The Baseball Codes

by Jason Turbow

  Modern trends have made [pitchers and hitters] allies in many important respects. Many share an agent. They play golf together and consort in business affairs, subscribing to the same source of career advice. Meanwhile, they are well aware that their confrontations on the field will be closely monitored by the umpires, and, consequently, one has no reason to regard the other, his professional cohort, as an immediate threat to his livelihood. The real gamesmanship in which they participate is conducted largely off the field, in strategy sessions at the agent’s office. The rules promote this sort of congeniality. They ensure that major-league baseball does not become personally adversarial to the point of being fierce. The rancor between the pitcher and the hitter, which characterized the game in my time and Ruth’s and Cobb’s and Musial’s, has been legislated out in favor of a kinder, gentler game in which there is more cheap offense for the paying customer.

  Logic dictates that if players are more civil to each other across the field of play, the need to enact unwritten rules to maintain civility becomes increasingly marginalized. When the baseline for opposing players was enmity (at best), the Code was vital; now that they glad-hand each other around the batting cage and catch up in the winter over Caribbean vacations, it becomes far less prevalent.

  Intra-sport civility, however, is far from the only culprit in the Code’s diminishment. The unwritten rules are under a multi-pronged attack from forces that have become inextricably intertwined with the fabric of the game.

  Money

  “The overall respect for the game has declined,” said Pete Rose. “The only thing the guys respect now is money.” He has a point. Money is said to ruin everything, and though baseball’s ruination is not yet upon us, there’s no denying the pervasive impact of modern finances. The day when the average major-league player found himself residing among the nation’s gilded gentry was the day that the status quo of the unwritten rules could no longer support itself. No owner wants to see a player in whom he’s invested seven, eight, or nine figures disabled by a headhunting scrub who should be toiling in Triple-A. Neither do they want to see a star infielder injured by a baserunner with vengeance on his mind.

  This came to the forefront of public attention during Game 2 of the 1977 ALCS, when Kansas City’s Hal McRae roll-blocked Yankees second baseman Willie Randolph on national television. It was a brutal (and legal) slide that immediately sent the Yankees—especially manager Billy Martin—into a tizzy. Randolph said it was the second time that season McRae had given him such treatment; he had nearly broken his wrist upon landing after the first one. Said Martin: “I told Randolph later, the next time he comes down there, if he’s out by five feet even, don’t tag him—hit him right in the mouth with the ball.”

  Randolph, just twenty-three, had been an All-Star in both his full big-league seasons to that point, and was a face of the future in the sport’s biggest market. Owners quickly hedged their bets with rules changes, ostensibly aimed at safety, to remove aggressive tactics and strip away players’ power to police each other on the field. Lost vigilance would serve as collateral damage in the quest for the greater good.

  So what’s replaced it? Now that major-league tenure equals financial solvency—often for multiple generations of family members—the love of the game has been replaced in some unknowable percentage of players by love of the paycheck. It’s hardly a leap to see that players with dollar signs in their eyes have little reason to care about baseball’s past, choosing instead to focus on lifestyle possibilities without considering the historical foundation on which those possibilities were built.

  “There are players now who, if you ask them about guys even ten years ago, they’ll say, ‘Who?’” said former Red Sox pitcher Al Nipper. “You’ve got to be shitting me. When you don’t know the history of the game, you’re going to repeat history. When you don’t know what’s happened and why the game has reached this point, then you disrespect it.

  “The old-timers played for the love of the game. Shit, they didn’t get paid. There are still players now who play for the love of the game, but money is part of the equation. There’s nothing wrong with being paid, but you can still have a great love and desire and dedication and passion for the game. And that’s the thing—have a passion for the game. It’s an honor to wear a frickin’ major-league uniform. It’s an honor.”

  Media

  The financial aspect of baseball is inherently tied to the ESPN effect, in that those who get paid are inevitably those who frequent the nightly highlight reels.

