Lou

by Lou Piniella

  As the season approached the All-Star Break with no substantial improvement in our play, my blood sugar was going through the roof. In 2004, I had been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, which was a bit of a wake-up call for me and, among other things, caused me to give up smoking cold turkey. During the course of my time with the Cubs I had many discussions about diabetes with Ron Santo, the Cubs’ iconic third baseman and broadcaster who had suffered from the disease since he was a teenager. Ronnie was my favorite dinner companion on the road, just a super guy, who fought diabetes gallantly and without complaint after it had necessitated the amputation of the lower half of both his legs in 2001 and 2002. After the first amputation, of his right leg, he joked, “It was just a flesh wound!” Poor Ronnie. He bled Cubbie blue, and I think he suffered more than I did after losses. We’d go out to dinner after a bad loss and I’d wind up having to console him! We’d talk about the Hall of Fame and how it kept eluding him, and of the 1969 season when the Cubs were overtaken by the Mets and how that fed even more into the superstitions surrounding the Cubs. In 2010, I could see that he was really starting to struggle. The bladder cancer he’d been diagnosed with in 2003 had come back and the diabetes was continuing to wreak havoc on his system. But he soldiered on, until finally surrendering to it all on December 3. The real tragedy of Ronnie’s life was that he didn’t live to see the day, December 5, 2011, when he was finally given his due with his election to the Hall of Fame by the Golden Era Veterans Committee.

  I was in my apartment in Chicago the morning of the 2010 All-Star Game, July 13, watching ESPN’s SportsCenter when the news came across that George Steinbrenner had died of a heart attack in a Tampa hospital, a little more than a week after his eightieth birthday. I knew Mr. Steinbrenner’s situation had been deteriorating, but not to that extent. The previous winter Malio and I had gone over to his house with some stone crabs from Malio’s restaurant, and he seemed genuinely happy to see us and didn’t appear frail or ill. As I watched the coverage of Mr. Steinbrenner’s death, with all the highlights of his career, I felt a tremendous sense of sadness. In one way I thought of him as my dad. Other times, I hated him. He was very tough on me. He could be one of the most entertaining and fun people to be around, but also a royal pain in the ass. He knew how to get under your skin when he wanted something. We got along much better after I left the Yankees. Whenever I brought my teams to Yankee Stadium, if he was in town, I’d try to stop up to his office, just to say hello.

  I thought about all the good times I’d spent with him in New York and Tampa—the three-year contract he gave me when I was almost done … and the World Series we won together. I tried not to think about the bad things. He always hated the All-Star Game. Never wanted us to participate in it for fear of injuries. Rather, he wanted us to take those three days to rest. Remembering that brought a smile to my face. Leave it to Mr. Steinbrenner to upstage the All-Star Game, I thought. Later that day, I called the Yankees to find out about the services. I was informed there would be none and that the funeral was going to be private. Suddenly, I felt very empty. I had never gotten the chance to tell him how I felt about him, never really gotten proper closure. So this one really hit me hard. It hurts to this day, every time I think of him.

  The death of Mr. Steinbrenner only further fortified my decision to retire after the 2010 season. After talking it over with Hendry, we decided it might be best to announce it right away, so my contract situation wouldn’t become a lingering distraction the rest of the season. Before our game with the Astros at Wrigley, July 20, I shared with the media that I would be hanging it up at the end of the season. I told them managing the Cubs had been a wonderful experience—which it was—and that there was no way I wouldn’t cherish my memories in Chicago. “But I’ve been away from home since 1962,” I added. “That’s about fifty years.”

  When I was asked why I didn’t just step down immediately, I replied, “I signed here for four years. I’m going to honor my contract.”

