pat had some $20 million extra in the kitty to spend on free agents for 2001. He spent $3 million on a one-year deal for Booney and another $14.5 million on Aaron Sele, a right-hander who’d won 37 games the previous two season for the Rangers, to fill in the starting rotation behind Jamie Moyer and Freddy Garcia. Even before Alex departed, however, Gillick used $27.1 million to sign a spindly (5′11″, 175 pounds) twenty-seven-year-old singles-hitting right fielder who’d never played a single day in the major leagues.

  For nearly four years, Jim Colborn, the Mariners’ Pacific Rim scouting director who’d signed Kazuhiro Sasaki in 2000, had been following Ichiro Suzuki, waiting and hoping for when he became a free agent in Japan and would aspire to play in the majors. That day came in mid-October 2000 when Ichiro’s team, the Orix Blue Wave, for whom he’d won seven Japanese Pacific League batting titles, agreed to “post” him (the blind bid system, in which any of the thirty major-league teams could make an offer to Japanese teams for their free-agent players). Whenever Colborn had mentioned Ichiro to the Mariners’ owner Hiroshi Yamauchi, the Nintendo chief expressed skepticism.

  “You can’t get him,” Yamauchi said. “They’ll never let him leave Japan.”

  But Colborn knew different. He’d gotten very close to Ichiro, to the point where Ichiro told him he was looking forward to becoming a free agent and taking his talents to the United States. And the team he’d love to play for was the Mariners. Once Yamauchi realized that, he ordered our top executives to do whatever they had to do to make him a Mariner.

  Actually, the seeds to the Mariners’ signing Ichiro were sown the previous spring, when Colborn arranged to have him come to our training camp in Peoria in an exchange program. He trained with us for a couple of weeks but was not permitted to play in any of the exhibition games. Still, we’d been able to get a firsthand look at his abilities, which were considerable: an extremely disciplined contact hitter, with a keen batting eye, great speed, and a plus throwing arm in right field. You could see he was a polished, well-coached player. Once we won the posting, with a bid for $13.1 million, everyone was comfortable with the three-year $14 million contract it took to sign him, especially since, with Jay Buhner now reduced to a part-time player, we had an opening in right field. It didn’t hurt either that the heavy Asian population in Seattle figured to make his transition to the United States all the more comfortable.

  Nevertheless, when Ichiro arrived in camp at Peoria in February 2001, I was one who still had some concerns about him. I remembered from my days with the Yankees that Billy Martin always wanted to see bat speed from the rookies and new players on the team. For the first few days of camp Ichiro was hitting almost everything to left field and down the third base line. I liked most everything else about him, but I was getting a little nervous about whether he was going to be able to hit major-league fastballs on a consistent basis. Finally, during a spring training game, I went to his interpreter and said, “Tell him I want to see bat speed. I need to see him pull the ball.” I watched as the interpreter went down to the end of the dugout, said something to Ichiro, and Ichiro nodded and smiled. The next inning, he hit a high fastball onto the hill behind the right field fence. When he got back to the dugout he came up to me and said, “You happy now?” I replied, “Yes, yes. I’m very happy. From here on out you can do whatever you want!”

  The most homers Ichiro ever hit in the majors was 15 for the Mariners in 2005, but I have absolutely no doubt that if he’d wanted to, he could have easily hit 15 to 20 a year on a regular basis. You couldn’t teach American kids to do what he did—pull the inside pitches, steer the away pitches, on a line, to the opposite field. There was no way to defend him. He’d be already in motion toward first base, with his upper body still stationary, when he swung the bat. I always said if they’d put him in the home run contest at the All-Star Game he’d have won it. In batting practice he consistently hit the ball three to four hundred feet to the pull field. Instead, he settled for two batting titles, the all-time record for hits in a season (262 in 2004), and the only man in history with ten consecutive 200-hit seasons and 3,000 hits in both the United States and Japan. He’s another one of my players I’m looking forward to seeing accept his Hall of Fame plaque in Cooperstown, but first he’s gotta stop playing or it may not happen in my lifetime!