  Players regularly describe the game as entertainment, and themselves as entertainers, essentially seeing their primary job as putting on a good show for the fans. These are especially grievous concepts for baseball’s traditional set, who, while accepting the sport’s status as public diversion, also see it as something more. These men are infuriated by the modern player whose concern with appearing on SportsCenter is as great as his concern for winning the game.

  Also part of the picture is the twenty-four-hour news cycle, in which cable television endeavors to slake a constant thirst for content. This is one area in which the concept of sports-as-entertainment is beyond debate, with invasive reporting tactics making lives as miserable for many professional athletes as they have for movie stars and pop singers. It’s easy to forget that the news bombshell about Alex Rodriguez’s use of performance-enhancing drugs, dropped just before spring training in 2009, hardly reintroduced him to recent headlines. He’d been there all winter, with speculation raging about whether his alleged affair with Madonna had ruined his marriage, and gossip about who his soon-to-be ex-wife was romping around with.

  A by-product of this mentality is a relatively newfound focus on the sensational acts that take place during a game—dustups and temper tantrums among them. If retaliation is involved, that piece of drama is immediately elevated to the front of the story.

  “Things are under such a microscope on TV,” said Jason Schmidt. “You hit a guy and the announcers are analyzing it and the fans are getting into it. You didn’t have all that, back in the day. What happened on the field was part of the ballpark and it ended right there. Now it’s like somebody gets hit and, even though the guy who hit him is just wild, he gets a reputation and he needs to be dealt with.”

  “That stuff shouldn’t even be brought up,” said Doug Mientkiewicz. “Let’s talk about the 2-2 ball that was hit down the line that scored two runs. Let’s not talk about stuff that shouldn’t involve the public. The game can take care of itself if it’s allowed to.”

  Fundamentals

  There’s one more factor in the diminishment of the Code: Baseball itself has fundamentally changed. Shifting from a station-to-station game to one more beholden to the three-run homer; replacing vast stadiums such as the Polo Grounds and the old Yankee Stadium with bandboxes like those in Cincinnati and Philadelphia; watching a parade of meatball-serving pitchers who wouldn’t have sniffed the major leagues in the era before expansion; seeing steroids and supplements and tightly wound baseballs have an undeniable effect on the offensive game—there’s no denying that the action on the field is wildly different from what it was in generations past. And if the game is no longer the same, what about its moral compass?

  “How in the hell do you even say exactly what the unwritten rules are, because they’ve changed over the years,” said reliever Al Hrabosky. “What was once a safe lead no longer is a safe lead. Everything’s different.”

  And yet nothing’s different. An ill-timed stolen-base attempt still draws ire from the opposing dugout, just as an overt showboat still elicits glares and the occasional warning shot across his bow. The pitchers responsible for policing Code violations are still active, and hitters still respond accordingly. Players flood from dugouts in fight situations, and rookies continue to get hazed. No matter a player’s motivation, it’s all just baseball, and there’s no other way to treat it.

  “The name of the game is trying to win, but you have to keep it in perspectiv
e,” said third baseman David Bell. “Show people respect. You want to walk away from a game or a career saying, ‘I feel good about the way I treated people, about the way I competed.’ It’s nice to say you won, but I think, in the long run, those are the things that you are going to feel best about.”

  Bell is a great example of the legacy of the unwritten rules. His father, Buddy, was a five-time All-Star and managed the Tigers, Rockies, and Royals; Buddy’s father, Gus, was a four-time All-Star. David Bell was raised in the game by both men, and came to the major leagues with a better understanding of the Code than is held by many veterans. It’s a clear example of the power that clubhouse leadership (or, in this case, household leadership) can possess. It’s Pee Wee Reese publicly accepting Jackie Robinson as his teammate on the Dodgers. It’s Mike Krukow challenging a malingering teammate in front of the entire clubhouse to step up his game, for the simple reason that nothing the coaches had tried seemed to work. Just as a child can be ruined if his parents instill in him the wrong ideals and motivations, so too can a ballplayer be ruined in terms of the unwritten rules if he comes up with managers, coaches, and mentors who teach him the wrong thing or nothing at all.

