Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126) by Kevin Reggie; Baker Jackson
Authors: Kevin Reggie; Baker Jackson
Ads: Link
baseball organization.
I liked it so much I would just as soon have stayed in Baltimore.
I even made them an offer in August 1976. I’d spoken to Gary Walker and we came up with an idea of taking care of my future like any other businessperson. The first move I made wasn’t greedy, wasn’t full of demands. I made the Orioles a very reasonable offer: a $1.5 million contract, for five years. Thirty thousand of that would go to my father every year, another twenty thousand a year to my mother. Break it down, that would’ve come to just $250,000 a year for me, personally, and I was already making $190,000 a year. All I was really asking for was a good raise, without ever testing the market.
They turned it down.
Knowledgeable as the men running the Orioles were, no one had the foresight to see around corners and understand where salaries were going. Just like Oakland, the Orioles didn’t have the capital to compete for most players in the open market. They weren’t going to sign free agents; they were going to lose them, guys like Bobby Grich and me.
Baltimore was a great team and could have been a better team than the Yankees in that period of 1977–81. The clubs were close enough that there were any number of players on both teams—maybe Jim Palmer, Eddie Murray, Mike Flanagan on the Orioles, or on the Yankees, maybe Thurman Munson, Rich Gossage, Ronnie Guidry, or
me
—who might have changed the history of the American League in those five years if they had changed teams. They were
that close
.
It wasn’t just me who could have made the difference. But I
was
the only one of those players who switched teams.
5
“L IKE A G UY T RYING TO H USTLE A G IRL IN A B AR ”
I KNOW ALL the stories about how I said they’d name a candy bar after me if I played in New York. How I was longing to come and play on the big stage and become Mr. October.
Most of it is just that—stories. I was already a star before I came to New York, and I was going to take my star with me anywhere I went. In fact, New York was about the last place I thought I would end up.
The way they did free agency that first year was different from how it is now. They set up a draft where up to twelve teams could draft you—plus the team you were already on. I was one of only twelve players who were selected by the maximum thirteen teams. And as it turned out, I was the very first player picked, in the very first free-agent draft, by the Montreal Expos.
The number one pick—at last! And nobody asked about what color my girlfriend was. I guess that was progress.
In a quiet moment, after this all went down, I mentioned to my agent, Gary Walker, how I could only laugh inside. It did feel good. It was symbolic of how slow the social progress was in our country and in our game. But at least the social mores were forced to adapt.
If a team hadn’t drafted you, it wasn’t allowed to negotiate with you. But that still left me with a lot of choices. I’ve read all kinds of things telling me where it was that I wanted to go. But my real first choice was the Dodgers.
To me, the Dodgers made perfect sense. They were a good team. I played in the World Series there in 1974, and the ballpark felt small to me. I hit a ball out of there to left field off Andy Messersmith, hit a couple doubles to right center off Don Sutton. I always hit very well there. I always loved the environment there. It was a beautiful, attractive facility—and it still is today, almost forty years later.
They had a manager who was full of energy in Tommy Lasorda. They had a great farm system, great ownership in the O’Malleys. I always admired the family: They were minority conscious, and they had always been community conscious. They were the team that signed the first black player, Jackie Robinson—they had a great history. Their values were something you wanted to be around.
On the field, they always had great pitching, guys like Tommy John and Don Sutton and Messersmith. And
I liked it so much I would just as soon have stayed in Baltimore.
I even made them an offer in August 1976. I’d spoken to Gary Walker and we came up with an idea of taking care of my future like any other businessperson. The first move I made wasn’t greedy, wasn’t full of demands. I made the Orioles a very reasonable offer: a $1.5 million contract, for five years. Thirty thousand of that would go to my father every year, another twenty thousand a year to my mother. Break it down, that would’ve come to just $250,000 a year for me, personally, and I was already making $190,000 a year. All I was really asking for was a good raise, without ever testing the market.
They turned it down.
Knowledgeable as the men running the Orioles were, no one had the foresight to see around corners and understand where salaries were going. Just like Oakland, the Orioles didn’t have the capital to compete for most players in the open market. They weren’t going to sign free agents; they were going to lose them, guys like Bobby Grich and me.
Baltimore was a great team and could have been a better team than the Yankees in that period of 1977–81. The clubs were close enough that there were any number of players on both teams—maybe Jim Palmer, Eddie Murray, Mike Flanagan on the Orioles, or on the Yankees, maybe Thurman Munson, Rich Gossage, Ronnie Guidry, or
me
—who might have changed the history of the American League in those five years if they had changed teams. They were
that close
.
It wasn’t just me who could have made the difference. But I
was
the only one of those players who switched teams.
5
“L IKE A G UY T RYING TO H USTLE A G IRL IN A B AR ”
I KNOW ALL the stories about how I said they’d name a candy bar after me if I played in New York. How I was longing to come and play on the big stage and become Mr. October.
Most of it is just that—stories. I was already a star before I came to New York, and I was going to take my star with me anywhere I went. In fact, New York was about the last place I thought I would end up.
The way they did free agency that first year was different from how it is now. They set up a draft where up to twelve teams could draft you—plus the team you were already on. I was one of only twelve players who were selected by the maximum thirteen teams. And as it turned out, I was the very first player picked, in the very first free-agent draft, by the Montreal Expos.
The number one pick—at last! And nobody asked about what color my girlfriend was. I guess that was progress.
In a quiet moment, after this all went down, I mentioned to my agent, Gary Walker, how I could only laugh inside. It did feel good. It was symbolic of how slow the social progress was in our country and in our game. But at least the social mores were forced to adapt.
If a team hadn’t drafted you, it wasn’t allowed to negotiate with you. But that still left me with a lot of choices. I’ve read all kinds of things telling me where it was that I wanted to go. But my real first choice was the Dodgers.
To me, the Dodgers made perfect sense. They were a good team. I played in the World Series there in 1974, and the ballpark felt small to me. I hit a ball out of there to left field off Andy Messersmith, hit a couple doubles to right center off Don Sutton. I always hit very well there. I always loved the environment there. It was a beautiful, attractive facility—and it still is today, almost forty years later.
They had a manager who was full of energy in Tommy Lasorda. They had a great farm system, great ownership in the O’Malleys. I always admired the family: They were minority conscious, and they had always been community conscious. They were the team that signed the first black player, Jackie Robinson—they had a great history. Their values were something you wanted to be around.
On the field, they always had great pitching, guys like Tommy John and Don Sutton and Messersmith. And
Similar Books