  Ichiro later said he was very nervous throughout that first season, desperate to make good as the first Japanese everyday position player in the majors. But if he was, he sure didn’t show it. At the end of April, he was hitting .336, and he never stopped. He wound up compiling one of the most phenomenal first-year seasons of any player in history, leading the league in batting (.350), stolen bases (56), and hits (242). Naturally, with Alex gone, we all wondered what Ichiro could bring to the table in his place. All he did was join Fred Lynn as the only players in baseball history to win the Rookie of the Year and Most Valuable Player awards in the same season. And for the second straight year, I had been supplanted by one of my own players as the oldest Rookie of the Year. When it came to the MVP, I have to admit I was torn between Ichiro and Bret Boone. Booney, in 2001, became our Alex, hitting .331 with 37 homers and a league-leading 141 RBI. He was a cocky kid when I first had him, but now he was a seasoned pro and an equally great defensive player who could turn the double play better than any second baseman in the game. At one point, Gillick asked me, “How in the hell could you trade this guy?” I explained to him we had to get rid of the salary of Erik Hanson, the pitcher we included in the Wilson deal, who was coming up on free agency. Like I said, it was a coin flip between the two for the MVP. Booney, who also got off to a torrid start in April, hitting .344 with 22 RBI, wound up finishing third.

  Taking Ichiro’s and Booney’s lead, we finished April 20–5, in first place by nine games—the only team in history to win 20 games in April. From there, it merely steamrolled to one of the greatest seasons baseball has ever known. Our 116 wins tied the 1906 Cubs for the most ever in a season. We led the AL West from start to finish—another wire-to-wire for me—and won it by 14 games. We won more games on the road (59) than at home (57), and from May 23 to June 8, we won 15 in a row. Edgar, at thirty-eight, had his typical season: .306, 23 HR, 116 RBI. Mike Cameron had 25 homers and 110 RBI and won a Gold Glove in center field. John Olerud hit .302 with 21 homers and 95 RBI as an All-Star at first base. My top four starters, Jamie, Garcia, Sele, and Paul Abbott, were a combined 70–21, and Sasaki had 45 saves. I should also add that Buhner tore the arch in his left foot in spring training and was on the disabled list almost the entire season. But he was in that clubhouse every single day, lending support and leadership. He was my enforcer to the end, a true professional.

  “The 2001 team was special, and epitomized Lou teams in that it was one of the best fundamental teams I ever had,” said Gillick. “There was, however, one night in August when it didn’t look that way. We were playing in Cleveland on the ESP
N Sunday-night game. I was home in Seattle watching the game on TV and after three innings we were losing 12–0. We wound up losing the game, 15–14, in eleven innings, and about a half hour after the game I got a phone call from Lou, screaming, ‘I need a pitcher!’ I said to him, ‘Okay, Lou, okay. It’s all right. Look at the standings! We’re almost fifty games over .500 and leading the division by nineteen games!’”

  It was by far the best—and the easiest—team I ever managed. We began September winning 10 of our first 11 games, crossing the 100-win mark. On the morning of September 11, I was asleep in my hotel room in Anaheim when I got a phone call from Anita, who was extremely distraught.

  “Did you see what’s happened in New York?” she said. “Turn on the television!”

  I quickly flipped on the TV and for the next three hours watched in horror, frozen in my bed, at the sight of the twin towers in flames, then crumbling to the ground into rubble. The city of New York, my second home, was under attack. Thousands of people killed. It was just unfathomable. For the next three days we were grounded in Anaheim, with no-fly restrictions in effect and I spent much of the time in my hotel room glued to the TV, watching the horrifying events in New York. The season didn’t resume until September 18, when Freddy Garcia shut out the Angels, 4–0, at Safeco. The next night, Jamie and four relievers shut the Angels out again in what turned out to be the division clincher, as Oakland lost to Texas to fall 18 games behind.