  Hendry was happy I’d made my decision public because it gave him more time to evaluate his options for a successor. In retrospect, it was one of the worst things I could’ve ever done. Once the players know the manager isn’t coming back, there’s a different attitude knowing they’re playing for a lame duck. I could feel it. Then, on July 29, I got a call from my aunt in Tampa informing me that my uncle Joe Magadan had died of an aneurism burst. Even though he was ninety-two, his death was almost as big a shock to me as Mr. Steinbrenner’s. Uncle Joe had been one of my earliest baseball coaches on the Tampa sandlots and had taught me the rudiments of the game—as he’d done with his son, Dave, who’d gone on to a very successful sixteen-year career in the big leagues, later becoming a batting coach for a number of teams. Now, within the course of just a couple of weeks, two of the men who’d been closest to me, Mr. Steinbrenner and Uncle Joe, were gone.

  As soon as I got word about Uncle Joe, I packed a bag and headed right to the airport without going to the ballpark. I put Alan Trammell in charge of the team and asked him to give my apologies for leaving so abruptly. I knew the players weren’t happy I hadn’t informed them personally. When I got home to Tampa I saw firsthand how much my mom’s heart was failing. She would have these periodic spells where she couldn’t breathe, and for the next few weeks I’d get regular calls from my aunt, who’d become her caretaker, warning me about how grave her condition was becoming.

  Two days after my uncle’s death, Hendry traded Ted Lilly to the Dodgers for three prospects—a signal to everyone he’d given up on the season. From July 27 to August 22, we were 5–20 and fell into fifth place, 21½ games behind. The final death knell to the season was Hendry’s trade of Lee to the Braves for three more prospects on August 18.

  Between my concern for my mom and my own state of mind, I felt I needed to go home immediately, rather than waiting until the end of the season. I expressed my feelings to Jim, and he couldn’t have been better about it. On August 22, the Cubs had a nice retirement tribute for me at Wrigley Field after our game against the Braves. In addition, they told me they were going to pay my salary for the season, something they certainly didn’t have to do. It was one of the most emotional days of my life, not the least because of the presence of Bobby Cox in the other dugout, who was also retiring as a manager after the season. Coxie had been there at the beginning of my journey, as a Triple-A manager and spring training instructor with the Yankees when I joined them in 1974. He also coached first base for Billy Martin in 1977, and it was very apparent the high esteem with which he was held in the organization. Even then, there had been talk of Bobby being an heir apparent for the Yankees’ managing job, but nobody was surprised that he went off and became one of the greatest managers in baseball history with first the Blue Jays and then the Braves. There’s a certain bond among guys who worked for the Yankees and Mr. Steinbrenner, and that’s why having Bobby there that day seemed all the more appropriate for me. I cry easily anyway and I was barely able to get through my postgame press conference. “I get emotional,” I said, through my tears. “I’m sorry. This is the last time I’m gonna put a uniform on.” Earlier, I had told the media, “My mom needs me home and that’s where I’m going.”

  It turned out my mom was a tough old lady and lived another year and a half, but she really struggled. Periodically her lungs would fill up with water and she couldn’t breathe, and we’d have to rush her to the hospital, where she’d spend a couple of days. Those incidents really frightened her. It was in mid-January 2012 when her heart really began to give out and she was admitted again to Saint Joseph’s Hospital. Shortly thereafter, she lapsed into a coma and was put on a respirator. After it became clear she wasn’t going to recover, we made the decision to remove her from the respirator. She kept fighting right to the end of her ninety-two years. I was right there with her when she breathed her last breath. Her suffering was over. I’m forever grateful I was able to be with her. She had always been my rock.

  At the same time, I’ve c
ome to really regret not finishing out that last season with the Cubs. I think about it a lot. I’ve never been one to walk away from the battle. I just got caught up in the moment. My mom was happy I came back home, but she even said I should’ve stayed and finished out the season.

  I was sincere when I told the media at that last press conference how much I truly appreciated managing the Cubs. I enjoyed my time with Hendry. He was an excellent boss to work for and kept all his promises to me. The Cubs are a landmark organization, with intensely loyal fans and a long tradition of special players. One of the great pleasures of my time there was having iconic Cubs like Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, Fergie Jenkins, Andre Dawson, and Rick Sutcliffe come around in spring training. And those Cub Conventions in January! I never experienced anything in baseball of that magnitude, where the fans would come from all over, and the old Cubs would speak to them, hold seminars with them, and sign autographs for hours. Three or four days of absolute craziness—and that was when they were still working on that century-long drought without a World Series championship that finally ended in 2016. I only wish I could’ve been the one to end it for them.