  “As players and coaches, our obligation is to pass the game on the way it’s supposed to be played, just like we’re supposed to pass on our names to our children,” said Nipper. “We’re supposed to pass this game on with respect and honor. There’s a right way to hit somebody and there’s a wrong way to do it. There’s a right way to take someone out at second base and a wrong way. There’s dirty players and clean players, head-hunters and people who know how to pitch in. These are fine lines, and you don’t want to go past them. It’s our obligation to do things right—respect the game and pass it on.”

  When Nipper arrived in Boston in 1983, he picked up cues from clubhouse leaders like Dwight Evans. When Evans arrived in Boston eleven years earlier, he emulated clubhouse leaders like Carl Yastrzemski. When Yastrzemski arrived in Boston in 1961, it was to an organization that had been dominated since 1939 by Ted Williams. This is how the leadership cycle is passed down through a half-century of baseball.

  Examples can even be set from outside the boundaries of one’s own team. When Mientkiewicz was a struggling rookie first baseman with Minnesota in 1999, he found himself in a clubhouse devoid of veterans at his position on whom he felt comfortable leaning. He was so visibly disoriented, in fact, that he was noticed by a member of the opposition, who reached out in an effort to set him straight. It happened before a game against Oakland, and A’s first baseman Jason Giambi—in his fifth year as a big-leaguer and in the middle of his first truly monstrous offensive season—ventured across the aisle, for no reason other than to make sure an overwhelmed young player was properly equipped to right himself emotionally.

  “Jason told me, ‘It’s not the end of the world—you’re not the only guy who’s come up your rookie year and struggled,’” said Mientkiewicz. “He took the time to talk to me—about hitting, about life. He told me how to act, how to be. He became my friend.”

  The irony of the gesture is that a generation earlier such an act would have been considered tantamount to treason; the Code—not to mention Giambi’s first big-league manager, Tony La Russa—strictly kept opposing players from fraternizing on the field, let alone offering advice to complete strangers on the other team. Giambi’s effort represented a sea change, and though he was breaking an unwritten rule, his action—intentionally or otherwise—was aimed at the larger purpose of preserving the Code. He cast aside one rule to ensure the propagation of the rest.

  Giambi did it because he saw a young, struggling player with nowhere to turn. He did it because he had been in a similar place himself as a rookie. He did it because, from one ballplayer to another, it was the right thing to do.

  Like so many before him, Giambi saw the continuum that exists between generations, and realized that, if left unchecked, unhealthy tendencies can quickly permeate the game. He wasn’t a teacher, he was a ballplayer—and he understood that every player in possession of the proper attitude was another cog in the line of defense against encroaching apathy for the Code. “When I was coming up, guys had taken me under their wing, and I just wanted to do the same for somebody who needed it,” he said, looking back on his interaction with Mientkiewicz. “That’s the transition of the game. That’s how it keeps going.” (Sure enough, seven years later, when various members of the Royals were approached about who among their ranks would be a good spokesman for the unwritten rules, one name was universally brought up: Doug Mientkiewicz.) It’s a self-perpetuation of the Code that invariably lights up someone in every clubhouse when he sees how powerful it can be.

  “I honestly believe that what you learn in this game is not yours to possess, but yours to pass on,” said Dusty Baker. “I believe that, whether it’s equipment, knowledge, or philosophy, that’s the only way the game shall carry on. I believe that you have to talk, communicate, and pass on what was given to you. You can’t harbor it. You can’t run off to the woods and keep it for yourself, because it isn’t yours to keep. And what you teach other guys is the torch you pass. I don’t make this up—it was passed to me.”