  Before the game, Pat and I talked about what we should do when we clinched. We both agreed this was no time for any kind of celebration or partying. Instead, after we learned Oakland had lost, our players got out an American flag and paraded it all around the infield, then kneeled on the mound, said a prayer, and raised the flag again. That was my all-time favorite moment in my ten years in Seattle. I was so proud of my players. Hanging on the wall in my den at home is a picture of them holding up that flag, dated September 19, 2001. As this was going on, the sellout crowd at Safeco, 45,459, got eerily quiet and then emptied silently when the ceremony was over.

  With the division clinched so early, Pat and I had a bit of a quandary: Do we go for the major-league record of 116 wins in a season, or do we rest our team? I talked it over with my players and they all wanted to go for the record. So we decided we could still watch our pitching and rest our lineup and at the same time keep playing hard with the idea of accomplishing something no other team had ever done.

  From September 24 to October 6, we won 10 of 11 games to reach 116 wins, tying the record, with one game to go. We were playing the Rangers—who were in last place—that final series, at home, and I wondered what Alex was thinking and feeling across the way when we tied the record. Unfortunately we had to be satisfied with just a share of the record—which had stood for 95 years—when the Rangers beat us, 4–3, on the last day on a ninth-inning run against Jeff Nelson.

  After the game, I made an impromptu address to the team in which I congratulated them on doing something only one other team had ever done, and for also setting the American League record for most wins in a season. Pat and Chuck Armstrong came down to the clubhouse and essentially said the same thing on behalf of the ownership. We were all extremely proud of them. But now, I said, we had to put this loss behind us and get ready to play a tough Cleveland team in the first round of the playoffs.

  In the years when there was only one wild card, the team with the best overall record in the league usually got to play the wild card team in the first round. But because the A’s were in our own division, we had to play the Indians, who’d won the AL Central, while the A’s played the AL East champion Yankees. Cleveland was a proven, professional team with very few weaknesses. After splitting the first two games in Seattle, they clobbered us, 17–2, in game 3 and suddenly, after winning 116 games during the season, we were on the brink of elimination in the first round of the playoffs. Thanks to a homer and 2 RBI by Edgar and the combined five-hit pitching from Garcia and three relievers, we were able to tie the series with a 6–2 win in game 4, and in game 5 our pitching—this time Jamie and three relievers—prevailed again to win the series. But it had been hard fought and had taken its toll.

  Before the series, Carlos Guillen contracted tuberculosis, and we were concerned the rest of the team might have been infected. In addition, Edgar pulled a groin muscle and was hobbling badly in the series. He played the rest of the postseason essentially on one leg. Our strength was our bullpen and because we were extended the full five games, I was unable to start Jamie until game 3 of the ALCS.

  Even though the A’s were the wild card and a team with whom we were most familiar, my preference was for us to play the Yankees in the ALCS. It’s always special to beat the defending world champions to get to the World Series. I should’ve known to be careful for what I wished for. Unlike the A’s, or any other team for that matter, the Yankees had four proven aces—Mike Mussina having now joined Roger Clemens, Andy Pettitte, and El Duque—to our two, Garcia and Jamie. In game 1, Pettitte shut us down on three hits in eight innings, and the next night Mussina gave up only four hits and two runs in six innings, with the Yankees’ bullpen shutting us out the rest of the way. Down 0–2, I caused quite a commotion in my postgame media conference when I vowed, “We are coming back here to play game six. Don’t ask any questions. Just print it!” The New York newspapers had a field day with that, and even though I believed firmly in what I said, it would have been best to keep it to myself. You can let your team know it but not the entire country.

  New York was buzzing like I’d never seen it before, but there was no escaping the grief and unspeakable horror still enveloping the city from the attack of 9/11. Before game 3, Major League Baseball officials asked us if we would visit Ground Zero and a couple of firehouses. We spent the entire day visiting with the workers at Ground Zero, the firefighters, and the police wards. It tore your heart out to see the devastation at Ground Zero and to realize all the lives that had been lost. Our hearts poured out for the people there.