  It would have been nice to end on a winning season, to have won one more championship, but I am immensely proud of my 1,835 victories, which are the 14th most of all the managers in baseball history—and 355 more than my old nemesis, Weaver. (Sorry, I just had to point that out!) I was also flattered when three or four teams called over the next couple of years to inquire if I’d be interested in managing them. It would have been great to get 2,000 wins—and I would’ve, had I not gone home to Tampa for those three years with the Devil Rays. But I can’t have any regrets over putting family first. I just didn’t think I had the stamina to put up with the grueling eight-month baseball schedule anymore. That’s why I was thankful to my old friend Brian Sabean for offering me a “soft landing” in 2011. I’d blown my chance to manage the Giants for Brian, but here he was again, wanting to hire me as a special assistant to scout for him out of Tampa, which I jumped at. The Giants, under Sabean, were like a Yankees’ “old home society,” with so many of my former Yankees teammates and Yankees I managed—Dick Tidrow, Chicken Stanley, Dave Righetti, Steve Balboni, Joe Lefebvre, Roberto Kelly, Hensley Meulens—all working for them in various capacities.

  The 2011 season was one of the most enjoyable of my life. I was able to watch baseball games without the stress while still feeling I had something to offer. The only reason I gave it up after one year was because Brian wanted me to expand my role into a more full-time job. That would have required much more travel, frequent trips to San Francisco, and likely an extended period of time in Arizona for spring training. After a half century on the road, I spent 2012 getting used to honing my golf game, fishing with my sons, Derek and Lou Jr., and spending time with my daughter, Kristi, and my five granddaughters.

  Home in Tampa, enjoying this life of leisure in the early months of 2013, I was reading the almost daily accounts in the local newspapers about another budding steroids scandal for baseball involving a Biogenesis clinic in south Florida. Until this time, I didn’t even know what Biogenesis meant or was, but the more I read about this clinic and its activities, the more I came to realize it had everything to do with the distribution of performance-enhancing drugs, in particular human growth hormone. According to the newspaper accounts, a number of prominent major leaguers were linked to this clinic and its founder, Anthony Bosch—most notably, Alex. Had he once again become a prodigal son? Apparently so.

  As the investigation by Major League Baseball dragged on through the spring and summer, more and more revelations came out about Alex’s relationship with this fellow Bosch until, on August 5, it was announced that he and twelve other players, including Bartolo Colon and Nelson Cruz, had been suspended. The twelve other players received 50-game suspensions, but in Alex’s case it was 211 games, which meant Commissioner Selig had determined he was the ringleader of sorts in this whole Bosch-Biogenesis mess. My reaction was surprise. All summer I’d been hoping it wasn’t true. It was hard for me to believe that Alex would once again be involved with performance-enhancing drugs. The only explanation was that he was thirty-eight, had undergone two hip operations, and was starting to feel a natural erosion of his skills. Why else?

  I was deeply saddened, but I was also very concerned about what this had done to his career and his reputation in baseball. In the weeks after, as Alex appealed his suspension and hired some high-powered lawyers to fight the case for him, I could see this thing was starting to get out of control. Then when I read the reports of him storming out of his hearing with the arbitrator, and his supporters demonstrating outside the commissioner’s office, calling the Yankees’ president, Randy Levine, “the devil,” I winced. Levine and Alex had been going back and forth over Alex’s physical situation all summer and how this latest suspension would affect the home run–milestone performance clauses in his contract. That was apparently a war within the war. I personally liked Levine, who I know was very close to Mr. Steinbrenner. He was instrumental in bringing me back into the Yankees’ fold, as a part-time broadcaster for the YES network in 2012. He essentially told me I could do anything I wanted—scouting, advising, tutoring the minor-league hitters—in the organization. I told him how much I appreciated his offer but that I didn’t feel comfortable working as an “outsider” in Yankee GM Brian Cashman’s operation.