  Take Rex Hudler, who in 1998 had been relegated to finishing what would be his last professional season, with the Triple-A Buffalo Bisons. At age thirty-seven, however, Hudler, struggling even in the minor leagues, decided to hang it up mid-season. He informed Bisons manager Jeff Datz of his decision, along with two requests: He wanted to play for the final time in the following day’s game, and he wanted to address the team beforehand. Hudler—known around baseball for his unbridled enthusiasm—was keenly aware of everything that two decades in baseball had done for him, and understood that his ability to hold a room’s attention had not diminished nearly as much as his ability to get around on a fastball.

  The next day, when everyone was assembled before him, Hudler bared his soul. A roomful of minor-leaguers sat rapt before the fervor on display from a man who, to judge by the lines on his face, had less business being their teammate than he did being their coach. He spoke about the fulfillment baseball gave him. He talked about playing hard, being aggressive, fostering noble work habits. Mostly, he talked about respect. It was respect learned over time, ever since he had signed with the Yankees as a teenager in 1978. He talked about giving respect to the other team, expecting it in return, and how to react should it fail to be reciprocated. Hudler’s fervor was his paean to baseball, his tribute to the sport he loved.

  When the game began, Hudler started at second base, the position he played when he made it to the major leagues. It was a perfect send-off to a fulfilling career … until Hudler’s third at-bat, when a pitch from Indianapolis reliever Scott Ruffcorn hit him on the neck, just below his helmet. Hudler pitched forward into the batter’s box, landing on his knees. It was the first time in a career that spanned two decades that he had absorbed a blow above his shoulders from a pitched baseball. But there he was, less than an hour away from retirement, in the dirt. A knot swelled behind his ear as Datz squatted next to him, trying gently to nudge him toward the dugout, out of the game and away from baseball. Hudler needed a moment to collect his senses enough even to look up and address the last manager he would ever have, but once he could, all he said, quietly, was “Step aside.” Then, even though play had stopped, he struggled to his feet and took off in a dead sprint to first base.

  Three thousand people sat in the stands, baffled. To Hudler, though, the answer was simple. He had to play it out. It was the final time he’d leave a batter’s box as a professional ballplayer. He pulled himself from the game before his next turn at bat, his enthusiasm and his respect firmly intact.

  He couldn’t have been happier.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This project would not have been possible without help and support from dozens, if not hundreds, of people, starting with our agent, Christy Fletcher. Christy took us through seemingly endless revisions of the initial proposal
; once it hit all the right notes, she sold the book within days. She knows her stuff, and we are fortunate to have her representing us.

  That we met Christy is thanks to Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and good friend Craig Wolff. Craig didn’t have to recommend us, or our idea, to his agent, but he did. His encouragement was essential in getting past the “Can we really do this?” phase of the process. We’re eagerly anticipating the completion of his book about Willie Mays.

  Our editor at Random House, Andrew Miller, helped us figure out which 25 percent of our original manuscript presented the very best material—a difficult and time-consuming job. He does excellent work for a Mets fan; the book would look nothing like it does without his stewardship.

  We must also thank the media relations departments of our two home teams: Blake Rhodes, Jim Morehead, and Matt Hodson of the San Francisco Giants, and their counterparts with the Oakland Athletics, Debbie Gallas and Jim Young.

  The research staff at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., was invaluable, as were the librarians at the Village Library of Cooperstown, who gave us a place to camp out when the Hall of Fame was closed due to flooding concerns during our stay.

  Other media relations people of note: Josh Rawitch of the Los Angeles Dodgers, Jason Zillo of the New York Yankees, David Holtzman of the Kansas City Royals, Brian Bartow of the St. Louis Cardinals, Matt Chisholm of the Colorado Rockies, and Rob Butcher of the Cincinnati Reds, as well as the helpful folks with the Iowa Cubs and various other minor league teams who we peppered with phone calls over the course of multiple seasons.