  When I was with the Yankees, I’d go down to the financial district from time to time, and seeing it now, in ruins, was just unreal. The devastation and then the stories the fans and people there were telling us, it was overwhelming. Watching the bravery of the cops, firemen, and first responders all working feverishly there at Ground Zero made us feel proud, and I remember thinking, If we can just bring one little piece of joy and hope by being here … As it turned out, the resilience of the city was exemplified by the Yankees.

  When we got to Yankee Stadium, however, it was time to refocus on baseball. I knew I had to talk to them, so before the game I called my players together in the clubhouse and held up a copy of the Daily News.

  “Do you see this newspaper?” I said. “This is not the Daily Planet. Those guys in the other dugout aren’t supermen and we’re not just any other baseball team. We can beat these guys!”

  With Jamie on the mound, we pounded El Duque and three other Yankees relievers for 15 hits, including homers by Olerud, Boone, and Buhner, in a 14–3 rout. I thought we were on our way, and that if Paul Abbott, my fourth-game starter who had a really good changeup, could keep the Yankees at bay for six or seven innings, we could get the series back to Seattle—as promised—where I’d have Garcia and Moyer ready and rested for games 6 and 7.

  I was right about Abbott, who pitched five innings of no-hit ball, but walked eight and used up 97 pitches doing so, and I had to go to my bullpen two innings earlier than I’d hoped. Norm Charlton and Jeff Nelson kept the game scoreless through seven, and then in the eighth, Boone homered off Ramiro Mendoza to give us a short-lived 1–0 lead. In the bottom of the inning Bernie Williams homered off Arthur Rhodes to tie it. Now Joe Torre and I were both down to our closers. But after Mariano Rivera retired us in order in the ninth, Sasaki gave up a two-run walk-off homer to Alfonso Soriano in the bottom of the inning, and Yankee Stadium exploded in delirium.

  It was a truly tough loss, and now I had to decide whether to bring back
my right-handed horse, Garcia, on three days’ rest, or go with twenty-three-year-old Joel Pineiro, who was the future of the organization but had not started since September 22, when he’d lasted just two innings against the A’s. The third option was Sele, my game 1 starter, who was 0–5 in six previous postseason starts. Gillick, my pitching coach, Bryan Price, and I went over and over the possibilities before finally settling on Sele, who, unfortunately, was not able to contain the Yankees’ bats. We were down 9–0 after six innings and lost, 12–3.

  It was a terrible letdown after winning 116 games in the regular season, and I’d wanted badly to beat the Yankees. Throughout the three games in New York, the Yankees fans had chided me pretty good, shouting stuff like, “No game six! No game six!” and that hurt me because I’m a sensitive person. These were, after all, the same fans who cheered and supported me unconditionally all those years ago when I was playing hard for them and later doing battle with Mr. Steinbrenner.

  On the other hand, the city of New York and these fans had gone through so much devastation that winning this series was in a way therapeutic for them. They needed healing and I felt good for them. I even said so publicly before game 5, but adding, “That’s a strange thought coming from a manager who’s getting his ass kicked.” When you’d played and managed in New York and formed as many lifelong friendships there as I did, you couldn’t help feeling good about the Yankees going back to the World Series, bringing a little joy back to the Bronx and taking everyone’s minds off the death and destruction still being sorted out at the lower end of Manhattan.

  The next day we flew back to Seattle, but as if we hadn’t gone through enough calamity already, soon after we were airborne there was a fire in the back of the plane! All the air masks came down, and we had to make an emergency landing back in Newark. After touching down, I looked out the window and saw all these fire trucks and ambulances furiously motoring toward the plane. Having a little private gallows humor, I thought, Where the hell were all these people last night when I needed them?