  At the same time, Alex’s lawyers were suing Major League Baseball, the Yankees’ team doctor, and even the players association for supposedly not protecting his rights. I hated reading about this circus up there in New York. Alex was conducting a scorched-earth defense in which he was seemingly now at war with everyone. He was getting terrible advice. Alex was smart enough to make his own decisions, and for whatever reason, he wasn’t.

  It got to the point where I felt I needed to talk to him. It was sometime in early January 2014 when we finally spoke, and I told him, “You’ve got to face the music here. You have to come clean. And above all you’ve got to drop this suit against the union. The union is there to protect the players and you’re part of it. If you don’t drop this suit, you’re going to lose the support of your best allies.”

  Of all the players I worked with, Alex was one of the most talented. Our friendship, which had begun as that of simply a manager and a player, had evolved into something far more meaningful for both of us. Over the years I’d been blunt with him when I had to. I’d been tough, I’d been funny, but I never told him something just because I knew it was what he wanted to hear. In baseball, there’s an unwritten rule when you get into management—“Don’t get too close to your players”—and I guess with Alex I violated that quite a few times, more with him than any other player. But remember, I had him as a pup and saw him grow into a man. In a way I felt responsible for his well-being, and seeing him now suing the union, well, I knew that wasn’t going to benefit him, and I felt compelled to call and tell him.

  I’m glad he listened. In February 2014, Alex did all those things. He dropped all the lawsuits, made peace, and came clean with Selig’s deputy of discipline, Rob Manfred. He also wrote a letter of apology to the Yankees’ fans and then, right before the start of spring training, held a press conference at Yankee Stadium in which he apologized again to the Yankees and the media. From that point on, as his career inexorably came to a close, I was glad to see he was nothing less than a great teammate and willing mentor to the younger Yankees players. It was truly a remarkable “rehabilitation” effort on his part, and I think he succeeded in winning the fans—and even most of the media—back. It did not surprise me at all either that he got rave reviews for his work in the Fox broadcast booth in the 2016 postseason. Alex could do anything he wanted in baseball.

  When I saw him at a card convention in Chicago a couple of weeks after the Cubs won the 2016 World Series, he told me he was in the best place he’s ever been in. He was free and it felt great. I couldn’t have been happier for him. To me, he’ll always
be an “adopted son”—a good person who made mistakes and worked hard to earn our forgiveness.

  CHAPTER 16

  Lou-Pinions

  At the same time that the scourge of steroids has resulted in inalterably changing the baseball record books, the game itself has undergone significant changes—to the point where it’s almost an entirely different game today from when I first broke into the majors for good in 1969.

  Free agency, salary arbitration, licensing money for the players, interleague play, wild cards in the postseason, even the designated hitter, those were negotiated changes that were all a necessary part of the evolution of the sport. And while there is still lingering debate over the latter, I think most everyone would agree that the other changes were all for the betterment of the game, enabling it to grow into the billion-dollar industry it has become. On the other hand, the newest changes (or rather innovations) have mostly kind of evolved. They, too, are also having a significant impact on the game, although I’m not sure it’s been for the better. As with free agency and everything else, it’s going to take time to fully assess the growing emphasis on sabermetrics, instant replay, pitch counts, innings limits for pitchers, and shifts. The same, I guess you could say, would apply to the steroids issue.

  I have my opinions about all of them, and since I have the floor here, I’d like to take this opportunity to share them.

  STEROIDS

  I admit that because of my relationship with Alex, I am conflicted with this issue. I have been asked many times whether I would have done steroids as a player had they been so readily available as they were a decade later. I have also been asked whether I would vote for players who did steroids for the Hall of Fame. Here is my response to those questions: When I was a player, I was never in to bodybuilding and weight training. As such, I never equated adding muscle mass to increased success in hitting a baseball. (One winter, back in the ’80s when I was playing for the Yankees, Mr. Steinbrenner sent a Nautilus machine to my house. I remember opening up the box and it looked like a torture machine. So I wrapped it back up and put it in my basement. Every day, I’d walk past it from the garage and tell Anita, “Remind me to call Goodwill about that.”)